Warning: Torture (and Aiden is a dirty liar, but that's nothing new)

_Loose Ends – Part 2

When Donna had still been young and naive, she'd sometimes been the getaway driver for her petty criminal of a boyfriend. It was robbing liquor stores and gas stations or drugstores. Anything he thought didn't have a lot of security going for it. He'd go in, do his thing and dash out, dive into the car and off they were, lost in the night before the store owner had any idea what was going on. CCTV had already been in place in many parts of Chicago, but there had been enough holes in it to squeeze through. She was a good driver, but she wasn't sure any of it really counted when being chased by three Club cars, with a manager of illegal brothels in the trunk and a large-calibre criminal riding shotgun.

She tried very hard not to enjoy it, and in truth, she didn't have a lot of time to waste on running some additional narrative in her head. She was going too fast in a residential area, many of the side streets were narrowed, parked cars on either side leaving just enough room to push through with just some minor scratches.

Aiden's control over ctOS opened the path for them, turned traffic lights just ahead, opened barriers, lowered boulders just to snap them back up right behind them. The Club soldiers didn't dare shoot at them, their boss was in the trunk and hitting him too much of a risk. Aiden had no such qualms. He dropped his phone into his pocket, pulled out a rifle and leaned out of the open window.

Donna saw Abbie in the rear-view mirror, just a snapshot, it was all she had time for. Abbie looked too confused to even be scared. A hand was wrapped around the grip by the door, pulled tight and shaking. Donna thought she was holding up surprisingly well. She hadn't been too keen on most of Aiden's plan, not least of all because she wasn't sure Abbie could handle it.

Aiden hadn't shared all parts of his calculation, but it was easy to guess he needed to save Abbie himself. It wouldn't be enough just to watch from the sidelines and make sure no corrupted cops stepped in.

Aiden had hacked into their pursuers radios and their voices came over the car's speakers, live commentary on just how badly the chase was going for them. It would be amusing, if she could stop worrying about some hapless pedestrian walking out in front of her. She would never be able to stop in time.

A turn took them out of sight for a moment and Aiden climbed back inside, dropped the spend magazine and snapped a fresh one in.

"Take the next right turn and head straight down. We make Cemak Bridge and we'll shake them."

She yanked the car around the corner, scratched over the — thankfully empty — sidewalk, she steadied the car and used the momentary respite to glance at Aiden. It was too quick to get a good look at him, but she said, "Are you sure? Maybe you want to play with them some more?"

He pulled his phone out again, tapped something, then looked up. The GPS came on, filled the small monitor in the centre stack. It pointed her straight ahead.

She heard the smirk in his voice. "So that's what you think of me," he remarked.

"Yes, apparently you don't deserve it at all," she said. She felt the speed of the car through the wheel in her hand and the seat under her.

He laughed, but it got caught in his throat.

"Stop!" he yelled and Donna stepped on the brake without a second thought. Their momentum pushed them into a crossroads. Aiden had yanked the handbrake and it made the car's rear push further, turned them slightly and just enough for a dark car coming from the left to sheer past them at full speed.

The car stopped a little further down, made a small turn and a burst of shots tore through the front of the car. The engine stuttered, then died. Donna opened her hands on the wheel, struggling with the realisation that the car had just been rendered useless.

"Get behind the car!" Aiden yelled. It shook her back immediately, she kicked open the door and rolled out into a crouch. Abbie didn't have the presence of mind. She'd curled up, but didn't move. Donna edged forward until she could open the door. Abbie didn't resist when she was dragged out.

Aiden hadn't lingered. With the phone still in his hand, he'd jumped out, brandishing the assault rifle. The Club soldiers had taken cover behind their car, rather than use the moment to shoot Aiden. Some tap on his phone and a moment later Donna heard someone curse from down the street, joined by other screams. Peering around the car, she saw a man throw something small away and it exploded before it hit the ground.

By then, Aiden was on them. He fired a burst into the nearest soldier's torso, downing him, then dropped down before he could be hit himself.

Donna withdrew back to Abbie.

"What's going on?" Abbie asked. "Why are they all after us?"

Donna arched her brows. "Well, they aren't after us exactly," she said, but wasn't sure Abbie would take it as reassurance.

They'd made it to Brandon Docks, less pedestrian traffic, but more trucks and vans clogging up the street. A truck had stopped down the street, blocked what cars there were behind it. The driver had got out and taken cover. A handful of other people had congealed on the sidewalk, most of them either keeping their head down or already fleeing.

Donna spotted an old Vespid HMI parked just inside an open gate. She looked back at Abbie and gave her a quick smile. "I'll just find us another car, I won't be long."

Donna cast another glance down the street, caught a glimpse of Aiden tangling briefly with a Club soldier while two others were making a run for cover behind a shipping container at the side. Aiden kicked free and when the soldier stumbled, Aiden brought his gun up and shot him in the head.

No one was looking their way. Donna kept in a crouch as she left the dubious cover of the car, then straightened when she reached the wall surrounding the factory site. She hurried along, hesitated in the gate, but no one was there. The factory seemed to be closed, shuttered up and abandoned. The parked Vespid couldn't be seen by the onlookers, even if they weren't captivated by the more interesting firefight just down the street.

The car was locked and Donna had to smash in a window with a brick. She brushed the broken glass from the seat before she got in, dragged the plastic covering loose and leaned down to fish for the right wires. It had been too long since she'd done this sort of thing, but it came back easily enough. It was perhaps not something she should put on her resumé when she finally got around to apply for a steady position with the CPD.

She listened with half an ear to what was going on around her. The chattering of Aiden's gun, the slightly different and multi-toned noise from soldiers' weapons. She didn't think Aiden ever considered the possibility of his own death when he did things like that. He was too smart not to know, so she supposed it must be because he didn't quite care enough.

In a moment of silence, she looked up, even though she knew there was nothing to see. It occurred to her just how easily Aiden sold her on that idea, too. He mattered to her, in ways she didn't know how to put into words. But she never managed to be afraid for him.

The Vespid's ignition finally sparked and the engine gave a dark roar as she gave it a little more gas. She pulled the door closed.

She drove the Vespid out of the yard, parked it behind their shot up car and left the engine to idle. Getting out, she leaned over the door and watched. Aiden had dispatched the last soldiers without any visible scratches, but some of their backup had arrived. A second car had just swerved to a halt beside the first. Aiden had turned away from them, he was out in the open in the middle of the street, too far from cover in all directions. Something was wrong in his step, but before Donna had time to place it, Aiden stopped. He didn't turn back fully, just twisted his torso and fired a burst, aimed toward the ground, not the Club soldiers.

A large puddle had formed under the first car, expanding across the cracks in the asphalt. Aiden's bullets skipped on the ground, cut a trail of sparks across the gasoline puddle and set it ablaze. The fire ate up the puddle within seconds, consumed the car and lunged for the other.

Aiden turned his back on them, walked around the broken car for Donna and the Vespid. They exchanged a smile and she saw some kind of mischief spark in his eyes when he saw her.

Behind him, the fire found the fuel tank and send the car up in a fireball, it curled in on itself, forming a mushroom, spewing pitch-black smoke into the sky. The shockwave of the explosion picked up the second car and pushed it off track, a gust of hot wind rolled outward in all directions. Heat and dust made Donna squint, she turned her head away, but couldn't take her eyes off the spectacle. The second car's tyres ruptured in the heat. Only two of the men inside were getting out, scrambling away in case their car ignited, too.

Donna hurried around to pick up Abbie and usher her into the backseat. Fisher was struggling and the Vespid's trunk was tiny, but he seemed too exhausted to put up much of a fight as Aiden stuffed him in roughly.

"Nice ride," Aiden said as he slipped into the passenger seat. He had a small patch of blood soiling his thigh around the rips of his jeans, but it was't enough blood to worry about.

"That's what I thought," Donna said, brushed over her eyes with the back of her hand to clear her vision. She got behind the wheel again, brought the car around and manoeuvred it carefully through the rapidly building traffic jam, but by the time the first emergency calls went out, they were long gone.

The memories chased her down the stairs, clinging to her ankles with icy fingers, trying to make her stumble, or just hesitate.

Vincent Fisher doesn't like girls. He doesn't like boys, either. He's better than that, superior. He holds his clients and his staff in equal contempt, though the latter slightly less so, at least they never chose to burn their fortunes on loose cunts or underaged faggots. In many ways, it makes him perfect to run a fetish club for the mob. There's no pretty face that'd sway him, he presents too few weaknesses to be manipulated.

He wraps the wire around her throat and pulls tight, pulls her back until her head rests on his chest. Her nostrils fill with the scent of expensive cologne and she feels the delicate fabric of his designer suit against her. Her fingers dig into her own skin, a reflex she can't stop even though she knows she won't be able to free herself.

It's not pain so much as the fear of it that gives Fisher his power. She's only been here a week and he's already breaking her. Already, she catches herself thinking of not fighting back, of taking her anger at Iraq and Lucky and swallow it down, like the men who make use of her mouth, but pride is a hard thing to overcome and Fisher sees it in her.

If he'd beaten her to a pulp, she could've taken it, if he'd raped her six ways from Sunday, she was expecting no less, but this? This cruel, delicate game of his. And she understands it, she knows what he's doing, but it doesn't help. He's rewriting her on some fundamental level, beyond hope of recovery. If she walks away — if — she doesn't know how much of her will still be left.

She's not dying.

Just before she passes out, he releases the wire, just enough for her stupid lungs to suck air back in, pull her back into wakefulness. It makes her wish he'd get it wrong, just once. So she fell unconscious, set free from it for just a few moments.

Out there in the rest of the world, she's too stubborn and too proud to even entertain death, but in a room with Fisher it's a sweet promise of release. He's making a point, he doesn't like the way she holds herself, he disapproves of how she controls the clients. In the Infinite 92, that's not what a girl is supposed to be doing at all.

She can't breathe, can't think and vicious black dots swim in her vision. The brief respite he gives her is not enough to clear her head. She hates how she rests against him. She hates how her arms have lost their strength and the kicking of her legs is feeble and useless.

"You'll see, my love," he says with a calm amusement in his voice.

Something wet slides down her face, tears and blood from where she's scratched herself, spit kicked up into foam from the corners of her gaping mouth.

In rare moments of peace, she still convinces herself she'll get through this. She's not weak, but the conviction feels more distant every moment she spends there. She feels the way Fisher tightens the muscles in his arms and pulls tight again and the panic comes in a tidal wave, beating against the shore of her sanity.

Aiden's safe-house was small and tidy in a good neighbourhood in Parker Square. The garden was well-kept, the lawn had recently been mowed and the air was filled with the fresh scent of cut grass.

Some last few rays of sunset light crawled down the steps and stalked her into the basement, but they couldn't turn the corner into the empty room Aiden had dropped Fisher in. It was too empty, she thought, she could hear his voice in her head.

"I'll leave a scar this time, I think," Fisher muses sweetly in her ear. "The clients will love it. It makes you look like you've been used. You should use it as a reminder, too. You keep forgetting who's in charge around here."

Fisher was on the ground, handcuffed and with zip-ties around his legs, a rag stuffed into his mouth and black tape across it.

She could tell he'd been struggling before she walked in, but he stilled abruptly when he saw her. Bruises had formed in his face, some blood from a wound she couldn't see, perhaps from being thrown around in the trunk, some ricochetting bullet grazing him. His suit was dirty and dishevelled, sweat-damped hair fell into his face and obscured his expression.

She stepped forward and ripped the tape away, got back up and out of reach as Fisher spat out the rag.

"I don't believe in revenge," she said and her voice was barely a whisper.

Fisher studied her, composed despite his situation, but he'd never been a man easily awed or cowed. He summoned a leer and let it slide over her.

"Damn, Poppy, my love," he chuckled wetly, spat a gob of blood and saliva on the ground in front of him. "The vigilante? You got the vigilante working for you?" He shook his head, more to himself. "I kept telling Lucky keeping you as a whore was a waste. You weren't even a very good one."

Through the white noise at the back of her head, Donna realised she'd have to watch the video Aiden had recovered. She couldn't bear not knowing what he was seeing in his head every time he looked at her.

"You fucked up," she said tonelessly.

Fisher chuckled. "It's hard to argue with that," he managed an awkward shrug in his bound position. "It's all been going down the drain, anyway. Niall isn't half the man his father was. He'll just blow it eventually, mark my words."

He thought for a moment, "And me? What's to become of me, my love?"

"I don't know," she said honestly. She had been afraid seeing him again would make her feel powerless, the way she had felt under his control, but instead she had trouble scrape together any emotion at all.

"How about you let me go, then?" Fisher offered with a hoarse, ironic laugh. "My loyalty just went up for sale. And you know what I always say, don't you? Everyone's a whore for the right price."

"What do you have to offer?"

"Oh, are we already negotiating?"

Donna shook her head slowly. "No," she said.

She took one careful step forward, a dull thud on the rough ground. Fisher shifted a little, trying to keep her in his sight, perhaps it was even the beginning of some defence he was too immobilised to muster.

"Are you afraid of me?" she asked as she watched him.

Fisher laughed again, "I don't do afraid. But you're sharp. Why do you think I worked you so hard? So you didn't get to think straight. Healthy respect, I'd call it, not afraid."

She almost laughed at this, but it really wasn't funny. "It didn't feel like respect. Or healthy."

"That was the point," Fisher agreed, tried to shrug again, but his position didn't let him do it. "Lucky was a fool, but I guess he had his reasons for punishing you the way he did."

"I was a scapegoat."

She took another step and Fisher seemed to relax in his bonds, realising he wasn't going anywhere anyway.

"More's the pity," Fisher remarked. "Stupid Lucky. The things you could've done for us. Even the vigilante."

"No."

He shook his head. "Not now, obviously, but back then? Who knows?"

"No," she said again, but the word seemed hollowed out. Her life had changed so much, it was hard to imagine things turning out any other way. So much, in fact, she thought she wouldn't undo anything, even if she could.

"Tell him to be careful," Fisher continued and even the affected hilarity faded under the sudden menace. "The harder he pushes, the harder he'll be hunted. Everyone will want a turn when we finally take him down."

She dropped to her knees right in front of him, folded her hands along his jaw and made him face her.

"That's their mistake," she said, but Aiden barely mattered. He didn't need her to fight his battles for him. The skin on her throat tingled and she had to resist the urge to place her fingers on the scar to make sure it wasn't moving like a living thing.

"You aren't going to die," she said, but it sounded threatening in her own ears and Fisher heard it, too, saw something in her eyes and his congenial mask began to slip.

Donna wrapped a zip-tie around his throat until it rested snugly against his skin.

"I don't think it'll scar," she said. "I don't think you'll remember, either, but I want to see your face."

It took more effort than she had expected to tighten the zip-tie just right, choke him without killing, make him suffer without letting him pass out.

Fisher jerked and his eyes filled with panic as he realised what was happening. His shoulders worked, but unless he broke his fingers, he wouldn't get out of the handcuffs and he wouldn't have the presence of mind to contemplate it. His face turned a deep shade of crimson, blotched with blue and white. Eyes bulging and tongue lolling, he looked entirely ridiculous.

She watched him for a few minutes, but nothing much changed. He gagged and coughed and writhed on the ground in a useless attempt to free himself, to force more air down his lungs despite the constriction. She thought he was trying to say something, but he couldn't form words. It was better this way, she didn't know if she wanted to hear him beg or not.

Abruptly, Donna turned around and left, stepped through the door.

The sunset had faded by then, had been replaced by the murky residue of light, a single lightbulb was offering a weak replacement brightness, barely enough to see by.

Aiden stood at the bottom of the stairs, she felt him watching her as she watched him in turn. In a rush, she crossed over to him, fisted a hand into the worn-out fabric of his shirt and tugged him into a rough kiss. She wouldn't have been able to explain why, if someone had been there to ask, other than because she needed something to overpower the buzzing in her ears. It felt the same way, the same rush of blood in her head, setting her nerve-ends on fire, but even the slow slide of lips and tongue wasn't enough, so she turned it into a bite, sheered her teeth along the side of his mouth.

Aiden wrapped his hands around her waist, dragged her hips against his. The hold on his shirt was too feeble, so she brought her other hand up, clawed at the back of his neck.

She'd left the door ajar and the presence of Fisher beat itself back into her awareness, one ugly, rattling cough at a time. She bit Aiden's tongue, let him go just long enough to moan into his mouth. She was grinding into him, wanted him to finally move, take a step back or to the side to where there was a wall to fuck against…

Fisher grunted, whined desperately and she didn't want him there, didn't want him to taint this, no matter how sickly satisfying it might seem. She drew back a fraction, sucked in a harsh gulp of air and let her eyes fall closed, leaned her head against Aiden without moving.

"Make him stop," she whispered.

Aiden stepped out of her embrace too fast, she barely managed to snap her hand up and catch his arm, make him turn back to her.

She said, "I mean, I want him in jail, nothing else."

It was surprisingly hard to bear his scrutiny in that moment, incomprehension and maybe even disapproval, but he didn't say anything. He gave her a barely perceptible nod and she let go of him.

He vanished through the door and after a moment, Fisher's rattling subsided into a mere whimper, coughing as his freed throat worked to bring air back into his lungs. She wondered briefly if it had been worth it. What had been the point? Retribution? But that should make her feel better and it did, just not as much as she'd thought it would. Her skin itched, not just on her throat, all over her body.

Some kind of muffling veil still seemed to be wrapped around her ears as she leaned her back against the counter in the kitchen, watched Aiden and Abbie face each other across the table. She'd set water to boil in a badly limed up electric kettle and the long time it took would be annoying if anyone, herself included, actually cared about it. It was a backdrop, a minor distraction to take the edge off.

Donna listened to Aiden talking, he was close enough she could just reach out and touch his shoulder, but his voice drifted to her from very far away. She saw only the side of his face, but she knew the tone of his voice. She knew he was lying. Not always, not even at the core of what he was saying, but the version of events he set out for Abbie was riddled with omissions, miss-leading half-truths, misrepresentations and deflections.

Donna knew he'd killed Maurice, but he never said it. She knew he wasn't sorry, but he sounded sincere when he offered his sympathies. He spoke slowly, deep voice soothing against the low, grating buildup of the kettle.

Abbie was still throughout, frozen in her seat and even her face was stone. Aiden had offered her to shower first, take a break, a nap on the couch or even a full-night's undisturbed sleep, but she had refused. Donna wasn't sure if it was the right choice, but she understood the reason for it.

"He's dead," Abbie said, the confirmation she needed for herself.

"There was no way to save him," Aiden said and even Donna didn't know if that was true or not. If Bellwether had broken Maurice's mind the way Aiden had explained, perhaps death had been a mercy. It didn't count, though, because it hadn't been an act of compassion at all.

Abbie buried her face in her shaking hands, eerily silent as her shoulders twitched, fighting for composure she was too exhausted to regain. The water boiled up, then slowly settled back down, forgotten the moment it happened.

Aiden watched Abbie for a long time, as she struggled with herself, shoulders pulled in, face hidden, looking desperately for a way to express her grief before it tore her apart. He reached for her, carefully, just a slight touch on her arm, giving her all the chance in the world to pull away, or just to ignore him completely. She didn't, however. Even that light touch was enough to shatter her, but it set her free, too. She folded against him and finally started crying, heaving sobs wreaking her entire body.

Aiden still hesitated, but her anguish made him put an arm around her in the end, a careful touch, she might as well be made of cracked porcelain.

A few days later, a gentle summer wind whispered in the trees around the cemetery. Set back from the street, it was peaceful, a calm sort of sorrow that ached, but didn't seem too terrible to bear.

Donna followed the path away from Lena's grave and stopped by Aiden's side. His gaze moved over her, then followed back the way she'd come, looked at the cheerful yellow flowers she'd left there and said nothing. After a time, he seemed to force himself to let it go, turned away and turned his gaze on Abbie, where she was kneeling at Maurice's grave.

"Maurice…" Aiden said, breaking his long silence, but he seemed to be barely speaking to Donna. "He took the shot that day. If he hadn't… Lena would still be alive, but now… I don't know what choice he really had."

He fell silent, laughed sadly.

"She was a wild child. Lena," he continued, as his laugh broke at the memory. "She loved scary stuff. She loved it when we went camping up in Pawnee and it got dark and you heard all the weird noises around. She didn't want to sleep, just sit at the campfire all night, making up stories about mythical monsters and lost Indian tribes. She wanted to go play hide and seek at two in the morning. I think I was far more scared than she was, that I could lose her out there."

"She sounds a lot like you."

"And like Nicky, too. Jacks… he's always been more thoughtful, but he's changed since she died. Trying to compensate for her absence, I think. We all changed."

He put his head back, eyes closed and the muscles in his jaw clenching as he fought to compose himself. He shook his head, flexed his shoulders and breathed a long sigh. "If Maurice hadn't taken that shot…"

Donna's gaze wandered over to Lena's grave and then further, to where Abbie was still kneeling at Maurice's. She didn't notice when he looked down at her, still something raw in his face and a treacherously wet glint in his eyes.

"What about you?" he asked. "How are you doing?"

She surprised herself with an unimpressed snort, but she had to take a deep breath before she trusted her voice enough to speak. "Not very different. I still have the same scars, I still have the same memories. It's good that Fisher won't be able to hurt anyone again for a long time, but… I'm the same. It's all the same."

"There's room here for another grave."

She shook her head, found herself smiling a little at the absurdity of it. None of these sorry events suggested death was a solution for anything.

She said, "I don't want to kill him." She looked at him, caught the change in his expression and forestalled him, "And you're not my personal hitman."

She shook her head, "Let it be over," she said, but it wasn't as easy as she'd expected it to. "My past will come up again every so often, but I've got to move on. Heal, you know?"

Aiden turned his head to meet her gaze. She knew him well enough by now to suspect when he wasn't being entirely truthful, but his expression was still mild, softened by the memory of his niece and perhaps placated by recent events.

He said, "Whatever you need."

He hesitated another moment, then reached for her, slipped a hand down her back, around her waist. He pulled her gaze along to Abbie, who was just pulling herself back to her feet. Her shoulders were tense, shivering slightly, but she was visibly trying to collect herself.

"Will she be alright?" Aiden asked.

"Well," Donna said. "For now, she can stay in a woman's shelter and they'll get her into therapy. If she'll ever be 'alright' again, I can't tell you."

"She doesn't have any other family, it'll be hard. If there's something I can do, anything, just let me know."

Aiden's phone buzzed. Donna recognised the sound as some kind of alarm. Aiden pulled it out, but glanced at it only briefly, then looked up and scanned his surroundings before he looked down on the phone again. He sighed quietly.

"I should leave," he said and contradicted himself by squeezing her closer to him.

Donna smiled a little. "Come by tonight, I'll cook us something."

"I didn't know you cooked."

"Well, I know you don't, and I'm in the mood for some peace and quiet, so I can't take you out in public. And we both should eat something other than takeout once in a while."

Aiden slanted his head down, kissed her slowly, but then drew back when his phone buzzed again.

"No need to convince me," he said. "I'm already sold."

Vincent Fisher took stock of the small room while he waited for his lawyer. Two corners had cameras and a futuristic-looking lock and intercom at the door. No doubt there were other surveillance measures in place, the ones that wouldn't be turned off when he spoke with his lawyer. Those wouldn't be usable in court, but it still gave the cops an edge in their investigation. Everyone who thought something else needed a crash-course in paranoia.

The door opened to admit a grey-suited man inside. He waited while the door was closed and the signal lights on the cameras turned off. The man took two crisp steps to the table, set his briefcase down and snapped it open. He watched Fisher and seemed to be waiting for something. Clean-shaven and professionally smooth, Fisher took a long moment before he identified him.

"It's you!" Fisher announced, though there was no one here who could hear. Pearce probably had blocked all surveillance, even the covert one.

Pearce bent him a smirk as he sat down, pulled out his phone and set it on the table.

"Do you know this woman?" he asked.

Fisher hesitated, gaze digging into Pearce, gauging him, before he dropped it to the phone. Fisher bared his teeth.

"Yes, I do. Damn that girl," he growled. He pointed in the air, "This one? Too fucking smart for a whore. The trouble just never ends with that kind. Can't trust them, can't let them out of your sight. You'll never know what they're plotting behind your back. They don't respect you, they just pretend."

He stopped, looked back up at Pearce. "But she always did like big fish, but I didn't think she'd manage to reel you in. Always pegged you for one of my kind, you know. But I guess that makes me feel a little better. You're just like the rest of them, thinking with your dick."

Pearce settled back in his chair, pensive gaze on Fisher and his expression unreadable.

"Wrong answer," he said. "We'll try again."

Fisher chuckled, pulled his own chair back and sat down, leaned forward with the same leer. "That's cute. You're scared I'll ID her. Of course I will. It's not personal, I almost like the little whore, you know. But she deserves what's coming for her. So do you, by the way. Cops are pretty dumb, of course, but if they get to her, do you think they could get to you?"

Pearce was still for a minute, then swiped the phone up, flicked a thumb across the screen.

"This prison is run quite well," he said calmly. "Putting you in a cell block with mostly Club members, a couple of fixers, lots of unaffiliated. Not a dangerous place for you, keeps the peace."

He glanced up briefly. "But let's imagine you're transferred elsewhere, some bug in the software perhaps." He gestured slightly with the phone, drew a narrow circle before he steadied it. "For example, to a cell block with Militia members. I hear they're in a turf war with the Club, how well do you think you'll do there?"

The sneering expression on Fisher's face slowly faded, though he clearly tried to hold on to it.

"You…" Fisher began, but stopped when Pearce turned the phone back around.

"Do you know this woman?" Pearce asked, same tone he'd used before.

Fisher chuckled. "How could I forget that lovely face?"

"Wrong again." Pearce shrugged. "She's the only reason you're still alive, think on that for a moment."

"I like to spread my misery around and I'm really an ungrateful bastard."

Pearce just kept watching him. "But if you die in some unfortunate prison shower incident, I don't think she'd blame me, do you agree?"

Fisher had opened his mouth, but he snapped his teeth closed instead, only stared back at Pearce. Certainly, Pearce had the means to back up everything he said.

"Now," Pearce said, turned the phone around again. "Do you know this woman?"

Fisher looked at the phone and the picture, compelled even though he'd not see anything new there, face finally settled into concentration as he ran his options through his mind. He looked back at Pearce and tried to smirk or sneer, but the expression was forced.

"Well, if it's that important to you, no, never seen the whore in my life," he said, shrugged. "How about the vigilante, though? Maybe I've seen him? Right here, in the middle of a prison."

He arched his brows inquisitively. "Do you even have an exit strategy?"

Pearce didn't seem impressed. He shrugged again, put the phone away and rested his empty hands on the table between them.

"You don't know her," Pearce said. "Be as chatty as you want about me."

Fisher's smirk was coming easier again. He said, "Sure, can't wait to start."

Pearce didn't answer, he just stood up and put his briefcase on the table between them, sorted the papers he'd taken out earlier back into it, gave Fisher only a casual glance as he worked. He took a step forward, to the side of the table.

"Don't worry about your lawyer, I just waylaid her for a bit," he said lightly. "She'll be here by the time you wake up."

"By the time… what?"

Realisation hit Fisher at the same time Pearce's hand landed on his shoulder, tucked on his collar and plunged a long syringe into his neck. Fisher struggled to the side, made a half-hearted lunge at Pearce as his vision washed out. He blinked a few times in confusion, then folded forward without a sound. He fell over his own chair and toppled it under him, landing in a messy heap on the floor.

Pearce watched him for a moment, then hid the syringe under the papers in his briefcase and went to the door to activate the intercom.

"I believe my client has just collapsed."

End of _Loose Ends