Okay it's been a year, I should probably get around to finishing this.

I've decided that actually I'm the only one that's right about how law enforcement works, and if you disagree you're actually wrong.

Run.

Brine remained focused on his breaths as he sprinted through the trees, ignoring the burning in his limbs that begged him to stop and rest. He didn't have the luxury of that right now - not with helicopters combing the forest for him, and half the police force on the ground. And- oh, that was barking, wasn't it? Now they had dogs.

They had never gotten this close before. No, well, that wasn't true- he'd been arrested before. But that was very different. That time, he'd been shot, he was bleeding, he really didn't have much of a say in the matter when he was handcuffed and tossed in an ambulance. This time, he was unhurt, but being the subject of a manhunt was interrupting him from far more important matters. Matters such as Steven and Caden were gone, and nobody was looking for them.

Brine stumbled over a root, shouting as pain shot up his leg. Only a twisted ankle, but it would make running that much more difficult. He didn't even know where he was running to, just… away. He would endanger his contacts if he tried to go to them, and he didn't have any hideout of his own. The only civilization in this direction was a small town several miles away, and if they knew his trajectory they had probably already alerted the local authorities. He could hardly hide and try to slip through them with the dogs on his trail, but there was nowhere for him to go. Would he be able to get help for Steven and Caden if he turned himself in?

A solid wall appeared in front of him, and Brine staggered to a halt, throwing out a hand to keep from slamming into the cliffside. Seemed he didn't have much of a choice.

Brine turned around, wincing and lifting a hand to shield his face as a searchlight from one of the circling helicopters landed on him. With a sigh, he lifted his hands, placing them atop his head as his pursuers closed in.

"Why'd he run, then?"

"I- how should I know? He's a d*** teenager-"

"Why'd he run, Petrovsky?"

"I don't know! And how'd he end up with ******* Stonewall?"

The sound of his name roused Steven from his doze, and he lifted his chin slightly as he tuned in to the conversation going on before him. His guard was standing in the 'doorway' of their makeshift prison cell, facing the outside with his arms folded. Steven leaned slightly to his left, and was able to catch a glimpse of Caden's dad standing outside. Ah. Looking down, Steven found Caden still asleep, slumped against the plywood wall with a little gray tail sticking out of his hoodie pocket.

"You're at work," The guard said gruffly. "Focus on your job."

"Can I have my son back after you're finished here?" Caden's dad asked irritably. "I didn't want him involved in all of this." The guard grunted noncommittally.

"We'll see."

"Fine." Caden's father turned and walked away, throwing up his hands in exasperation as he did so. Only once he had retreated a good distance away did the guard turn, and in doing so notice Steven's eyes on him.

"Morning," the man greeted him, his voice as flat as when he had been talking to Caden's father. Steven just shifted, sitting up straight and lifting his hands above his head to stretch.

"Mm." A spike of pain shot up through his neck, and he winced, momentarily jealous of Caden's ability to sleep hunched up in a ball. "How long'd I sleep?" The guard checked his phone.

"About three hours." The man was standing now, likely having gotten up in order to scare off Caden's father. Even though they'd kidnapped him and Caden, Steven maintained a grudging respect for the man for keeping Caden out of his father's hands… at least, so far.

"Right." Steven hesitated. "How much time do I have?" The guard turned, meeting his eyes for a long moment.

"Not sure," he finally said. "Up to the boss."

"Oh." Steven broke eye contact. "Alright."

He felt eerily calm considering the circumstances. His head still throbbed from where he'd been bashed, so maybe his calm was just from untreated concussion. Or maybe it was Caden's presence, the kid was obviously far more freaked out than Steven was… and he couldn't blame him for that. If nothing else, at least Steven knew what they wanted with him. Caden had to wonder whether he would be handed back over to his abusive father or not - and, if not, what then?

Movement caught his eye, and Steven looked up to see the guard moving aside to admit a young man into his makeshift prison.

The man was unfamiliar, not one of the men who had kidnapped him or anyone he had seen thus far. He had long, icy blond hair that was pinned up in a haphazard bun, and was dressed in clean, blue scrubs. Without acknowledging him or Caden, the young man made his way over to the donation chair and began to wipe it down with disinfectant.

Steven watched him quietly as he worked, gripping his own arm instinctively where he had been pricked hundreds of times before. It seemed like his time was up, though he still didn't have an answer as to whether they intended to keep him around long-term or not. It would probably be more financially responsible for them to keep him prisoner and continue to harvest his blood over a long period of time, but they would have to feed him… and they ran the risk of being caught.

Steven shifted uncomfortably, trying to banish his anxious thoughts from his mind. Who was this young man, anyway? He was dressed like a nurse, but surely any registered nurse wouldn't be involved in… something like this.

"Hey," he rasped, his voice cracking a bit, and he cleared his throat. The young man looked up from his work, his face passive other than narrowed eyes.

"What?"

"Who are you?" Steven tried. "You're their doctor?" The man averted his gaze, scoffing quietly.

"I guess, you could call me that." He yanked a strap loose, fumbling with the latch. "Don't get paid nearly as much though." Steven cocked his head.

"Crime doesn't pay, huh?"

"Oh, don't get smart with me," the young man snapped. "Not everyone can be born with gold running through their veins, you know." Obviously, Steven thought to himself, since if everyone had his blood type then it would have no value, but he said nothing to avoid provoking him further. "Not everyone has a choice," the young man went on. "I have to eat too." Steven just shrugged.

"Sure," he said. "But you're ruining other people's lives in the process."

"Why should I care?" the young man muttered. "They've never done anything for me." Steven's lips thinned.

"What's your name?" He asked.

"None of your business," the guard cut in.

"Why not?" Steven eyed him, feeling uncharacteristically brave considering the gun strapped to his guard's waist. "I'm not getting out of here alive, am I?" The guard frowned at him, but said nothing more.

"It's Elias," the young man muttered.

"Elias." The name sounded oddly familiar, but Steven couldn't put his finger on why. "I'm guessing you know my name."

"Yeah." Elias turned to give him a flat look, resting a hand on the tattered donation chair. "Steven Stonewall, millionaire. Lives in a crappy one-bedroom apartment. Doesn't drive, doesn't cook, spends all his time watching TV and feeling sorry for himself while never having worked a day in his life." Steven blinked at him, indignation shooting through him.

"I don't drive or cook because I was never taught," he countered, "And I live in a cheap apartment because I don't want to flaunt my wealth."

"Still, you're a lucky b****** who got everything handed to him on a platter." Elias' voice was derisive. "So if you're trying to make me feel sorry for you, it's not going to work. Now get up." He gestured curtly. "It's time for your first draw." Steven's jaw tightened, but he stood, not wanting to give the guard any reason to motivate him.

"I'll need something to eat," he mutters. "And water. If you plan on keeping me alive, at least."

"Yeah, I know." Elias beckoned him over to the chair, strapping his wrists down as soon as he'd settled into his seat. "And you'll get some. Just sit tight and don't struggle, we're going to be here a while."

Brine ground his teeth together, his jaw beginning to ache from the pressure as he clenched his hands into fists. "I've told you already," he snapped. "I had nothing to do with Stonewall's disappearance. I was there to check on him."

"For what purpose?" The officer countered, and Brine bared his teeth. Unfortunately, his intimidating appearance didn't seem to have any effect on the man sent to interrogate him.

"Why do you think?" He bit out. "His blood is the only reason I'm still alive right now, I need to make sure he stays in good health should you and your boys get all trigger-happy again."

It was nearly morning now, and Brine hadn't gotten a wink of sleep as he was tased, cuffed, and dragged back to Baymont to be processed. No sooner had he been assigned a cell, however, than he'd been pulled out and brought to an interrogation room for questioning. Unfortunately for him, they were long convinced that he had something to do with Steven's kidnapping, and he was having quite the time convincing them otherwise.

"If you-" The officer started, only to be interrupted by the door opening behind him.

"Mocas, come out here for a moment." A second officer beckoned him out of the room, and Brine picked at the cuffs on his wrists as the men conversed in low tones. Every moment they were sitting here questioning him was another moment that Steven and Caden were in danger.

After a minute of fidgeting, the officer returned, now bearing a file folder. "This van," he began as he sat down again. "Was caught on a traffic camera leaving the neighborhood only a few minutes before we found you." He set down a printed photograph in front of him, and Brine peered down at it, immediately recognizing the vehicle.

"Yes, I saw that as I was getting there," he confirmed. "Was in a real hurry, but I didn't realize anything was wrong until I saw Stonewall's door wide open. I was about to go after it when I was so rudely interrupted."

"Did you see anything else?" The officer pressed. Brine glanced up at him.

"Other than the bloody knife and smashed cell phone? Have you gotten DNA off that knife yet, by the way?"

"We sent it in." The officer's face is a mask. "It's not Stonewall's, not his blood type." Brine let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding.

"Well, good on the man for defending himself," he muttered, directly before a wave of panic hit him at the thought of Caden being wounded. He hadn't seen any blood on the floor, though, so whoever had gotten stuck must have been swiftly treated.

"Nothing else you can tell us?" The officer asked. Brine splayed his cuffed hands in a helpless gesture.

"It isn't like you all gave me much of a chance."

"Alright." The officer stood, pushing in his chair. "Sit tight, someone will be around to collect you in a moment." Brine doubted that anyone would be letting him get back to his cell for at least an hour, but he said nothing as the officer turned to leave.

"Oh," he spoke up suddenly. "You didn't happen to come across a cat, did you?" The officer paused.

"A cat?"

"A kitten." Brine cupped his hands in illustration. "Small and gray." The officer stared at him for a moment, then slowly shook his head.

"No, no sign of a cat."

"Mmh." Brine frowned, hoping the little thing hadn't run out the open door into traffic. "Well, thanks anyway." The officer gave him a bemused look, then left the room and locked him inside, leaving him to stare into the one-way mirror at his own reflection.