InsaneJournal

Who: Tristan and Eric
What: Bringing the dreamer to the bad guys
Where: Aubade 402
When: Tuesday afternoon, before the blackout.
Warnings: Kidnapping! Violence!

It took research. It took pulling one very single available loose thread until he found one that led somewhere useful, somewhere with information that he could use. But late on Friday afternoon, Eric found the lead he needed, and he followed it, he researched it, and on Tuesday afternoon, in the lull where few people stirred from their jobs or duties, Eric showed up in front of Aubade 402. Tristan Sable. Artist. The man behind the gallery that had drawn Seymour’s interest, and Eric’s target for capture. There would be no missteps from this point forward, no. Eric didn’t fail.

He was dressed conservatively in a charcoal suit, his hair slicked back from his face, falsified orders to pick up the latest addition to the gallery tucked into his suit jacket. Adjusting his lapels, making sure his appearance was pristine as usual, Eric lifted his right hand and knocked three times, sharply, on the door of Tristan Sable’s Seattle apartment.

Tristan was on the second floor of the apartment when the knocks came, as he most often was these days. He only ever ventured downstairs for the times he had deliveries, pick ups, or when he needed something to eat. The rest of the time, he stayed mostly to two or three of the bedrooms, painting, sleeping, and occasionally playing the piano. The pick ups of work for the gallery came every few days, the young woman that watched the gallery coming by to pick up the new paintings.

He wasn’t expecting the sharp knocks, thinking it was a day too early for the young woman to stop by, but he often lost track of the days with his strange sleep schedule, so he snagged the most recent canvas and headed down the stairs. When he got there, he opened the door with a sigh, expecting to see someone else standing there. Confronted with a man in a suit, he simply blinked for a moment. Finally, he frowned. “Who’re you?”

“Charles North. With the gallery, Mister Sable. I was asked to perform the pick up this afternoon as the lady who is normally in charge has fallen ill.” Eric shifted slightly, pulling the folded paper out from his inner pocket of his jacket, and with a snap of his wrist, it unfolded and he extended it out to Tristan. “I apologise for the lack of proper timing. I’m simply filling in for this week.”

He was all very official and lacking in emotion as he spoke, but his eyes were sharp, measuring Tristan up as they visited in the hallway, already looking two steps ahead so there would be no surprises during this meeting. Eric was slender, but the suit belied a muscled physique, having trained for years in both hand to hand combat and martial arts; there was a reason he was hired as the Cleaners’ strong arm.

“Might I come in? I need to call the gallery and advise them that I found you okay. They like to make sure their clients are taken care of, after all.”

Tristan frowned at the man - Charles - and contemplated not letting him in. No one ever came other than the one young woman. She was really the only one that had the link between him and the gallery. And usually Grey Skies was very good at keeping him updated on anything that was going on. Like, say, a different person showing up at his door. He had to admit though, that sometimes his phone ran out of battery, and he hadn’t checked it in a while.

The request to come inside unsettled him though. He hadn’t let anyone actually inside since Hal and Charlie had moved out again. Even the girl from the gallery only ever just picked up the canvases and left again. Tristan scowled at the man and refused to open the door any more, holding the paper-wrapped canvas out to him. “Here. Just take it and leave. You can call from your car.”

A brow arched at the other’s behaviour, but Eric didn’t let it phase him in the slightest. Instead, as Tristan shoved the canvas out towards him, he stepped forward, closing the distance between them and placing one foot in the gap in the doorway. “I would really rather come in. My driver had to run a small errand, and I would hate to stand out on the walk with your painting in hand. What if something should happen to it? So please.” He pressed his hand against the doorway, pushing with considerable force.

“Let me in, Mister Sable.”

Tristan shook his head and scowled even more, especially down at the foot now planted in his doorway. If this man was with the gallery (which he was just starting to doubt now), he definitely wasn't a good representative. "There's a nice lobby downstairs, maybe you saw it? You know, when you passed through to get up here? There's even chairs down there where you can wait." He braced his own foot behind the door, but swayed a little when the other man pushed it. He set the canvas off to the side, bracing a hand on the door as well, trying to keep it as closed as possible. "No. I don't let anyone inside."

Eric stood motionless for a long while, and then he smiled, his head tilted slightly to the side as he surveyed the man in front of him. “I don’t sit in lobbies, but thank you for the suggestion. And since you won’t let me in...” The pressure on the door eased for a split second before it increased in a hard push, and if Eric had his way, it would be enough to force the door so that he could enter, and then the pressure would abruptly disappear leaving Tristan to push the door shut in return.

The sudden pressure did push Tristan back, his foot sliding easily along the marble floor of the foyer, especially given the fact that he was barefoot. It caught him offguard, and he stumbled back a step to avoid his toes being scraped by the bottom of the door. “Motherfuck-!” He swore under his breath and took another step back to regain his balance. Even being taller than most people, there wasn’t nearly as much muscle to him as Eric had under his suit. “Get the fuck out of here.” He raised his voice as he spoke, wondering if someone else might hear.

Eric was quick to take advantage of the stumble, a kick of his shoe closing the door with a resounding slam that sounded incredibly final. “I thought you already understood that I’m not leaving,” Eric said calmly, stepping towards Tristan, his arms relaxed at his side, his face impassive.

“I gave you a less violent opportunity to meet, you do remember that, don’t you? But you told me no. So I had to go through other channels to arrange this meeting.” Another step closer, the distance rapidly shrinking. “You will come with me this evening, one way or another, Tristan Sable. Whether you do so of your own volition or me dragging your unconscious body down to the car waiting downstairs is up to you. You have until the count of ten to make your decision.” And then he started counting down, even paces between the numbers, plenty of time to allow Tristan to think and decide his own fate.

Tristan raised an eyebrow in disbelief, a low sense of panic settling in his stomach. He remembered the email on the forum, vague between ventures into people’s dreams, but had never thought that it would end in someone appearing on his doorstep - in his home. He knew the city wasn’t a safe place. He’d lived in Hamartia, where “safe” wasn’t a common word. But this...

He backed away from the man - Charles? Tristan doubted that was a real name - his feet silent against the marble even as the countdown numbers grew smaller. The man was blocking his way to the door, and for the size of the apartment, there wasn’t another exit that he knew of, except out to the balconies.

And he doubted he’d survive a fall from one of those.

It didn’t stop him from turning to run when the man reached ‘five’. Even if he couldn’t escape, maybe he could at least get to a room and bar himself inside. Preferable a room that had a way to call for help. He headed for the stairs and up toward the rooms he lived in, knowing that both his phone and computer would be up there.

Eric knew he was going to run before Tristan even knew himself, and he was off after him, chasing after him with purpose as Tristan headed towards the stairs. The countdown had been forgotten as he followed him up the stairs, making a grab when Tristan was halfway up for the man’s bare ankle, and if he succeeded, he’d pull back hard, hopefully toppling the man as he ran. There was no forgiveness in how he acted, already mentally gauging the effects of the fall, the possible injuries, and how to best subdue the man so he was still functional.

Tristan could hear the man's shoes against the hard floor of the foyer, and it only served to spur him on. The feel of fingers around his ankle made him lift his knee quickly, pulling his foot away at the last second before the man's grip could tighten. It caused his heart to race as his adrenaline spiked, and he made it to the top of the stairs in another few steps. His main room was only a few doors away, and he hoped for a chance to get there.

The feeling of his hand closing in on air only made Eric’s determination harden that much further, and he was nearly on Tristan’s heels as they rounded the top of the stairs. He didn’t reach out to try and grab him again, not yet, since he wasn’t that foolish. Instead, Eric waited until they were closing in on the door that Tristan had targeted, and when there was still a handful of steps to go, he picked up the speed and ran at him full force with every intention to slam him into the wall from behind.

Tristan grunted as the body hit him from behind, and again when the wall hit his front. His teeth rattled together, and he ended up biting his lip, blood blooming and ending up in a small smear on the wall. “Fuck,” he grunted, and shoved back from the wall, hoping to get enough leverage to still get to the bedroom. He wasn’t trained in fighting, wasn’t athletic at all, but the desperation gave him an extra edge over what he’d normally have.

The edge Tristan might have had wasn’t enough to compensate for the strength Eric put into pinning the man against the wall, shoving back as Tristan tried to push away. “You’re going to break something if you keep this up,” Eric growled at him, trying to wrest one arm behind Tristan’s back, attempting to wrench it up at a painful angle to gain some more leverage over the man.

Tristan’s one arm stretched farther than it should have, and the joint ached as he growled again. He lashed back with his opposite elbow, hoping to catch a rib or head - something that would loosen the grip. “Get the fuck off of me.” He tried stomping down on the man’s foot, but without wearing shoes, it didn’t do as much good as he’d hoped.

That elbow hit, a tender spot in the ribs, but Eric merely grimaced in discomfort, and for the trouble Tristan caused, he twisted that arm harder, any further and the shoulder would likely pop out of joint. “I thought we covered this already. Are you that stupid that you can’t get such a simple concept?” There was disappointment in Eric’s voice, hidden only slightly by the sheer disinterest he had in Tristan’s opinions.

“I’m not letting you go, Mister Sable. Please come to grips with this reality.” Eric’s free hand came up, grabbing a handful of Tristan’s hair, a twist of his hand to tangle his hand tightly. Not waiting for a response, Eric wrenched Tristan’s head back sharply, though the discomfort would last only for a moment before he shoved hard with that single head to try and drive Tristan’s forehead into the wall. A hard enough slam like that would likely render the man unconscious. This job was already too messy and hardly a challenge.

For a brief second, Tristan thought he was going to be able to worm free, but then his arm was wrenched higher and his head pulled back unnaturally. He was about to try to fight again, when his head was shoved forward against the wall. It hit hard, with a crack, and the world went gray around the edges. His knees buckled, refusing to hold his weight, and he groaned under his breath at the way his arm jerked up even farther as he slid toward the floor.

“Much better, much better,” Eric murmured as Tristan started to slump, following him down towards the ground, relinquishing some of the pressure on that pinioned arm. “See. That wasn’t so bad, was it?” he asked calmly, his hand still tangled in that hair, refusing to let go. “Now. Will you come with me quietly, or must we solidify this most unfortunate arrangement we have going on here?” A pull, a tug, and they were nearly look face to face, Eric’s expression impassive. “I’ll leave it up to you. I’m a generous man, that way.”

Tristan’s eyes had a hard time focusing, things still grey and fuzzy after the hit to his head. He heard the words though, quiet, as if the man was very far away. He wouldn’t let himself give in though, even as his head began to throb. His tongue felt heavy when he tried to talk, but he finally managed to slur out a reply, “Fuck you.”

He was almost disappointed, Eric was, in Tristan’s response, but he did allow the man to choose. “If that’s what you wish. Don’t ever say I didn’t give you a choice.” And with that, Eric slammed the man’s head against the wall one last time, perhaps with a bit more thrust than was completely necessary, but never let it be said that Eric wasn’t thorough.

Tristan knew it was coming, but there was no way to brace himself for the blow. He blacked out immediately and slumped limp to the floor. He breathed shallowly, unable to defend himself, the blood from his bitten lip gathering at the corner of his mouth.

As consciousness abruptly fled from the man’s body, Eric released him, letting him slump fully to the floor as he rose up to his full height, brushing his hands off on the thighs of his slacks. “Really. It would have been much easier if you had simply given in,” Eric said to the empty apartment, cell phone flipped open a moment later as he dialed in Seymour’s number, leaving a short, succinct message that he had the artist in custody. Tucking the phone back away, Eric stooped and hauled Tristan up, awkward for a moment until he had the man slung over his shoulder.

Turning towards the front door, Eric paused, letting his body become adjusted to the extra weight he carried, letting his sight look further out, waiting for a moment when no one would be in the hallways before leaving to take the elevator down. A similar wait was taken in the ride down to the lobby, timing his arrival so that no one would be watching as he took Tristan out to the car waiting out front and tossed him in the trunk.

Task completed, Eric slid into the front seat and put the car into gear, heading on down the road.