It wasn't a particularly pleasant day to get their hands dirty, but dark days like these came with the job. Hell, a little rain wasn't all bad; set the mood, even. Weather was all the context a guy could ask for in this line of work. Consider someone found themselves on an evening jog- one of those misty, dew-dropped trails, weaving autumn sun between the tree lines onto a particular spot, in a particular way, and feeling as though nature had mimicked art, even though it was always the other way around. Imagine they stopped and admired how the leaves overhead parted for them, and the sky clasped peacefully between morning sun and remnants of the night before. One of those real pretty days. It made all the sense in the world to assume they, in their wonder- Or ability to feel wonder at all- could be possibly the farthest thing from any of those men then.

Weather was all the context a guy could ask for.

Contextually (if you happened to find yourself on your way to kill a man), it didn't make much sense to have more than a black bird or two gliding overhead, and no more than a moment's glance before your car overtook it, making their figures like mental imprint, maybe something you saw outlined behind your eyelids if you blinked. If you could blink. The air was thick and wet like smoke. The road outstretching before them consumed currents of time, fog unveiling- slowly, infinitely- more and more of the same beaten down lane.

Rain was exactly right. It made the shit they forced themselves knuckle-deep into smell that much worse. That lingering stench stuck up their nostrils like blood in a broken nose, and it only even went away once the masks came off, which they hardly ever did.

The driver in this scenario happened to be a man by the name of Amour Dumont, though no one unfortunate enough to offer a second glance ever recognised him off the job, nor would they recognise any of the other four men occupying the black Audi; not with those large, leather pyramids they wore over their heads. They looked fashionable- cool- in their suits and ties, and outright ominous whenever a head turned, and though you couldn't see their eyes, or their expressions, or their bloodlust, you knew they saw you, and you knew perfectly well the guns balancing over their knees weren't some fancy bluffs.

What you probably didn't know was that it got damn-right humid in a leather pyramid head.

"What a shit-hole. You'd think there'd be at least a gas station around here." Amour turned a corner. He pulled at the underside of his mask to let a bit of that hot breath out the other end. Maybe if the base weren't so tight around his neck-.

He considered bringing it up to Pyronica on their return, but she'd accuse him of putting on a few extra pounds before ever admitting her measurements were off. Might even throw a wrench at his head. Wouldn't be the first time.

His comrade behind him snorted. "You've been spending too much time in that damn mansion again; go out on the town and see how the local folks are living," he suggested, tapping his window as the trees blurred by. Amour sat up straight, chin high.

"I'm not trying to sound pompous, I just think it's poor planning to have all this road, and not a break stop or someplace to eat. What if one of us needs to pee?"

"Take a look around you, Amorphous. Those trees are nature's urinals."

"You won't catch me taking a piss on poison ivy," Amour (or Amorphous. Didn't matter) scoffed in turn.

"You wouldn't have to worry about pissing on poison if you knew the difference between a couple o' weeds and a tree."

"Poison ivy grows on trees, Keyhole," Amour snarked, calling him 'Keyhole' like he meant 'Asshole.' It was a running gag between the two. He took a moment to himself, hoping to peek beyond the roots and leaves and road for even a gander at something that wasn't quite so green, before sinking back in his seat. If his hand could touch his hair, it'd certainly be combing through a fist-full of the stuff. "That's not the point. These are one of those spots people break down at, that's all I'm saying. No signal, no places close by. It's bad luck."

"I'll be damned if after all we've been through, some creep in a Jason mask is what does us in," came a deep, rumbly voice. Xanthar- the fuckin' softy- leaned ahead to knock a heavy fist against Amour's shoulder. "And I'll be damned if he kills you first."

Amour smiled, smacking the empty seat next to him like he meant to return the gesture. Big, genuine guy like him shouldn't have been in that car by any stretch of the imagination, but you only ever knew he was a big, genuine guy if he was on your side. Anyone else would've told you he'd been convicted over a dozen times for the same lowbrow stunts their boss had them doing on the regular, and he wasn't scared of killing by any means. No more than the others. Real soft guy if he didn't smother you with the whole of his hand, though. Or however else.

"You don't have to reassure me, I'm speaking in hypotheticals."

By the time the black Audi pulled into the driveway, it was almost noon. A little earlier. Their feet sank half an inch down with all that mud making up the dirt yard- and maybe it wasn't such a nice thing to say, but who were they to care about being polite? There was always that stinking smell, like rotted flesh and something salty, only it was worse this time.

8-Ball liked burying the kids out back. Yes, he specifically liked it. Saved a pretty penny doing the job himself, sure, but it was more about the implication.

8-Ball didn't mind the stink. Probably didn't even notice it. He said they made good fertilizer- something along those lines- and used to try growing things over top of their graves for eating. He didn't have a green thumb by any stretch of the imagination, and he certainly didn't like watering squash or cucumbers or cherry tomatoes, but he'd swear by that dirt, it made the whole damn salad taste like something you only saw in a catalog. He didn't seem to notice the flies it attracted. He didn't seem to notice the maggots.

Xanthar tossed his head towards the house. "Paci-fire, Amorphous: Keep an eye on the back door; make sure nothing slips out. Whatever does, give 'em a warm greeting, how the boss likes it. We'll give him a handshake from the front." That was all the instruction needed before everyone got into formation.

Paci-fire and Amorphous rounded the corner of a busted up shed, appearing like spears in the distance with how the tops of their heads came to a point, clad in black, all but their wrists, a bit of their necks and a sliver of their ankles. Anyone passing by would've had a ghost story or two by the time their car made it out the other end of the woods, but to Xanthar, Hectorgon and Keyhole, they just looked like a couple of jackasses wearing leather pyramid heads while it was hot, and wet, and smelled like decay all around. It didn't feel anymore pleasant than it looked.

The group of three made their way for the door, guns visible just above the waistline of their dress pants. A squelching foot in the mud had Keyhole fighting to stay upright without the ground sucking his shoe off in the process. He yanked his leg up hard, cursing at how it dirtied the cuff of his pants.

"This damn place, shit. Amour was right. Shit-hole, the whole fuckin' thing."

"Do you suppose he's abandoned the place already? Perhaps he's gone," Hector offered in his usual posh voice. Keyhole gave the thought a turn. He hummed.

"I wouldn't doubt it, but-. See there? There's that fucking truck 8-Ball loves so much, parked in his fucking driveway. The bastard wouldn't leave that behind."

Hector turned to look, and sure enough-.

He noted the weak teeth of mud pulling upward where tire marks ate through dirt. Maybe it was just the rain, but even then, the prints looked crumbled, softer, like time in disuse was finally wearing away at them, and rain had destroyed its hard, permanent shape. The usual prominence of deep tire marks always trailed that car. Hector, in the presence of its whittled state, almost thought-.

But that wasn't likely. 8-Ball loved that truck, he'd never put it out of commission.

"That's a fair observation. It's a bit rude of him then, ey? Not to greet us at the door." Hector peeled the end of his blazer aside to reveal the handle of his gun. "We're only off to kill him, after all."

Keyhole shook his head. "Back-water folk, I'm tellin' you. They're a fucking mystery when it comes to manners."

Hector began to smirk. "You think Bill would've liked this kind of greeting?"

His partner laughed. "Oh, I can only imagine what the boss would've done. There wouldn't be that porch there, that's for sure, and the roof would have to go too."

"Both of you," Xanthar cut in, raising a thick finger to where they assumed his lips hid behind that clunky mask. They straightened up.

The porch made a pathetic, drawn out whine, like so much as a breath would've had it folding in on itself. It was stronger than it sounded. Xanthar rang the doorbell, but that was never any use. He hardly doubted it'd been busted for at least a handful of years, and the company that came by was always so rare and so unpleasant, there wasn't any reason to fix it. He banged on the door.

"Come on out, 8-Ball. We know you know we're here, and we know you know what we're here for. Be a man about it," Xanthar called with authority.

(Bill liked to joke, if he hadn't found his way in the mob, he would've made one hell of a cop. What a thought. If he was already gunning people down on the streets, in their homes- he would've liked a paid vacation afterwards. Didn't sound like such a bad deal.)

They stood there, three fingers curled around their guns' grips, an index resting along their slides. After a second or two of silence, Keyhole tsked.

"He's scared stiff in there, I'll bet. What's he think we're gonna do? Torture him? I didn't bring my jumper cables or nothing."

"Any chance he's tidying up for us?" Hector queried, lowering his gun in the process. He tilted his head into his shoulder, wanting to rub an itch off his nose, only for the underside of his mask to bump across his collar bone.

Keyhole shrugged, considering his partner. "Maybe. His brains are just gonna dirty the place back up, though." His rigid stance limped up. He rubbed the barrel of his gun against the whiter part of his dress shirt, thoughtlessly wiping away spots of mud and rain, observing a slight wear on the muzzle. Just as he did, he heard a loud bang, startling him into position. He checked to see smoke wasn't rising from the source of his own weapon, and there wasn't a clear tunnel running through his leg, or his abdomen, or his crotch.

Looking up, Xanthar stood in 8-Ball's doorway, the remnants of said door no more than a folded deck of wood and a few hinges busted off the wall. He brushed off bits of debris before making a bee-line inside.

"Fuck, Xan! That's one way of doing it," Keyhole guffawed, hopping over bits of scattered maple, kicking aside its unfastened knob.

The interior of 8-Ball's home opened indifferently to them, disengaged from their muddy shoes and loaded handguns. All the lights had been turned off, making for a quiet sort of paranoia. Dust coated the living room floor in white fuzz, tracing the outline of where an old couch once sat, four small spots of corrosion marking the placement of each leg and a straight line of erosion against the wall where the headrest had meticulously worked into it. There wasn't much to the home, not that there ever had been, but standing amongst it- in that silence, the darkness, the missing couch, and a few other spots that would've done nicely with a table, some chairs, maybe a desk, but only the occasional outline of dust- told them something was up.

Not that they hadn't already clued in.

"Check the switch." Xanthar shouldered Keyhole. A moment later, the lights came on. Irritation set in fast.

"He skipped town," Keyhole grouched, letting his trigger finger flop against his thigh. Xanthar nodded.

"Sure looks like it. Spread out."

They scavenged the house, sweeping through cabinets and hallway closets; anyplace 8-Ball might've stuffed his gangly ass in a pinch. Not that he could've folded himself into a cookie jar, but that stout partner of his had been on the shorter side. There was always the off chance that Teeth had stuck around 'til the end for whatever reason, though more likely than not, 8-Ball had already done away with him. Still, keeping an eye out hardly hurt things.

They searched in silence, the sound of doors swinging and shutting on their hinges following their every move as they worked deeper and deeper into the house. Xanthar screened over the dining room, and for an instance felt amused to find a particularly large vase that had only fake flowers on top. He pulled the orchids up by their necks- anchoring it was a flat, plastic base that covered the hole of the vase- only for his face to fall at the several small baggies inside, but no 8-Ball. He cursed, throwing the flowers aside.

Perhaps he was hiding behind the curtains, or the backside of a door. Maybe he was under the sink with rusted pipes and chemicals to keep him company. He could've (Xanthar didn't like this particular thought) given them the slip, what with various furniture gone and missing, but there was still that truck parked out front, and no sign of a hasty exit. 8-Ball tended to do things last-minute.

He prepared himself for the second floor, hand braced on the banister, when all of a sudden, Keyhole called out: "Not to sound morbid ladies, but I think I know where the stench of blood is coming from."

Xanthar and Hectorgon rushed into the hallway, padding up to their partner as he worked away at an itch on his thigh with the muzzle of his handgun. He stood with his back towards them, posing curiously, like he didn't rightfully know what to make of the scene before him, whatever it was. Hot metal smacked across their noses, up the nostrils; how'd they miss that?

Peering over Keyhole's shoulder, into the basement, came that flickering, incessant light, and streams of blood racing off a much larger pool, before drying into a spider web-like shape.

They readied their weapons for the descent when a ruckus at the front door ripped them away just as fast.

"Fellas," called Amour in a hasty voice. Xanthar groaned.

"Get back into position," he barked, returning his attention to the basement. He cursed at the sound of footsteps approaching behind him, dropping his gun as he whipped around to face Amour and Paci-fire, appearing shaken and out of breath. "I thought I told you two to keep an eye out back; we're still searching for 8-Ball," he ground between clenched teeth.

"Well, quit searching, because we found him," said Amour, throwing a thumb over his shoulder. "He's buried out back."

Xanthar froze. "Buried?"

Amour nodded. "Just about. He's only half a man from what we made out; the other half's practically nothing but worms. He's been dead for a while now."

Xanthar's sweating grip eased up, a sudden disconnect between the gun in his hand and a body already in partial decay, laid out long before they'd arrived.

Dead. How? Suicide? Nah, he'd been buried long before putting up a decent fight. There wasn't any sentiment towards a guy like 8-Ball, but sometimes there was a sense of duty, or obligation, or a fear that he'd resurrect from the dead if no one bothered covering him with a pail of dirt. The only person likely enough to do something like that for a guy like 8-Ball was-.

"And Teeth?" Xanthar asked after a long pause. Amorphous looked to Paci-fire, who shook his head, before turning back.

"Didn't see him."

All at once, their eyes drew towards the basement steps, crowned in a pool of blood.

"Wouldn't it be odd..." Hector mumbled under his breath. The same thought filtered through their heads. They readjusted their weapons, marching downstairs in single-file.

The pungent reek of death curdled in their descent. Not poisonous, but venomous, with fangs and tongue and hunger lapping over their lips, down their necks. It was a wonder the smell hadn't crowded the whole house, but perhaps it had. Even the clinging bite of iron went unnoticed once you bathed in it, washed your hands of it. Smelling blood long enough meant not realizing when you smelt more of the same, right up until it became a concentrated wall that even a seasoned killer couldn't overlook.

The house. The house smelled like death. Perhaps they did, too.

There weren't words to describe what they found down below. 'Down below' meaning 'Below the Belt;' anyone with half a brain could've told you whose body was laid out at the base of those steps, but the state they found him in dug at a kind of unease they hadn't felt long-since first dirtying their hands for the Cipher Family.

Humiliation after death was only karma carrying itself out. It felt ironic, finding Teeth how they had, but no one dared mention it- the irony. Not with his cock properly gnawed off, and the caged, naked boy who sat before his body, void of a soul, stinking of death.

"Fuck," Keyhole gagged, shielding his eyes, covering his nose. He whipped around fast before daring himself a second glance, only to wind up just as sick. "Fuck," he said again, taking several steps back.

There was blood. Anyplace they went, there always seemed to be. After a few drinks, it could have been paint for all they knew, and after a few years, they stopped needing to drink at all. Who cared? Blood wasn't the issue, nor was it the glossed over nothingness of Teeth's bug-eyed expression. It was the kid that made their stomachs so topsy turvy- that look on his face, fresh with dried death in his mouth, down his throat, the matted curls of his head soaked in it.

Everyone stood frozen, save for Keyhole, who couldn't seem to keep himself still; walking into a corner, bumping his forehead against the wall, turning to look back, only to curl over with a fist pressed against his mouth, and looking away again. He'd never been squeamish, but he'd been kicked in the nuts a handful of times; that was about as far as his brain could manage before things got excruciating.

His dry-heaving snapped the others out of it. Hector forced himself around the cage, over the blood, observing the boy inside like a rare animal. He crouched, positioning a fist under his chin. "How long do you suppose he's been down here?" His eyes cast up at Amour, who quickly hid his horror.

He cleared his throat, easing himself into the scene. "By the looks of it, I'd say a while." The tip of his dress shoe nudged against Teeth's cheek, wobbling the fat of his neck, leaving behind a red print of his sole. "Did a number on his captor, at least. Looks like he beat us to the punchline."

"No one's laughing," said Xanthar. Amour pulled at the collar of his suit.

"Is he..." Hectorgon paused, swallowing hard. "-what we're here for?"

Their heads perked up at the insinuation. They'd been sent out with a chore list of deeds, top of the list starting with a bullet straight between 8-Ball's eyes. Done, though not by them, nor their second target, who arguably met a fate far worse. Instructions had been to take the money if they had it- whatever else looked valuable- and leave nothing but bodies behind.

In the fine-print, Bill'd said something along the lines of human cargo, but the boss liked pulling their legs whenever he could. Maybe he hadn't meant it. The deal went 'Something-something- Six Months- Something-something- 15k-' and a few bonuses thrown in to sweeten the pot, which he implied to be those boys down in the cellar, though he'd laughed the whole damn time, and didn't sound rightfully sobered up from his evening scotch.

Bill had a strange sense of humor. He could have just as easily agreed to the whole thing as a gag, but it wasn't their job to make the distinction.

The team looked to Xanthar, who crossed his arms. After a moment, he shrugged. "See any other boys in cages around here?"

Hector blinked, then stammered, "No, of course not. Just curious." He rose slowly, fiddling with his fingers. At first, he thought better than to comment on it, but each look worsened the last; peaking between the bars, he couldn't help but say: "He looks a bit young."

"Boss' orders," Xanthar replied calmly, stepping over Teeth's body. He wafted a hand in front of the boy's face, only for the motion to go unnoticed. Was he even alive in there, or had he somehow died in a kneeling position?

Hector persisted. "How old do you suppose he is, anyway?"

"We're just the delivery guys, Hectorgon," he reminded him, testing the give of the cage's door.

His partner went on. "And you're certain he's who we're delivering-?"

"What are you, Hercule Poirot? Stop asking questions before it gets you killed." Hector shut his mouth with a clack. Xanthar went on. "I'm only telling you one more time, you know what curiosity gets you in this line of work. If it were up to me, we'd be robbing a bank, not digging through some guy's guts over a grudge, but it's not up to me, and it's not up to you. Zip it while you've still got lips, and while you're at it, check the guy's pockets for a key. I'm not lifting two-hundred pounds worth of steel into the trunk of that car. I doubt it'd even fit."

Hector went stiff, fists balled at his sides. Xanthar imagined the ends of his mustache twitching indignantly under that mask of his; if it weren't in the way, Hector would've readjusted the bowler hat on his head in that funny little way that made him look like a posh 1850's gentleman. He was a younger fellow, but he had an odd taste for fashion, and a surprisingly short temper, refined as he was.

Hector tapped his foot like a rabbit, seeming cross, before making his way towards Teeth's body. He let his arm drop to the corpe's collar, hauling him up with his one arm in a show of strength- Teeth teetered straight-legged on his feet- before quickly patting him over, shoving his hands into either pocket and pulling them inside out. Hector wiped his palms and straightened his own coat haughtily, shoving the body back just as fast; if Teeth had anything valuable on him, he needed only a moment- perhaps less- before everything ended up in Hector's hands.

"He doesn't seem to be in possession of a key," Hector reported with a sniff. Xanthar glared.

"Check his hands." He nodded at the corpse. Again, Hector tapped his foot, a bit faster now, before crouching down. He peeled away at Teeth's bloody hands, stiff with rigor mortis, grumbling and huffy about the new stains on his gloves. There was nothing in his left hand, but his right-.

"Ah," Hector hummed, finding a small remote controller with the same emblem as the one welded across the cage's roof. He pressed a button, then another, but nothing happened. Turning it around in his hands, he remarked coolly: "It's soaked in blood."

"Let me see." Amour took hold of the device, smacking it several times against his palm. A red light came on when he pressed and pointed; there was something going on underneath, but that was the extent of it. "Well, shit," he cursed. "Should've brought Pyronica."

Xanthar stretched a hand out, to which Amorphous relinquished the remote. He held it against the light, feeling the pasty, glue-like texture soaking the exterior of his glove, and a dry, crumbly give of blood crusted under each button. He shook it, making out something hollow inside. Something Not Good. Flipping it on its back, the battery compartment he'd hoped to find turned out to be nothing more than a smooth, plastic exterior. If he popped the device open, he was more likely than not to find a jungle of wires, springs- whatever else he didn't understand a lick of. He grunted, tossing the device aside. After a moment, he sighed.

"Looks like you're up, Keyhole."

Keyhole- who still found himself nose-deep in the farthest corner of the room- made a confused sound at the back of his throat. "The hell are you talking about? What am I supposed to do?" he asked. Xanthar stood.

"You're the locksmith here. Pop it open." He knocked the top-side of the cage for emphasis, wordlessly ordering Keyhole to turn around.

The man only shifted on either foot, face hidden, playing with the edges of his coat as he asked: "With what?"

"With your tools," Xanthar replied impatiently.

Keyhole cleared his throat, trying to sound casual. "I didn't bring my tools."

"What do you mean you didn't bring your tools? Why do we bring you anywhere unless we need you to open something?"

"Ay!" Keyhole snapped, swinging around. He managed a half-way decent point before remembering the very-much detached cock a few feet away, and turned himself back around to talk to the wall again. "It was a long car ride, alright? I don't like how the snake-rake digs into my ass, it's uncomfortable." He rubbed his ass for emphasis, sounding pitiful and whiny. Xanthar pulled at the base of his own mask in frustration, nearly busting through the leather at the peak. He grumbled nonsense between his teeth.

Hector startled suddenly, patting himself down- flipping out his own pockets, opening his jacket to see what hid inside- before plucking out something small and thin with no shortage of triumph.

"Would a bobby pin help?" he asked.

Keyhole snarled. "A bobby pin?" He stomped in position, looking silly in his little corner, vigorously straightening the tie around his neck. He forced his arm behind himself, pointing in the direction of the cage. "You see that, man? That there's a third-generation Electro-Orca Bolt Lock with carbon paneling. Cut it with the 'bobby pin' crap and find me a stick of dynamite if you want that shit opened."

There was a thought. Xanthar shifted his eyes towards Paci-fire, who up to this moment had merely observed silently, as he often did. He couldn't see his face, but he saw the way Paci-fire stood, all stiff-like with his hands not exactly touching his legs, and his feet heel-to-heel, chest puffed. He probably packed a few sticks. Definitely, even, but Xanthar didn't like how excited his teammate got at the suggestion. He could tell when Paci-fire got excited; it'd nearly gotten them killed a handful of times. No, no, bad idea. He shook his head at his partner, who's eager, practically restless stance dropped in dissatisfaction.

Xanthar unbuttoned his suit jacket, shimmying either arm out. "I guess we're doing things the old-fashioned way." He rolled his shoulders back before wedging his fingers into the space between the door and its frame. His head tilted towards his teammates, then at the cage. "You three, hang onto the back."

They all looked at each other, unreadable expressions curling underneath the skin of their masks. Amour was first to step in, crouching down and wrapping his fingers around a set of bars. Hector and Paci-fire followed suit, confused even in compliance.

Xanthar wiggled his shoulders, easing into a squat. Just as he did, Amour lifted his eyes over the cage's roof. "What're you doing?" he asked. Xanthar trained his eyes forward.

"Reminding you all why they call me 'The Muscle.'"

He took a deep breath, flexing his forearms, and pulled. His teammates fumbled with a start, finding themselves dragged along on his first tug, before quickly regaining their footing, pressing their heels into concrete, fighting to stay upright against the blood. They leaned back against Xanthar's incessant prying, the gloves on their hands making for fantastic grips as they worked to keep the cage in place. Amour cursed, feeling it as his biceps quickly developed a burning sensation and he tugged back too hard, landing himself on his tailbone.

They stopped just as suddenly, panting. Hector placed his palms on his knees, all while Xanthar whipped his hands around, trying to starve off the tingling pain pressed into his bones. So quickly, he'd developed a sweat. Rolling up his sleeves did little in his favor; it was his face that felt hot, huffing and puffing as the temperature rose inside of his mask. He swore nastily, wanting to wipe his brow, but only succeeding in sliding smooth leather across it. Sweat prickled his hairline, under his nose, on the back of his skull. Shaking his head only made things worse.

Xanthar swore, trying to control his breathing; when that didn't work, he found himself fiddling with the hidden button located at the collar of his mask. Unfastening it, he quickly pulled his head out and reveled at the immediate cool of his scalp, the sweat in his cornrows dripping to the floor instead of rolling down his face. He sighed, discarding the leather article before training his attention back on the cage. The other three followed suit, but this time with added apprehension.

"Bill's not gonna like that," Amour warned, nodding at where Xanthar had tossed his mask. He gave the thought a turn. Yeah, probably not.

Their second attempt ended a bit cleaner than the first had; they were all in relatively good shape for their age, and once they got into the groove of heaving and pulling, the metal started to bend at an angle. Xanthar ducked his head every so often to see how the child inside was faring, but he hadn't so much as stirred. When he looked back up, Hector had removed his mask as well. He'd retrieved a small comb out of whichever hidden compartment he happened to fashion onto himself, and appeared absolutely liberated to brush clumps of sweat out of his manicured mustache. Xanthar watched him with a smirk, to which his teammate could only shrug.

"It was annoying the hell out of me, you'll have to understand." He made no further excuse.

With each excursion, another teammate freed their face, starting with Paci-fire and ending with Keyhole, who barely removed it before vomiting all over his own two feet.

After nearly an hour of the same song and dance, they found themselves making remarkable progress. A particularly firm yank had the top hinge popping off, and once that was gone, it was only a matter of wearing away at its weak points. Xanthar cracked his heel against the corner-opening of the boy's cell, easing his weight onto it until a sharp 'Clang!' had his foot jumping off the edge, dead bolt busting out of its shell in a show of pressure. The door snapped off entirely.

They immediately fell back- sweating, swearing, gulping down an impulse to collapse at the sudden relief of their efforts, even as their arms trembled. They'd made a mess of their suits (and their faces, for that matter.) Once it was all done, they took a moment to regain themselves, fighting back an urge to smirk at their own success; it didn't feel appropriate, all considering.

They examined their hard work; the boy inside hadn't moved, but his chest rose and fell at a sleepy pace. Hector peeled off his gloves to inspect the bruising calluses underneath, and found that his- the child's- hands, upturned against his thighs, were worn much the same, as were his nails. His eyes remained vacant, though the interior of his cage- the deep, violent scrapes lining ceiling to floor- hinted at a ferocity yet encountered. They kept at a distance, all until the next step became inevitable.

Amour wiped a hand down the back of his head, combing out a glob of blood. He slung the mess aside, grimacing all the while, only to eye the boy. He paused thoughtfully, then spoke.

"Alright, who's grabbing him?"

There was no real need to ask. Xanthar had already retrieved his discarded coat and found himself wrapping the boy up inside.