[I]“You've got issues, Berkman,”[/I] Dave had said and, with his gaze still directed out the window, Bransen attempted a halfhearted smile in return, but its effects fell just shy of his eyes and the transient upturn of his lips was quick to slip from his face again while Dave continued eating. [I]Tell me something I don't know,[/I] he sardonically thought. Bran knew the suit hadn't really meant anything by the remark, except maybe to tease him—he [I]presumed[/I] to know, anyway—but Bran couldn't really force the amusement when he was still so caught up with diffusing his spontaneous bout of self-pity as it wracked him. As he finished his own meal, Bransen crinkled up the paper that had been holding his burger, tossing it and the last of his cooled fries back into the bag from whence they came, and he popped open the door to the vehicle when Dave went inside to use the restroom. Stepping carefully, he deposited his trash into the wastebasket near the building and tucked both hands into the front pocket of the large hoodie, standing silently out in the open air for a peaceful moment, perched on the sidewalk in front of their vehicle. The soft breeze was brisk, but the temperatures remained tolerable. Bransen marveled in the quiet for a meditative moment, listening to the nearby sounds of vehicles as they intermittently passed along the interstate and gradually faded off into the distance. They were out in the middle of nowhere, the engineer considered, turning his nose upwards to the cloudy skies above. The sun had been so relentless and unapologetic earlier in the day, beating down on the highway with energy-sucking rays that seemed to sap the strength right from Bransen's limbs. But, now, with this modest overcast and the subtle drop in degrees, it was actually kind of nice to feel the crisp air against his face. Without meaning to, Bransen inadvertently remembered how frigid he felt after Dave had suddenly opened the trunk to let him out the other night, wordlessly granting the doe-eyed engineer his unexpected freedom, releasing him from his captivity. The harsh chill had prickled at his skin back then, biting his bared flesh with rows of teeth that were sharp like needles and injecting him with a blight that nearly morphed his bones into icicles. He'd been barefooted and beaten, utterly frightened for his life and terrified that Dave was about to nestle a friendly bullet between his eyes, but... it never came. (Not that he was complaining.) Now, in a comparative study, the cold felt so very... different—so much more [I]manageable[/I]—having soles under his battered feet and warmth enveloping his thin arms. The bath, the bandaging, the bed... All thanks to Dave—much as he might not like to admit it. [I]My fucking white knight in shining armor,[/I] he thought dryly. And, suddenly, standing out there on the pavement (craving another cigarette after he'd [I]sworn[/I] up and down to himself that he'd never start again, of course), Bransen felt like he was less a means to an end and more like he was being, well, [I]cared for[/I] by the other man. But... in Dave's own odd and standoffish kinda way... Maybe. Then again, he may have just been over-analyzing their entire predicament as a whole. Bransen didn't really take Dave as the type to put so much thought into things so contrite, so... god only knew why [I]he[/I] was suddenly feeling so compelled to scour everything for a deeper meaning. Though, in all honestly, they really [I]needed[/I] each other to survive, if only for the sole purpose of substantiating their respective defenses against Hawtholders, should a time for something like that ever come to fruition. So, why [I]wouldn't[/I] Dave tend to his injuries? Why [I]wouldn't[/I] Dave show concern for his well-being, especially when Bransen's health was directly connected to Dave's only form of corroboration? Having betrayed the conglomerate, he now needed Bransen just as desperately as Bransen needed him. Leaving one without the other would leave them both just as fucked over as could be. Surely, Hawtholders didn't take too kindly to duplicity and, assuming their policies on treachery bore [I]any[/I] resemblance to their policies on the theft of incriminating documents, well... Dave might very well have screwed his own situation even more hopelessly than Bransen's own. The suit didn't take long in conducting his business indoors and, when Dave finally returned, asking Bransen about taking the wheel for a bit, the engineer nodded compliantly and carefully hobbled around the car to mount the helm of the Jeep without so much as a disgruntled groan. Having now eaten, he felt a lot more energized than earlier and, therefore, more confident in his taking control, so he figured he'd make the run as long as he was able, if only to give Dave an opportunity to catch up on some much-needed rest, should he require it. Being the highly attentive driver that he was, both meticulous as well as concise, Bransen adjusted the seat and mirrors accordingly, fastening his belt buckle in and gripped both hands diligently to the steering wheel. His foot was still fiercely aching, no doubt about it, but Bran refused to grimace even as he eased it down on the pedal to back out of the parking stall. They promptly pulled out of the lot and, once more, hit the road, merging smoothly onto the highway to continue their trail... --- In the few hours that transpired following his rocky “interview” with Ms. Thompson, Kit Marshall made a trip to the remedial bay for a cursory examination, as had been recommended, and, after getting the clear, he was properly drugged up on enough acetaminophen to last him the rest of the day—which was really just as well, considering the migraine that was clobbering through his skull like an unapologetic jackhammer. Aside from that little nuisance, he felt fine, physically, but he couldn't very well [I]lie[/I] to himself and pretend that his exchange with Ms. Thompson had gone entirely according to plan. [I]Far from it, actually,[/I] he found himself reluctantly admitting, distantly wondering why he'd been so off his game in that interrogation room... Ever since being dragged out of that damn storage unit, he'd been straining through an irritating torrent of pain that stemmed from the spot where Davian had struck him in the face and, as a result, it might've been hindering his level of cognitive clarity. [I]Sure, let's blame it on that.[/I] Gradually, though, the sensitivity from the blow began to numb down into a dull ache as the drugs decided to finally kick in and, thankfully, Kit was able to sleep off the remainder of his discomforts in a dark and quiet space just down the hall from the medical offices. Down there, a small, private room had been quickly arranged especially for him—provided generously by Hawtholders, of course—and, stretching out on the single sleeping cot, the redhead happily took a load off, toeing his oxfords from his feet before kicking back to rest his head on the underused pillow. He snagged somewhere around an hour or two to snooze—wasn't really keeping track of the clock, to be honest—and, after having woken from his slumber feeling pleasantly revitalized, Kit was delighted to discover that his heavy doze was successful in diffusing most of the lingering frustrations he was experiencing towards his infuriating superior. (Now, with any luck, he could actually get his own head out of his ass long enough to actually [I]convince[/I] Ms. Thompson of his competency.) Kit took some time to clean himself up in the mirror, making himself formally presentable by rinsing the faint smear of dried blood from his upper lip and running his dampened hands through his hair in a relaxed kind of styling. It gave him a much more deliberate appearance than he'd been carrying up until now—more [I]intentional[/I] and less [I]post-hangover[/I]. He'd be damned if he fucked up this second opportunity to either recuperate what remained of his good image, if anything, or, at the very least, cut his losses where he could. Before sweeping his rumpled suit jacket back onto his shoulders, Kit re-tucked his button-down shirt and readjusted his tie, once more applying the familiar sharp edges to his attire where he was able—without the aide of an iron, that is. His cellular phone was gone, of course—no thanks to his idiot partner—so, when Kit felt a small weight bump against his abdomen from the inner pocket of his tailored coat, crammed into the same spot his phone normally would've been kept, well... understandably, his brow knitted together in a mild puzzlement and his hand patted against the jacket to feel the shape of the thing. Fishing the item out, Kit opened his palm to the flimsy blue pocketknife that had been in Berkman's possession the day they'd snatched his sorry ass off the streets—the same knife the engineer had used in a pathetic effort to counter-assail on Davian—and, distantly, Kit recalled listening to Berkman plead for the owner's safety as they tortured him, groveling on account of some other poor sod that, evidently, had the misfortune of also being in the wrong place at the wrong time. [I]Or befriending the wrong people from the wrong places, more like,[/I] Kit amended, turning the blunt blade over to inspect the faded name scratched into the side of its handle. He could see scant traces of browned blood dried to the weapon like ugly flecks of watercolor and, looking past the grime, he scrutinized the word 'Fortino', pondering. With his thumbnail catching absently along the seam of the handle, a hopeful idea struck Kit as he weighed the pocketknife in his palm. Finding this [I]Fortino[/I] fella would probably be the most promising first step in regaining the scent on Berkman and Mr. Tucker. Even if Fortino didn't know anything about their whereabouts, it would at least buy Kit some time to find other ways out of this hole he sensed he was beginning to dig himself into—and he was nothing if not self-preservative, always instinctively interested in the safety of his own well-being long before the well-being of others. Slipping the blade unemotionally back into his suit pocket, Kit mindfully brushed his hands down the front of his well-fitted jacket, giving himself a final once-over and smoothing any wrinkles before finally turning on heel towards the door. He'd convince Ms. Thompson of his worth, one way or another, so long as he kept his cool, concealed his lividity, reminded himself desperately not to [I]pull the bloody knife[/I] on the people [I]paying him[/I], and successfully feigned just the right amount of subservience. With the right amount of political tact, he [I]might[/I] just walk out of this with his head on his shoulders still. Standing outside the closed door to the interrogation room again, Kit took a moment to swipe his hand slowly along the side of his head once more, gingerly polishing himself and his presentation before twisting the handle of the knob and striding inside with a renewed purpose... --- A large, wooden sign passed on the right-hand side of the highway, faded and weathered by the elements, reading “Village of White Haven” in a hand-painted, Old English font. Just another town in another county, breezing by in a gust of colorful billboards and restaurants and shopping centers—not unlike the hundreds that had seemingly come before it. (Admittedly, that was probably a [I]bit[/I] of an exaggeration.) Bransen wasn't sure what to expect once they exited Pennsylvania and, finally, entered the city of New York. If the passing amount of towns and metropolitans kept increasing at the rate they'd been pretty steadily climbing at for the past hour and a half or so, the engineer suspected they probably couldn't be too much further out from their ultimate destination. He knew that Dave might soon want to take over the wheel again because Bransen wouldn't have any idea where to even [I]begin[/I] searching for the suit's, um—([I]Friends? Colleagues?[/I])—[I]associates[/I]. ([I]Sure.[/I]) Peering briefly at the digital clock on the console, Bran silently checked the cruise control after registering the time and he mindfully shifted his sluggish legs about, trying to wake them up, before turning his eyes in a cursory glance to Dave, who, after lunch, had drifted off fairly quickly once they'd reembarked on their journey. Bransen had never been one to mind being in a state of quiet—he [I]thrived[/I] in it actually, and treasured being able to get lost in his own concentration—but it seemed to have the opposite effects on his companion and, after Dave had slipped off, the engineer was happy to maintain the vehicle's soundless ambiance while the suit caught up on some Z's. Dave was a heavy sleeper, that was for damn sure, Bran thought with an endearing sort of half-smile. With his arms crossed over his chest and his temple pressed against the glass of the window, Dave was partially slouched into the groove between the front seat and the passenger door, head tilted back in a listless loll, exposing the vulnerable column of his throat, wholly relaxed. Bran could tell the guy was deep in the grip of a comatose slumber if only by the small parting of his lips. [I]That, and he's also been immobile for the past hour, at least.[/I] The guy was probably exhausted... Knowing as much, Bran may admit to feeling a little bit of guilt when he finally reached over to give a gentle touch to Dave's thigh, nudging him experimentally. “Hey,” Bran murmured, low enough to avoid startling the guy, but loud enough, hopefully, to at least be heard, “I think we're out about an hour or so. Do you want me to keep going along the I-80?”