[center][img]https://cdn.imgchest.com/files/y8xcn3njbz4.png[/img][/center] [center][h1][color=#7D5CB3]KESSLER[/color][/h1][/center] [center][color=black][sup]____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________[/sup][/color][/center] [center][color=#812442][b]Location:[/b][/color] Wouldn't you like to know? • [color=#812442][b]Time:[/b][/color] Dark of Night[/center] [center][color=#812442][b]Interactions:[/b][/color] None. Better that way. • [color=#812442][b]Mentions:[/b][/color] None, but acting on behalf of the Iron Fangs[/center] [center][color=black][sup]____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________[/sup][/color][/center] He knew a place. He wasted no time, as there was nothing further to say. He called a guy he knew. Human. A no-questions-asked sort. Courier driver under contract to a big carrier, but possessed of just a plain white van. One of ten thousand on the road. Kessler moved quickly, up an old, rusty set of metal stairs that rained rivulets of rusty metal and dirt, caught in a single shaft of light streaming in through a broken window, to what had previously been an office or operating control centre of sorts. Broken glass, and broken equipment littered the floor, along with a filthy old mattress, and fifteen years worth of bad decisions and broken dreams. He glanced for a long moment at dry condoms, empty whiskey bottles, blackened spoons and hypodermics full of death, before spotting what he was after: A row of lockers on one wall. And inside one of them, an ancient coverall, emblazoned with the logo of the former canning factory, long shuttered. He stripped off the remnants of his clothes from the evening's mission and put on the coverall, tying it at the waist, and then donning his cut over his bare chest, pulling his combat boots back on, leaving them untied. Spying a ripped tarp in the corner, previously trying in vain to redirect rain from one of many holes in the roof, he grabbed that up and shook it out once before bunching it up under his arm and descending once more to Logan's body, wrapping him carefully, even lovingly in the tarp, careful to watch his head, lifting it gently. At some point the others had continued about their business, leaving him to his task. Or Dom was watching from somewhere close by. It didn't matter. Kessler went about his every action as if the entire pack were judging him. (weren't they, always?) He moved reverently, making sure the mess, the site was clean of their movements, their presence. Whoever had done this to Logan didn't care to cover their tracks... he did. He used what was left of his clothing, made sure there were no viable tracks. Waited as patiently as he could for the courier to arrive, which he did, about ten minutes later, the big E250 rumbled to a halt at the corner of the building five hundred yards away, and Kessler waved him over. Once he had confirmed the man's identity, the same Caribbean laconic nod, the same slouch hat set on a relaxed angle across his forehead. He had brought the supplies Kessler had asked for, and he retrieved these from the back doors. The driver merely sat in his van, hands visible, engine running, lights off, while Kessler worked. The bleach would destroy the blood samples. The gasoline would ensure there was nothing left. He moved Logan's body to the back of the van, rolled it up in one of the sheets of roofing plastic that had been supplied. Walked back to the scene of the murder, lit a cigarette, and lit the fire with the remnants of the match. He watched it burn until there was nothing left. The fire would burn itself out in another five minutes. Time to go. He moved back toward the van, closing the back doors, and stepped to the passenger's door. [color=f7941d]"Let's go."[/color] The driver nodded, waiting while Kessler climbed in. He had been thinking it all along. He knew the perfect spot. And he gave the driver the briefest of directions, simply bluntly pointing him in the general direction using highway locators and exits, and then staring out the side window, making no smalltalk whatsoever. It was how they had navigated these waters before. The driver asks no questions, he gats paid well, for (usually) very little work. It would be another twenty minutes before they arrived at the spot Kessler was thinking of, and in those long minutes, he was lost in his own thoughts. He was trying to recall how he knew this spot, how he knew it still existed, though he was certain he hadn't been there in this life. And when in the last? Not anytime recently, that was for sure. He vaguely recalled a swing. A chain-link fence. Rusty even then. And the lights of the city. He remembered the lights. Everything came back in short, lightning-quick blasts of memory, and he wasn't even sure how he knew to direct the driver. But he did. Even when the driver nearly made a wrong turn, Kessler was able to quietly, calmly correct him. [color=f7941d]"No, it's to the right."[/color] They arrived in the dead of night, and though he hadn't been there in who-knows-how-long, he knew instinctually when they were 'there.' Knew it was a five minute walk to the tree. He told the driver to wait there, while he walked up the slope with Logan's body over his shoulder, with the same level of exertion as if he were carrying his Telecaster to the gig. When he arrived at the spot, he simply stood, with Logan over his shoulder, staring out at the city. The rusted remnant of the chain-link fencepost, the cinderblock foundations of a small structure poking out of the overgrown grass and thicket. It was the perfect place. He could smell the city, but it was all laid out beneath him like a dream. Far enough away that Logan would be sheltered from its vices and held away from its flame. For a time, he agonized over how he knew this place, but ultimately it didn't matter. Setting Logan down on the ground, he walked back down to the van, to have one more word with the driver. [color=f7941d]"Give me an hour. Come back to get me. Here--"[/color] he handed the driver a couple hundred bucks. [color=f7941d]"go get a coffee or something."[/color] He watched the courier go, and trudged back to the top of the hill, starting to dig with his bare hands. The ground was an odd mix of clay and shale, rocky gravel and he went through it with his claws, tears streaming down his face, bloody knuckles tearing at the earth, digging like the fucking dog he was. At some point he removed his cut, sweat and dirt glistening on his strapping frame. Alone with his memories of Logan, and the father-figure he was when Kessler needed one. The rage seethed under the surface, he was ready for the hunt, ready to make the ones that had stolen his father away from him —- or more a father than his own had ever been —- pay dearly. The rage focussed his energy, focussed his actions. When he finally stood from the grave, the blood ran freely from wounds that were already closing. Sometimes, just sometimes, Kessler wished the scars were easier to keep. He wanted to bleed for Logan. He walked back down to the waiting van, around to the driver's side, sweat streaming down his face, breathing heavily. The driver had the window down, and the heavy scent of weed billowed from the front window. Kessler moved to the driver's window, raised an eyebrow at the joint hanging from the man's lips. He passed it to Kessler, who took a long drag. [color=f7941d]"Give me a hand for a minute?"[/color] The man nodded slowly, understanding. They walked up the hill together, and within sight of the tree, and the moon looking down on them from the heavens, Kessler tore the man's throat out. He buried them in the twin graves he had dug with his own sweat and blood. Logan was laid to rest in his kutte. He was a little sorry for what had become of the human man, who had dutifully helped him on several occasions... but there were things the man could not unsee. It was cleaner this way. No traces. He didn't say anything over Logan's grave. That would come later. He walked back down to the van, and drove himself back into the city, stopping at the border of Warden territory and nowhere, in a back alley, using the last of the gasoline supplied by the Courier to set the van alight. Disappearing into the nightwas an easy enough thing to do for a monster like him. It was time to head to Church.