Hearing the front entrance to the motel room click shut with Dave's sudden departure, Bransen lifted his forehead from where it was pressed into the bathroom door and he paused both his thoughts and his breathing briefly—just long enough to gauge the silence in the bedroom, verifying that he was, indeed, now alone. [I]Dave must have stepped out,[/I] the engineer thought, decidedly unbothered by this blessed moment of solitude. If there were ever a time he could have used one, it would surely be now while his anxieties were getting the better of him. There was nothing quite worse than loosing his head in front of others. In a fluid motion, Bran pushed himself away from the door, dragging his half-crippled arse to the dismal porcelain sink by the toilet and, giving a squeaky twist of the faucet's silver handle, he pushed up the long sleeves of his borrowed hoodie as the water ran, eyes catching briefly to the sight of himself in the mirror. God, he didn't even look like himself anymore—which was probably just as well, considering they were, you know, about to [I]start new lives[/I] and all (in [I]Canada[/I], no less—of all places). In contrast to the heavy chestnut brown of the hair framing his face and the stark black of the oversized sweater enveloping his willowy frame, Bransen's skin looked exceedingly pale—paler than ever, actually, almost [I]sickly[/I]—under the harsh light, giving him an ashen complexion, waiflike and cadaverous. At the lush hairline of his temple, the lump on his head had nearly completely receded in redness and swelling, having now faded into nothing more than a nasty bruise, scabbed over from where his head had struck the ground in the alley. It was still a bit tender, of course, but, thankfully, didn't seem to be causing too much of a fuss anymore. In a scant ring around his throat, a faint and near-imperceptible band of blotchy discoloration dusted his skin from where Kit's hands had encircled his neck and damn near choked him out. Bran absently touched his fingertips to the subtle marks near his Adam's apple, brow knitting into a scornful crease while he studied himself. [I]Haggard thing,[/I] he berated, averting his sullen gaze when his hazel eyes met the solemn and sunken expression reflecting back, seeming tired and aged. He looked [I]precisely[/I] as shitty as he felt. Cupping his palms together to fill the bowl of his fingers, Bransen ran his hands under the steady stream of water—frigid cold despite being twisted to its hottest setting—and he hunched over mindfully to whisk the liquid 'cross his face in an invigorating sweep, sighing as the chill tingled his neck and cheeks with gooseflesh, stirring his senses. A second splash had him feeling a bit more lucid and clearheaded, but, even still, as he leaned forward, pressing his weight against the sink and his shaking fingers to his closed lids, he still couldn't seem to purge the shroud of guilt that bore down on him, even while his breathing evened out. Face dripping, Bransen turned off the water, methodically drying himself with the nearby wash towel hanging from a ring in the wall. He reached into the front pocket of the hoodie, withdrawing the red phone for a moment to assess it through the subsequent stretch of pregnant silence, and, ardently, he considered whether to flatout ditch it or not, contemplating the device's overall value versus its potential detriment. Dave would probably have his balls on a platter if he discovered Bransen was hiding such things from him right now—while their situation so red hot and dicey—so it might be better to simply rid himself the temptation overall, eradicating that urge to make one final call to his drunkard mother. When his grip trembled scarcely under the tension, Bransen reached down and opened the lid of the dirty toilet, readied to drop the mobile in the water and relieve himself the indiscretion altogether. Hell, the phone couldn't have weighed much more than four ounces en masse, but, strangely, the damn thing felt ready to burn a hole through his pocket, suggesting it was certainly more trouble than it was worth. That alone should have been enough reason to do away with the Motorola... and, yet... Frustrated with himself—and his [I]miserable[/I] tendency for inconvenient indecisiveness—Bransen sighed brusquely then, exhaling a surly groan while he stressed his bangs into an aggravated grip with his opposite hand. Just [I]staring[/I] down at the blasted thing, he wanted to yank his goddamn hair out. It shouldn't have been that hard to simply drop a phone in water. [I]Just get rid of it, you fucking moron,[/I] his brain chided, [I]You're asking for trouble.[/I] But, truth be told, there was just... no way he could do it—none at all. The prospect of being able to reach out to her one last time—just in case—was far too much to let go of. He simply couldn't. If he ever called her, of course, he'd promptly destroy the device, but that was neither here nor there. Now clutching desperately to the phone, the engineer's hands came up to either side of his head while he ambulated the small room, pacing himself through another irrefutable surge of anxiety and self-doubt. He gripped the rim of the sink bowl in an effort to anchor himself to something, forcing stillness that felt like it was gradually slipping away with his sanity, and, through the static buzzing, Bran could feel his pulse beating through his quivering limbs, distantly discerning the sound of his own rapid breathing, short and erratic. [I]Calm down, calm down,[/I] he thought, trying to soothe himself, leaning the weight off his bad foot when he realized it was protesting in pain again. A knock at the door had him jumping and he damn near dropped the phone in the sink with an audible clatter. [I]“Hey, um... I'm ready to hit the road,”[/I] came Dave's voice from the other side of the bathroom door, [I]“The car is all packed and we might want to get going before anyone notices.”[/I] Lifting his head to the mirror again, brow sweating, Bransen swiped a palm over his face to brush the stealthy tears from his cheeks, sniffing quietly, and he replied curtly over his shoulder, “Sure... I'll be just another moment.” Clearly, the time for a mental breakdown had come to its unavoidable end, so, collecting himself from his nervous collapse, Bransen somehow refrained from retching his guts as he tucked the phone deep into the back pocket of his jeans, concealing it once more with an unsettling swell of nausea. Somehow, he'd have to manage to live with the guilt—at least for the time being—and, for now, hopefully just convince himself that he wasn't really [I]hurting[/I] anybody unless he made an actual outbound call. Having fully powered off the device to conserve its remaining battery life, Bransen knew nobody would be able to trace it, even if, by some act of God, they managed to learn it was in his possession. Bran was able to compose himself well enough for formal presentation and, soon enough, he found himself slipping gingerly into the front passenger-side seat of the newly acquired Wrangler Dave had so diligently readied for their continued travels. Given that he was only [I]tolerably[/I] sore, rather than [I]unbearably[/I], the engineer's foot wasn't particularly irritating him at the moment, so he figured he wouldn't bother with re-bandaging it until a later time, if only to preserve the bulk of their corrective supplies. They exited the semi-barren parking lot, recommencing their travels from where they left off the night before, feeling noticeably more rested, and, with the shape of the damning phone sitting just under his rump from where he was seated, Bran clutched distractedly to the untouched Danish in hand, stressing his thumb over the sealed edge of its plastic wrap. He tilted his head aside to ease the back of his skull against the headrest behind him, letting his thoughts carry off while he gazed longingly out the window, and, for a time, he fantasized he might soon wake up and discover this all to be nothing more than a bad dream—but he doubted he'd become so fortunate. Dave, for all his effort, kept to his stony self through a lot of the ensuing drive, adjusting the radio station as needed, and, in return, Bransen too held his tongue, respecting the mutual silence that neither man seemed inclined to interrupt. He was far too wary of the capricious emotions that simmered just beneath the surface of his affected poise, knowing fully well he couldn't trust himself to keep his mouth shut if it started flapping uncontrollably. So... for his sake and for Dave's, the quiet was best... It would do for now, anyway. --- “We had the target restrained, of course,” Kit started cautiously, taking another generous drink from the glass on the table. Setting the beverage down quietly, he swallowed tight, feeling an increasing press of uncertainty with his initial approach to this exchange as Ms. Thompson assiduously held her ground, unfazed. Clearly, she was not the type of bitch to fold to aggressive technique—as demonstrated in the way she brazenly counter-insulted Kit and his respective intelligence—so, if anything, he'd only irritated her by coming into the discussion so gung-ho and confident. [I]Bad move, Marshall,[/I] Kit reprimanded, leaning back in his chair a bit stiffly, straining to maintain his suave attitude. “To help get Berkman talking, we—we used [I]necessary[/I] force, even though it was for naught, in the end.” His eyes were steady as they met Ms. Thompson's, unwavering and composed. Kit didn't think it would be an issue confessing to a bit of torture since, after all, they'd been hired to essentially bring Berkman to a stop by any means necessary. “What [I]happened[/I] was the target began refusing to cooperate,” he explained, “Berkman wouldn't confess to much else except being framed by Hawtholders, even after the suit pulled a knife on him, and... I think, grasping at straws, he was trying to reach out to us or something—make us feel bad for him, or [I]relate[/I] to him, maybe... But, he was more than fucking delusional. He was [I]desperate[/I]. “As the target continued to resist, he—” Kit heaved a long-suffering sighed, heavy and mildly abashed, rolling his eyes aside as if reluctant to admit: “Quite frankly, Berkman just ticked me off... He got under my skin and, to prove a point, I—I went at him... Attacked him... I wasn't going to [I]kill him[/I]—” [I]Not intentionally, anyway,[/I] was a thought that went unsaid, “—but, fucking [I]Davian[/I]—” Kit's hand came up to press his temple, feeling his headache pulse with agitation. “I don't know what the [I]hell[/I] inspired Mr. Tucker to—to do what he did... but it [I]happened[/I], nevertheless. I can only figure that Berkman's pleas hit some sort of... [I]soft spot[/I] in him or something, because... the next thing I know, the stupid suit's coming at me from behind, knocking me from Berkman and [I]bludgeoning[/I] me unconscious.” There was a pause in the air—a beat that hung heavy between he and Ms. Thompson while Kit leaned forward to dab his nose again with the bloodied handkerchief. He was seemingly unable to sit still through his perturbation—which probably didn't look too good according to HILDA's readings, he was sure—and, while he relived the series of events in his mind, he watched Ms. Thompson back carefully, saying earnestly, “I don't [I]know[/I] what changed so suddenly to make Davian go wayward—and that's the damn truth. I can only speculate... Berkman was scared, but he wasn't feeling the right kind of intimidation and he—he kept insisting the gravity of his guilt was [I]nothing[/I] compared to the crimes that Hawtholders would be implicated in once he reached the proper authorities... Seemed pretty confident the intel he'd stolen was enough to condemn the entire syndicate—” Kit swallowed, recalling the enormous sums he'd seen in the spreadsheets, “—and, he was right, you know... But, I'm sure I don't have to tell [I]you[/I] that.” It took bit of sturdy contemplation—a fleeting passage of time where Kit measured whether confessing the extent of his knowledge would be too castigating or not—but, upon determining that attempting a [I]lie[/I] would probably be in the [I]worst[/I] of his interests right now, Kit reluctantly admitted: “I had a look through the documentation myself so, I know what it is that Bransen Berkman saw.” The tightly-knit woman across from him didn't give the appearance of being shocked to learn as much, so he continued, “There was some pretty incriminating stuff in those papers, Ms. Thompson; shady payoffs, transactional receipts—that sort of thing... It's quite a nasty paper trail to keep under lock and key, especially when your security measures are barely scraping that of [I]menial[/I], at best. “Financial currency is a worldwide barrier-buster, so it doesn't take a genius to decipher what it all means. It isn't hard to make sense of a dollar from a ruble,” Kit's voice had lowered to a more collected (and suggestive) intonation, making him sound, thankfully, less distressed and, pleasantly, more matter-of-fact while he spoke, “It's pretty clear that Hawtholders is acting as a front to more... [I]enthusiastic[/I] and [I]global[/I] pursuits and I suspect, with Mr. Berkman's newly acquired assistant, your fugitives both aim to expose as much...” --- Bransen's head lolled listlessly to the side and, with a muted start, he reopened his drooping eyes, bringing his head upright again and inhaled softly from his side of the vehicle. He blinked blearily through his unexpected spell of exhaustion, unsure of why exactly remained so tired when he'd been lucky enough to get a full night's rest, and, shifting in his seat to sit more upright, the engineer glanced sidelong to Dave, peering towards his partner with an inspecting sort of gaze. Bran had been inclined to ask how long he'd been teetering on the cusp of sleep—because, frankly, it felt like it had only been mere [I]seconds[/I], but a quick glance at the clock suggested otherwise. More than an hour had already passed since they departed their motel so, at some point, he'd dozed off, however unintentionally. Dave, like himself, might've been feeling the drag of the afternoon sunlight as it beat down on the highway stretching endlessly before them, so Bransen, rubbing his eyes, politely asked, “Do you want to switch?” He cleared his throat when it came out sounding a tad hoarse. With any luck, Dave may not have noticed his little slip of consciousness, being too focused on the roads, but it wasn't like Bran was holding his breath or anything.