Chapter Text
It doesn’t matter how it happened. It really doesn’t. Take a wild guess, and you’re probably right. That’s how he got out of prison. It’s not a pretty story anyways, so the least I can do is spare you the negligible details. All you really need to know is that he’s out now. He escaped, plain and simple.
The only tick is that he’s the most wanted man alive, a well-known sociopath to most and a terrifying murderer to all. But you probably know that already. It’s not really a secret that Kristoph Gavin is evil. Even his own mother told him he was, so he must be.
It never hurt him, hearing it. Nothing ever hurt, actually. In high school, his hand was nearly sliced in half by a shop class blade, and he barely felt a thing from it. In fact, he was startled at the time by others’ reactions, telling him to go to the nurse and stop working. But he wasn’t about to leave; it would ruin his perfect 4.0 grade average. In order to get into a good university, he wasn’t allowed to fail even once. And if he ever did fail, he knew exactly how to cover his ass so it was a lot less obvious.
This was a habit that followed through to his then-civilian life, of course. At every mistake, he had a perfectly logical, reasonable explanation for his failures. Worse, he had methods of getting rid of things that could cause even more problems.
But now there’s something out there in this nasty, decrepit world that has stayed there, and he can’t be rid of it. Not yet. It’s now too far away for him to reach, to find, to choke, to suffocate, to kill.
Phoenix Wright.
It’s a name you might remember from newspaper headlines somewhere around a year or two ago? He’s that odd lawyer who’s been known to use animals as witnesses, summons the spirits of the dead for his trials, and uses forged evidence as a way of proving people wrong. He’s a fraud, of course. He must be. And that’s what everyone thinks he is.
That is, they did, until that fateful day.
Kristoph’s guilt wasn’t ever a provable thing, and he knew that going into it. All the court would need was a confession. And, being nearly resistant to pain, torture, bribery and blackmail, he was not about to admit a goddamn thing. And what they ended up having amounted to the flimsiest accusation imaginable. A near-catatonic teenager told the court she had seen “the Devil,” and the idiot on the side opposite to the prosecution declared that it must have been him.
It was a pathetic argument made by a greenhorne defense attorney that got Kristoph locked up. That’s probably the most embarrassing part. Not the bit where it was his own pupil turning against him in favor of the so-called legendary Phoenix Wright, no. It was the fact the boy had barely any experience under his belt when he won. David fought Goliath, and the giant somehow fell.
It’s reduced Kristoph to a more primal state, one where he’s made out more to be the monster everyone told him he was. Refusing to eat got him nowhere fast. And the lack of razors they’ve allowed him ever since his more recent incident of two months ago has made his face rugged and unkempt. That’s not to mention how matted his hair’s become; they’d never allowed frequent enough showers to account for his sensitive hair type. He’s a mess, and he looks like one, too.
His escape has left him with two things, I should mention. He has a knife, one that he had whittled from a plastic fork, and he now carries a police baton – don’t ask about the collateral damage related to obtaining that. It wasn’t his finest work.
The area outside of the prison is massive. But anything is massive in comparison to a cramped cell, so it’s probably just perspective punching him in his sense of vertigo. There are trees o’plenty, ones that are a different breed than those of the area he used to live in. That means they’ve stuck him somewhere further East, probably. Foliage native to California has a very particular color that these do not have. And in the distance are mountains and boulders. He knows not to go that way due to their cliffaces. That, and the light.
Oh, the light. There’s so much light outside. It’s like the sun is different from the one that shone into the prison yard. It must be, anyways, because it’s almost a heavenly glow in comparison. A picturesque landscape perfect for painting, he surmises.
It’s a wonder that the woods are not inhabited, honestly. He has yet to see even a crow pass, and the land is fertile-looking enough to support the trees, so why not animals?
It then becomes rather obvious: he’s making too much noise, thereby scaring the life away. For his own sake, he quiets himself, slowing his breathing, even. He listens for any sound the forest could possibly offer him.
A peep from the birds? No.
A solidary slither of a snake? Not one.
A cricket chirp in favor of the soon-setting sun? Zero.
He then tries listening closer. There has to be something.
Anything.
There’s…
…
Cars.
In the distance, there are cars.
A highway must not be too far from here, because he can hear the vehicles zipping past.
He now has a means to an end, and he tries following the noise as best he can.
Sure enough, though, another sound makes itself clear. A less favorable one. It’s rustling, like steps.
He freezes in response. The noise then halts just a second too late, assuring his assumptions are correct. He raises his voice for the first time in months. “Show yourself.”
Nothing.
He retrieves the baton, knowing its strength far outweighs that of his flimsy approximation to a blade. “Where are you, then? Let’s get this over with.”
Parsing his surroundings once more gets him nothing; the area appears to be clear. But now knowing he’s not alone, he becomes more thorough, not leaving it at that. He starts walking again, pacing towards and behind a few of the surrounding trees.
At first, his searches bring him nothing.
And then it hits him.
Literally.
A woman, somewhat petite in size, leaps at him from a tree, screaming and flailing wildly. She punches his nose, knees his groin, rips at his hair and even tries choking him at one point.
But her strength is far outweighed by Kristoph’s, who is easily able to tear her off of him. He throws her to a tree and fumbles to his feet, baton in-hand.
If he had expected to be attacked by anything, it was not a girl. Especially not one this frail and battered.
Breathing heavily, still raving and rabid, she struggles to stand. Her black hair has become overgrown, stretching far down her back rather unevenly. And, although she’s currently making the ugliest expression imaginable, her face is quite pretty beneath the grime of the elements.
He keeps the weapon facing her way. “¿Hablo Inglés?”
She cringes. “Of course I fucking do, asshole.”
“State your name and occupation,” he then utters reflexively.
“Fuck you,” she hisses.
Kristoph lifts his chin just a bit. “Ah, yes. Now, would that be your name or your occupation?”
“Neither, jackass.”
She has spirit. It’s enough to put a smirk on his face.
Spying one anothers’ attire, they both come to nearly the same assumption, but it’s her who speaks it first. “You escaped,” she notices.
“As well you must have,” says he. “Although, it appears you’ve been outside for far longer.”
“Call it a week, I guess. I haven’t exactly been counting.” Her face twists in a horrid way again. “They’re out here looking for you, aren’t they? You planning to sell me out? You want them to find me so you can get a reduced sentence?”
“Madame, I don’t even know who you are, let alone what your sentence was. My punishment likely far outweighs yours. Besides, I wish for no time, not a reduction of it.”
“Did you get locked up because you’re insufferable? Because to me that’s all you’re being right now.”
His interest sways him to ask again. “Who are you, you strange, imputent woman?”
“If I tell you,” she spits, “then you have to tell me who you are.”
“I suppose I will oblige if I must,” he mutters.
The girl hesitates for a moment before saying it. “I go by Dahlia.”
“You ‘go by’ Dahlia?”
“Well, I ‘go by’ more than just that, if we’re being honest. Dahlia, Melissa, Chastity, Lavender, Amanda, Rhiannon, Juliet – I’ve got a lot of names, but Dahlia Hawthorne is what people know me by now.”
“Did you say Hawthorne?”
She nods.
He puts the baton to his side and instead presens a palm her way. “Former attorney-at-law Kristoph Gavin. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Hawthorne.”
Unlike how he recognizes her, she does not recognize him, just giving a sort of dull look in response. “Just ‘Dahlia’ will work. And don’t go pussyfooting around the issue. Now that I know who you are, give me one reason why I should trust you.”
Kristoph retracts his hand, figuring his pleasantries have been somewhat wasted. “You and I have a common enemy here. If we act in conjunction to leave this overgrowth, then we shall part ways and let silence be our closest ally in the deed’s fallout.”
Dahlia rolls her eyes. “English, dumbass. You sound like you ate a dictionary for breakfast.”
“We are both escaped convicts,” he simplifies, eyebrow twitching in frustration. “If we work together, we can get more done. When our time is over, we will leave one another’s presence and never mention it again. Capisce?”
She processes this. “…That doesn’t answer my question, though. What could you do for-”
Shots ring out.
Some birds fly from distant trees at the revelation. Dahlia’s immediate, instinctive reaction is to run, and she does. Kristoph’s exit is less fearful than hers, but he retreats just the same.
The two end up following one another. They make their way toward a large tree, one that seemingly overshadows some of the rest.
Dahlia naturally begins climbing it, using her nails like claws to cling to the bark where her fingers cannot grip.
Gavin hesitates when he sees this, thinking it indecent. The surrounding sound of hounds in the distance, however, awakens him from the spell of his pride. He follows suit, failing to do so as quickly as she manages.
The troupe of officers who come looking are not dumb, but they are thoroughly tired.
“That’s the second one this month,” one of them sighs.
“We’ve got to tell somebody,” another says. “He stabbed Anderson and Richards. If the news doesn’t know soon, then people…”
The tallest of the group, a meathead shaved shiny, puts his hand up. “That comes later,” he growls. “He’s out here. I can smell it.”
One of the officers, holding the leash of a dog, isn’t exactly struggling to hold the dog back. “Yeah, but Blanks ain’t smelling nothing.”
“Keep looking,” their superior demands. “We’ve got all night.”
And that they do. But by the time it actually gets dark, their searching proves more and more fruitless. The dogs lie down, tired from their earlier run, and the men look like they want to do the same.
Eventually, the lot of them give up, not even caring to glance about ten feet up into the tree, where Hawthorne and Gavin watch them leave.
They’re not both on the same branch, but they’re close enough that while waiting, at each fidget, the other would notice and give a glare.
But when the air is silent again, the coast is clear, and the sky is thoroughly full of stars, they both make their way back to the ground. Neither say a word while they do, aware of the dangers that might lurk.
When they’re both on the forest floor, Dahlia breathes. “You killed two of the guards?”
“Their wounds will not be fatal unless they are neglected,” he tells her. “I merely gave them what they deserved. If they had been worse to me, I might have considered taking casualties, but I felt it would have made the repercussions worse if I were to be caught.”
She nods, still hesitant to break the quiet.
“Why?” he asks.
“Eh, it’s just…” She shakes her head. “I was a little scared you’d be, like, a thief or something. Somebody spineless and stupid.”
Kristoph shakes his head. “I haven’t stolen anything in my life.”
Dahlia gives him a glance, one out of the corner of her vision. “You willing to change that?”
He nods. “Perfectly willing, yes. But first, I feel as though I must ask… Are you armed at all?”
She nods. She undoes the first three buttons of her top and takes out a real blade from off of her undergarments. It's a razorblade, one that she afixed on the outside of her bra using loose thread.
Although he considers it indecent, the undressing in and of itself does not even make Kristoph flinch. He instead presents the baton her way. “Shall we make a trade?”
She looks at the baton questioningly. “Don’t you think that’s a little…unfair on your end? It’s just a tiny, little…thing.”
“It will be worthwhile, believe you me.” He keeps it outstretched towards her.
Dahlia hesitates. She reaches her hand slowly to grasp it, holds it firmly and then removes it from his hand, trying to make sure she is not being played in some way. It is then replaced rather gingerly by the blade in question.
Kristoph inspects it. It quite obviously was hastily dismantled from a complete razor, not given separately to her. There is only some blood residue on it. “Did you nick yourself, or was this used in a tussle?”
She speaks as she rebuttons her top. “That’s actually blood from one of the guards. Sewing them in my underwear keeps the pigs from trying to feel me up. It’s built-in self defense. Killer on my legs, though; didn’t get to shave for months. And I only have one left on me.”
He turns it over. “Shaving is the precise purpose I intend on using it for. I can clean it and return it to you once I am through, but for now, I am in desperate need of some sense of decency.”
She rolls her eyes rather liberally. “You’re worried about looking bad right now, dude? The police could catch us, and all you care about is your looks?”
“I refuse to appear before anyone, including you, with such a rugged, horrific appearance as the one I’m wearing now. Tell me, is there a source of water nearby?”
“Not too far. It’s in that direction.” She points.
He nods. “Your help is very much appreciated.”
“Whatever. Just don’t sneak up on me when you inevitably come wandering back over. I’ll actually be able to hit you hard this time.” She gestures with the baton in an almost playful fashion, pretending she’s swinging a baseball bat.
It’s probably a product of being in the woods, but it seemingly takes a little too long for him to get done whatever it is he thinks he needs to do.
Dahlia stays quiet. She’s not worried for his sake. She’s worried that his scent will get picked up by the dogs and rat them both out. Especially if they find him with a thing he didn’t leave the facility with. That would be a sure fire sign he wasn’t alone.
But it’s not like she wants to go looking. He’s not only a stranger, but by the way he was talking, he was probably locked up for the same reason she was. Not like that matters. It’s just that she’s never really met anyone willing to admit it out loud. Most are ashamed of the people and things they’ve killed.
Not Dahlia. She’s sure as hell not.
Most of the men Dahlia did in were clearly, obviously and undoubtedly bad people. They were pedophiles and creeps and stalkers. But when the court hears you’ve taken even one life, they don’t take into account the misdeeds of the other party. No, it’s not that they’re ignorant. Ignorance implies they have some innocence to them. Instead, they just want to think it never happened.
Look at the pretty girl, the one prettier than everyone else, getting tossed in prison where she belongs for killing people who all tried raping her and the people she knew. Isn’t that justice? It feels so much like justice, doesn’t it? She totally deserved it. She must have.
When you’re thrown a bone in this sort of situation, when people prove they’re not willing to handle some minor vigilante justice (this is all according to her, I must add), you have to take your chance and run with it. Literally.
Most people are too afraid to admit what they’ve done. It’d be nice to at least talk to someone who can take it on the chin.
Footsteps.
She glares. It could be anyone.
They step in an odd rhythm, doing so slowly.
If it’s that weirdo again, then she’s fine. But if it’s anyone else…
…Wait, who is this guy?
It can’t be.
She slowly dismounts from the tree, making it obvious she’s there by causing enough sound when she does so.
The man crosses one arm over the other, razorblade still in-hand.
He’s not, in a word, “gorgeous” so much as he is just impeccably built in the face. His hair, unmatted, is a color that Dahlia, in the dark, can assume is an even lighter blonde than before. But worse, he looks…
He looks familiar. It’s almost like she’s seen this guy somewhere before, somewhere in a picture or a newspaper or something. But it’s too dark to actually tell, which is the most frustrating part. If they were in the light, she’d know. But she doesn’t.
Gavin presents the blade back towards her. “Your self-defense,” he utters quietly.
She takes the blade, being careful when she does. It’s still a bit wet, meaning it’s completely clean, just as he said it would be. “Thanks,” she mutters.
“So,” he goes on, “if you do not have a plan, I do.”
Dalia puts back on her skepticism. “I want to hear yours first so I can shoot it down. In fact, I’m willing to bet I already know what it is.”
“Is that so? Tell me my own plans, then.”
“Fine, I will. You heard the road. You think you can just waltz up there and pretend to be somebody, hitch a ride from some schmuck who doesn’t know any better and get out of town.”
He doesn’t like admitting it, but he does. “What is so wrong with that plan, aside from what we are wearing being a dead giveaway?”
“There are cops posted all over that road, jackass,” she snarks. “That’s the first thing anybody thinks of. And the police know that. They’re not going to be nice and let us walk away scott-free. They’re waiting for us. If not you, then me. Because I’ve been out here for a while now for a reason. I’m trying to figure out what to do next.”
Kristoph listens to the entirety of her explanation. He then nods. “Logical thinking. I appreciate your willingness to take into account the things I did not.”
“This’s got nothing to do with ‘willingness,’ asshole. I’m telling you how it is.”
He pauses, processing everything he knows so far.
She waits for his response, crossing her arms.
Gavin nods eventually. “We could still use the highway as a means to escape. If we follow it far enough horizontally, we may reach a stretch of road that is relatively unoccupied. And I was not about to suggest we ‘hitch a ride,’ as you put it. That leaves too much up to fate.”
“What do you ‘suggest,’ then, blondie?”
“We should instead lay a trap for the unsuspecting vehicle, cause an accident, snuff out any remaining survivors and take their places. If the car is unusable, we then will pretend as though we were the ones who crashed.”
She uncrosses her arms. “And what do we do with the bodies?”
“Hide them in the trunk or beneath the wreckage,” he states. “It’s not as though they’ll be checking for them, especially if we are to say we were the only ones there.”
Dahlia lets the thought stew a bit. “…Yeah, okay. I can buy it.”
“The further we are able to venture from these woods, the better. The cover of night will not last forever. We should be on our way swiftly.”
She’s candid and clear for someone who is so crass and unpolished. He’s never met a woman who doesn’t flinch at even the idea of this kind of thing.
The night sky, thanks to the distance from the city, is bright enough to light their way for them once they reach the empty road. Littering the side of the midnight highway are bits of garbage, stuff like bottles and bags. It’s not a complete dumping ground, but it’s quite obvious people mistreat this place often.
Dahlia has been trying to find something, anything they could possibly use, disregarding her own hygiene as she does so.
In contrast, Kristoph has been standing with his arms crossed, studying the mess from a distance.
She glares back at him after a short while of this. “A little help, please?”
“I’m thinking,” he utters.
“Thinking about what?! We have to find something that could help us.”
He purses his lips, allowing his mind to wander while ignoring her pleas.
Dahlia exhales harshly and goes back to searching. She throws unnecessary things behind her. One such item is an empty can of tuna.
It hits Gavin on the foot. He glares at it, then picks it up.
She futzes with what appears to be a thermos. “Could we take this apart somehow?”
“No, this will do,” he tells her.
Hawthorne glances back his way, this time ready for his idiocy. “What are you…” Her gaze falls upon the can instantly.
“The razor, s'il vous plaît?” he asks, opening his nondominant palm her way.
“How the fuck do you think that is going to-”
“Trust me,” he hisses.
Dahlia hesitates for a moment, but she then reaches back inside of her shirt and steals from within it the blade again. She hands it off to him reluctantly.
He accepts the razor and gets to work.
Radio blasting, dry cleaning in the back seat and coffee in his hand, a gentleman comes racing down the empty highway. His phone rings, and he answers.
“Yeah, I got it,” he tells the voice on the other end of the line. “Yeah, even the shoes. Look, I’ve still got two hours before I can get there. The interstate’s closed because of a wreck or something. It’s swarmed with cops. Had to take the access road.”
Just then, it seems some kind of animal darts out in front of the road. He swerves just a bit.
That’s when he hits it.
Not the animal, no. But he hits something he can’t see, something that causes his tire to blow out. It’s first an explosive bang, then a dying breath of the air escaping the tire.
“No, not now, not here, not this,” he utters. “No, sir, yes, sir, everything’s fine here. I’ve gotta let you go.”
The idiot hangs up and pulls over.
Dahlia was the one who jumped, so she has to meander back over to where the vehicle parks itself on the side of the road. It’s better if she does this part, anyways, because knows she doesn’t appear threatening to most people.
The strange man exits, deciding to assess the damages. His tire burst from the impact of something horrifically sharp. This will require getting out his spare…wherever the fuck it’s at.
He doesn’t immediately notice Dahlia’s approach. But when he finally does, he becomes scared out of his wits at the sight of her.
She’s just completely taken off her top. It’s more dangerous, yes, but if anyone knows the strength of putting oneself down to get a leg up, it’s her. That, and to blatantly wear the prison uniform itself is too obvious. So, instead, she walks toward him, midriff visible and ratty hair covering just enough of the bra that one could assume it isn’t even there.
His mouth gapes for a bit. She looks like some kind of forest nymph, or a lost spirit, or a mermaid who only just grew legs. Her appearance is supernatural to him.
And, boy, does she make for a good distraction.
Kristoph, without hesitation, jumps the man from behind and grabs him in a chokehold.
Dahlia stands there, watching him struggle with an expression as blank as she can muster.
The guy tries jerking around, tries getting away, tries everything he can, but fails. His strength does not match up to the blonde’s, as surprising as that may sound. He struggles to find air, gasping and gnawing for a hint of breath.
Using this method, a human life can be extinguished in somewhere between four to fifteen minutes. The real lucky ones can be recovered from this grave lack of oxygen within half an hour, but only with medical support. Even then, it can cause real, severe brain damage upon resuscitation. The human body needs air to survive, and it cannot function without it.
Think about that. Every time you hold your breath to take a dip beneath the water, you risk drowning. Every time you cough from eating too fast, there’s a risk of choking on it. When the air smells foul or even has a deadly chemical in it, holding your breath will not save you. If death is a meal, then that is a snack, a taste, a sample. And we experience that brush with death every day.
Information such as this is somewhat classified. Not literally, no, just metaphorically. Normal people do not think about the weight of these things because they couldn’t sanely function if they did. That being said, these two people have now thoroughly proven themselves not to be the normal kind.
The ideology behind murder is not a fun one. It can be something to speculate over, but it should not be replicated by any means. And these two use those ideas others won’t even consider to survive.
After disposing of the body by rolling it into the ditch, the two of them decide to ransack the vehicle.
Kristoph starts at the front seat. Caffeine at night suggests a long drive ahead; no one around here should be looking for this man.
Dahlia goes with the back. Clothes, those of which are of different sizes, suggest that people are waiting for him elsewhere.
He continues looking through the glove department. It’s not a rental, meaning the only people willing to track it will be police and insurance.
She studies the floorboard. There’s also luggage, showing that he planned to stay somewhere else entirely at some point.
Once they’ve had a thorough enough examination – no wedding ring, two debit cards, expired coupons and a work ID for some accounting firm – they have a picture painted of who exactly their victim was: some loser with no family, dedicated to his job and little else.
The first and only thing that comes from anyone is, “Find something and change into it.”
Dahlia hears the words before she realizes it was her who said it. Nevertheless, she agrees, halfway in the process of doing it anyway.
Kristoph is none the wiser of this, silently agreeing with her sentiment as he decidedly helps ransack the drycleaning with her.
Dahlia grips the baton sheepishly.
No pants but one pair, so he’s the one wearing them. No shoes, either. It leaves her thinking she’s defenseless in the back seat. After all, she doesn’t know him, and she doesn’t know what he was arrested for.
He got the tire fixed. Now, it’s the witching hour, and the sky is black. They are in the vehicle together, a pair of nefarious strangers.
In a move of desperation, dissatisfaction and perhaps deflection, she attempts to forget. She tries forgoing her own miserable state and situation.
Gavin isn’t awake, it should be noted. He’s passed out in the front seat, the passenger side. Although she’s exhausted, too, there is morbid comfort in the idea that, even though this is not their car, this is not someone she knows, and this is not a safe place, she’s all the way over here, in the back seat, and he’s all the way up there, and she has the weapon.
She doesn’t just hold it close, though. She keeps it dangerously nearby.
It’s not just a baton. It’s a glorified, textured stick. Long, hard and manipulative, it has the power to kill.
He might be strong, but he doesn’t have this.
And, again, as though it were some kind of defense, she keeps it reigned in, close to her more sensitive self. A sign of what lengths she will go to. A sort of-
He moves.
She flinches naturally. It sends a tingle through her spine.
…
It seems he just moved in his sleep, only having barely done so.
She releases the quietest sigh she can muster. But upon exhaling, she realizes the sensation hasn’t stopped.
The baton is not only buried right between her thighs. It’s also pressing deeply into her clitoris.
She shudders before releasing it. It’s been too long…
…No, that’s a terrible idea. If she wakes this guy up…
…
But she’s more than desperate. She’s nearly dysfunctional at the realization. Her insides are squirming from a desperate need for release.
After a moment of hesitation, she slides it back to where it was, this time pressing deliberately. Again, it sends lightning down her spine. It’s insatiable. She needs it.
She lightly lets her hips buck, too, moving to an inaudible rhythm. It’s so cold, but it’s so stiff. It makes her hunger for more.
She moves again.
Faster. Harsher. Harder.
Eventually, she decides her pussy is ready enough, willing enough, drooling enough for her to try putting it in.
She redirects the tip a bit lower and prods. The opening is a slightly too small for it, so she retracts it completely. That doesn’t seem right. She starts working her fingers over and around her vaginal entry until she comes to the conclusion that it’s the bat itself that isn’t ready.
So, calmly, she raises it towards her own face.
For a split moment, before she can reach it with her lips, her eyes meet the sleeping man in the front seat.
His chest bobs with his breathing.
She hesitates.
A stranger. Potentially, a stranger is about to watch her fellate and fuck a police bat. Not only that, but it’s a stranger who just murdered the man whose car they’re resting in now…
She shivers. Life or death, and here she is, focused on sexual pleasure.
She withdraws the baton. Even if she’s still physically unfulfilled, this isn’t a good idea. Not here, not now, not with him in the car. There are too many potentials, too much to lose.
Now thoroughly turned off by the idea, she sets it aside. Maybe when she’s alone, she’ll be able to fuck around like that. For now, it’s too dangerous.