Encounterlogs
Ryans Odd Encounter Sr Harriet 240207
Ryan awakens in a cold, grey room, having been abducted by parties unknown. His senses slowly return, alerting him to the stark contrast from his usual ocean-side surroundings. Quickly realizing his restraints are loosely tied, he escapes them with ease. Surveying his prison, he finds few options for escape: a high barred window, concrete floors, and a rusty metal door. Gathering his wits and belongings, he fashions a tool from his belt buckle, intent on picking the lock, when the sound of footsteps and a voice interrupt his plans. As the door unlocks and the man with a tire iron steps in to "talk," Ryan prepares for a confrontation, fashioning a garotte from his belt.
The captor, taken aback by Ryan's readiness to fight, threatens him with a tire iron. In a swift struggle, Ryan manages to subdue and disarm the man, using the belt to bind him. Once in control, Ryan demands answers, learning that his captor was a hired hand paid to hold him for others who were supposed to arrive soon. Sympathetic to the man's situation, he promises to help him escape the life of crime, slipping him a contact card and instructions for amnesty. As they leave through the basement, Ryan stays connected with his allies via an earpiece, ready for any further developments. Ultimately, the night ends without the appearance of any further threat, leaving Ryan and his allies to search for answers that remain elusive.
(Ryan's odd encounter(SRHarriet):SRHarriet)
[Tue Feb 6 2024]
In A Large, Well Appointed Bedroom
Easily one of the largest rooms in the apartment, this master bedroom has been decked out in all the comforts one could need. On the eastern wall is a king-sized bed piled high with a mix of white and silver bedding. Decorative throw pillows are heaped high against the dark oak headboard and a wispy, sheer set of curtains hangs from the four poster canopy bed's top rails. At the foot of the bed and facing the western wall is a two person love seat. The floors, most of which are covered by a mix of blue and silver rugs, are grey stained oak. There's a conspicuous lack of natural light here, a section of the wall that formerly overlooked the street now bricked up entirely. Finishing out the area is a fireplace that dominates most of the north side of the room. A pair of chairs, high backed and silver-upholstered, face that focal point.
It is night, about 12F(-11C) degrees, and the sky is partly covered by dark grey stormclouds. There is a waning crescent moon.
(Your target is abducted in their sleep, waking up alone in a locked room. They need to either escape or draw attention to them so their allies can come and provide assistance.
)
And so it begins... Ryan's consciousness flutters back like a hesitant bird returning to its nest at dusk. As his senses gradually sharpen, the unfamiliar scent of must and metal invade his nostrils, which is a stark contrast to the salty tang of the ocean air he was so accustomed to as a surfer. It seems he was kidnapped. He finds himself in a room that seems to mock him with its starkness. The walls, devoid of any decoration, are a cold, unforgiving grey -- the kind that seem to absorb whatever light manages to seep through the small, barred window high up on one side. This feeble light cast more shadows than illumination, creating a chiaroscuro that plays tricks on the eyes. Below, the floor is concrete, hard and unyielding, and such a far cry from the soft give of sandy beaches. In one corner stands a metal door with its surface marred by rust and age.
Groaning as he rolls over, last think Ryan remembers is being in his apartment and resting, but he's been taken by The Syndicate before, and he checks himself over for the fogginess that follows of drugs in his system. Moving his hands and feet, he finds that the ropes that bound him are amateurly done and he easily slips out of them.
Going around the room, Ryan tries to find any way of escape. The barred window, the concrete floor, a metal door. Not a lot of options for him as he paces around the room, "What all do I have on me...let's see...let's see..." he notes as he searches through his pockets, no phone, no keys, no wallet. His belt was left with him to keep his pants up, so he quickly whips it off, trying to unattach the belt buckle for something to pick a lock with.
The captors may have made some oversights, and as Ryan begins to figure out his situation, a critical eye would likely find that the window, though small and barred, beckons as a sliver of hope, but it is too high and therefore out of reach without something to stand on. The door has a not so imposing handle, but it could present a formidable challenge to a belt buckle, but maybe Ryan is a MacGyver and can conquer such a thing. Thick walls seem designed to swallow sound, and who knows how remote this place is, or there are guards outside of the rusty door. If escape is the goal, subtlety and cunning could be the best tools, and it seems that this man is forming a plan.
Putting the metal belt buckle on the floor and stepping on it, Ryan puts all his weight on the end of it as he wraps the leather belt around his good arm, crouching down to stand up again, giving some leverage in trying to seperate the belt buckle from the leather belt by force right on the small connectors. He's looking to disassemble the buckle and the small pin that goes through the belt holes, using both of the pieces as different parts of a lockpick for the door.
Under the dim, unwavering light that is coming from a bulb rather than the sun that seeps through the barred window, Ryan set to work with that determined grit. That makeshift lever of his arm has those manly muscles likely tensing under the strain of it all. The leather creaks, protesting against the force being applied, and the man is able to separate the buckle from the rest of the belt and extract the pin. He's gaining the components crucial to this improved plan to escape. Small connects that held the buckle to the belt detach with a slight give, and the pin easily slides out. Now liberated from its usual function, the surfer can use it as he pleases. However, the silence of his concentration is broken by the sound of footsteps. They are heavy and deliberate, echoing through whatever might be outside of the rusty door, and seeping in beneath it. A captor or someone new -- one can only guess. Either way, time does not seem to be a luxury that Ryan can afford.
Shoving the metal parts into his pocket, Ryan pulls up the thick leather of his belt and wraps it around a hand, using the other end of the belt to wrap up in the opposite hand and pull it taught like a garotte. He puts his back against the wall next to the door as he takes a deep breath, settling his mind and breathing, so he can listen to anything outside of the door or any people attempting to come for him.
Ceasing right outside of the door, the heavy footfalls get replaced by an ominous silence that hangs in the air. It's the kind of silence where one can almost hear their own heartbeat, with each thud echoing inside of their eardrums. Then, without any warning, a loud rapping against the rusty door shattered that moment of intense stillness. The knocking against the only barrier between Ryan and his unknown visitor vibrates the door slightly with each smack of a fist. After a brief pause, a deep and rugged voice of a male cuts through with authority and an undercurrent of impatience, "Ryan, we know you're in there. There's no use in hiding or trying to escape. I'm opening up the door so we can talk." The voice is unfamiliar. Keys jingle and then the sound of one slipping into the lock is followed by a *click* and then the door handle begins to turn.
Tensing as he holds his makeshift garotte in his hands, Ryan gives some room for the door, taking a step back so that he can see who comes in before jumping them and choking them to death. "Yeah. It's me. What do you want? You couldn't have called or texted me first?! You had to kidnap me like The Syndicate?"
After Ryan has replied, the silence that follows is heavy, and certainly almost suffocating to most. His words just hang there in the stale air as a challenge and in an accusation against the unseen man on the other side of the rusty barrier. The door handle is old and worn from years of both use and neglect, and it grates out a groaning noise as the metal creaks under the strain as if in a prelude to the horror that might await on the other side. After a final, torturous squeal, the door handle turns completely and inches open. A sliver of light from the hallway outside spills into the room, and then a figure emerges. He's of average height, 5'10" with a husky build, in his fifties, and dressed in dirty attire that has seen better days. He's definitely not with The Syndicate. His dress shirt is dingy, with unbuttoned sleeves rolled up sloppily up each forearm, and trousers are ill-fitting, leading down to scuffed brogues. In his right hand is a tyre iron."
Tensing as he holds his belt-garotte in front of him, ready to defend himself from the man, Ryan says, "Talk? Well you certainly are looking like you're going to talk with that tire iron, aren't you? How about we both give each other some space. It's a totes tense situation here and maybe I don't strangle the shit out of you if you start making sense. I've got places to be and people to save. Why the fuck did you kidnap me?"
Caught off-guard by Ryan's readiness to defend himself and the pointed accusation, the man's initial shock quickly morphs into a grimness. The realisation that his captive was not only free but also prepared to fight back seemed to force him to recalibrate his approach. That tyre iron he clutches in his hand, initially intended as a means of intimidation, now is gripped as a tangible threat against Ryan's makeshift weapon.
"You think you're real clever, huh?" the man sneers, attempting to make that surprise with bravado instead. Eyes dart briefly to the floor, searching for the ropes that were supposed to bind his captive, and there's a silent acknowledgement of his oversights. "You're in no position to be making demands," he adds whilst trying to sound menacing. Despite his non-professional demeanor, the man's intent was clear as he tightened his grip on the tyre iron, preparing to strike. It is a desperate gambit -- an attempt to regain control of a situation that had slipped unexpectedly out of his grasp. This threat is imminent, and the cell is now charged with tension from a volatile mix of fear, anger, and the instinctual drive for survival. A stand-off... fraught with potential violence... and then the man lunges at Ryan with that weapon raised high.
Trying to catch the man's weapon or arm in the leather belt-garotte, Ryan is looking to take the arm or weapon way from the man and leverage his body for a kick, getting in the melee with him.
With Ryan being far more capable than the captor had anticipated, the surfer dude moves with both precision and agility, likely honed not just from his preferred sport, but also from an innate survival instinct. In that one single, fluid motion, he uses that belt-garotte as both a shield and a snare, catching the stranger's arm mid swing. Leather wraps tightly, forcing his own swing against him, and the surprise and confusion in the man's blue eyes are evident, finding himself now at a complete disadvantage. His weapon is rendered useless, falling to the concrete floor belong with a *CLANG*.
Pressing the advantage, Ryan pushes the man over and bowls him to the ground, grappling him as he presses the belt-garotte off o his hands, fighting him to put it around the man's throat as he attempts to disable the man, "Stop! Strop struggling! I don't want to kill you, dude! Just...let's talk." he says as his actions betray him, pressing down on the garotte to get the man to stop struggling, but only choking him enough to make him light headed, able to breath barely but taking the fight out of him.
The belt started the evening off as a way to keep a pair of pants on Ryan, and then it was about to become a tool of potential liberation, but now it serves as a garotte. It saps the fight from the man it is being used against, and his struggles wane as lightheadedness takes hold. He lays there on the cold concrete, and the efforts to try and free himself grow weaker with each and every second that passes by. His struggle ceases as the fight he had in him is now drained from his body, leaving him entirely vulnerable to Ryan's controlling hold on him. Now the room that was a simply prison minutes before has become a stage for a far more complex moral play.
Flipping the man over, Ryan pulls his arm in a chicken wing as he is weakened and uses the belt to bind his wrists together, "Now, you're going to tell me why the -fuck- you took me from my house, and why the -fuck- you want to talk, or beat me up or who you work for. Now...I may not be one of the bad ones, but I'm not a person to fuck around with, because you and your friends are going to find out."
With the man now immobilized via his wrists bound tightly with the leather belt, Ryan's command of the situation was undisputed. Now the room evolves into an interrogation chamber. The kidnapper is gasping for breath and visibly shaken. It is now that he is finally seeming to grasp the severity of his predicament. Fear is in his blue eyes as she tries to look at Ryan. He has underestimated the surfer's resilience as well as his resourcefulness. "I... I was just... following orders," he rasps out. "It isn't personal. They... they told me you had information. Information they need. Who 'they' are I don't know? They paid good money, and said you would probably pay me even more to try and get freed." He continues, "I don't know the details. I was told to bring you in alive."
"You were just paid to bring me here to this room? Were they going to pick me up here or were you going to knock me out with that tire iron and drag me off to somewhere?" Ryan asks, roughing up the man a little as he grumbles at him, "Look, there's dangerous shit out there, I want to know if you're in danger from whatever it is that's paying you."
The man visibly trembles under Ryan's firm grip, and the rough handling has him grimacing. He swallows hard, and the fear is evident in his eyes as he weighs his options -- which are few and far between. Bound and cornered, he appears to understand that honesty is his only way out of this predicament. "No, no. I wasn't going to take you anywhere else. This was the meeting point," he confesses in a tone laden with a desperation to be believed. "They... they were supposed to come here, to collect you after I...after I secured you." Fail. "I don't know much about them, okay? I was just hired for the job, that's all. They contact me through burner phones, and through encrypted messages. I've never met them in person," the man continues in his attempt to distance himself from his employers, but likely doing little to alleviate the tension in the room. The man's eyes dart around the cell as if searching for an escape that doesn't exist. Finally, he sighs out a sound of resignation. "Yeah, I'm in danger. We all are."
"Give me your phone. I will deal with them." Ryan says as he leans down over the man to murmur in his ear. "How much. How much are they paying you? And when are they showing up? I've got some people I'd like them to meet. Now you're going to get the fuck out of here and you're going to leave this life of crime, you got me? Because there's some shit that's way worse than me around here, and I don't want you to die, got it?"
Nodding quickly, the man has become a figure of palpable fear and desperation in response to Ryan. The nod is a clear indication of his acquiescence to the demands. Hands tremble as he says, "My phone... My phone is in my back pocket." And sure enough, the outline of the electronic device can be seen in the right rear pocket of his trousers. If it is retrieved, Ryan will find that it is a cheap, disposable phone -- the very kind that you use once and then discard, untraceable and favoured by those who wish to remain in the shadows and unseen. "Please, just take it," he says with a haste that betrays his eagerness to be rid of the thing, and maybe even all that it represents. "They... they were offering me five grand -- just to hold you here until they came," the man confesses bare above a whisper. "They're supposed to come...any time now. I don't know when exactly, they just told me to be ready. And yeah, yeah, I'm ready to leave. I'm ready to leave it all."
"Yeah." Ryan says as he reaches in the man's back pocket, pulling out the phone as he taps on his hidden earpiece, "Order? We've got work to do. Non-syndicate kidnapping, they got me, but I'm texting you from a burner phone. If we gear up we can put a stop to this." he gets the guy up to his feet and jostles him through the basement, trying to find a way out, "I'm going to get you back out of this place, and you drive and don't come back. I'll make it right by you." he slips a business card to the man as they walk along, "Call this number, leave a voicemail. Open a bank account and put it's details there. We'll make this right."
Once Ryan has the burner phone extracted from the man's back pocket, the guy continues to listen to the other man. As he's listens a plan that would not only extricate Ryan from immediate danger, but also retaliate against those who had dared to target him, the stranger is surprised by the surfer's presumed belief in second changes, and in the possibility of turning one's life around even after descending into the murkiness of criminal activity. While navigating the basement, the man does not put up any sort of a fight. Mustiness can be smelled, and the floors are grimy. Stacks of old and forgotten boxes line a wall, and there is various pieces of long discarded furniture to hint to the fact that this was once, a long time ago, a lived in space. Their footsteps echo through area. A nondescript door leads out to the cool night air, and the two men find themselves in an alley way with no one else in sight.
Untying the man's wrists with his belt, Ryan shoves him forward to make some distance as he says, "Hey man. It's tough. Sometimes you're down on your luck and the only way out is to do the kind of shit like this? There's a better way." he nods to the man as he gets on his earpiece and asks, "Can someone drop by my place and pick up my duffel bag full of weapons? This may go hot."
The man stumbles slightly. It's such a dramatic shift in the dynamic between himself and Ryan. As the belt is removed from his wrists, thought certainly a relief, does little to assuage the turmoil of emotions the guy feels. There's fear, but there's gratitude. Then also a sense of shame at his own actions, of course. Ryan's words are encouraging, even if they do not excuse the man's actions. That recognition alone of the desperation that drives people to such lengths means something to him. He's visibly shaken, but he's able to nod in response -- unable to find the words to express the myriad of thoughts and feelings swirling with him currently. Here he is in an alley way, presented with a glimmer of hope in what had seemed like an inescapable darkness... by a surfer. The mention of weapons and the potential for confrontation sent a shiver down the former captor's spine. After a final and grateful glance, the man turns and disappears into the night. The weight of his past actions heavy on his shoulders, but also with a newfound resolve to change his path.
As time goes by, Ryan finds that no one shows up to the location. The Order does their best to find leads, but for now... nothing comes up, and there does not seem to be a current, further threat to The Hair tonight.
The captor, taken aback by Ryan's readiness to fight, threatens him with a tire iron. In a swift struggle, Ryan manages to subdue and disarm the man, using the belt to bind him. Once in control, Ryan demands answers, learning that his captor was a hired hand paid to hold him for others who were supposed to arrive soon. Sympathetic to the man's situation, he promises to help him escape the life of crime, slipping him a contact card and instructions for amnesty. As they leave through the basement, Ryan stays connected with his allies via an earpiece, ready for any further developments. Ultimately, the night ends without the appearance of any further threat, leaving Ryan and his allies to search for answers that remain elusive.
(Ryan's odd encounter(SRHarriet):SRHarriet)
[Tue Feb 6 2024]
In A Large, Well Appointed Bedroom
Easily one of the largest rooms in the apartment, this master bedroom has been decked out in all the comforts one could need. On the eastern wall is a king-sized bed piled high with a mix of white and silver bedding. Decorative throw pillows are heaped high against the dark oak headboard and a wispy, sheer set of curtains hangs from the four poster canopy bed's top rails. At the foot of the bed and facing the western wall is a two person love seat. The floors, most of which are covered by a mix of blue and silver rugs, are grey stained oak. There's a conspicuous lack of natural light here, a section of the wall that formerly overlooked the street now bricked up entirely. Finishing out the area is a fireplace that dominates most of the north side of the room. A pair of chairs, high backed and silver-upholstered, face that focal point.
It is night, about 12F(-11C) degrees, and the sky is partly covered by dark grey stormclouds. There is a waning crescent moon.
(Your target is abducted in their sleep, waking up alone in a locked room. They need to either escape or draw attention to them so their allies can come and provide assistance.
)
And so it begins... Ryan's consciousness flutters back like a hesitant bird returning to its nest at dusk. As his senses gradually sharpen, the unfamiliar scent of must and metal invade his nostrils, which is a stark contrast to the salty tang of the ocean air he was so accustomed to as a surfer. It seems he was kidnapped. He finds himself in a room that seems to mock him with its starkness. The walls, devoid of any decoration, are a cold, unforgiving grey -- the kind that seem to absorb whatever light manages to seep through the small, barred window high up on one side. This feeble light cast more shadows than illumination, creating a chiaroscuro that plays tricks on the eyes. Below, the floor is concrete, hard and unyielding, and such a far cry from the soft give of sandy beaches. In one corner stands a metal door with its surface marred by rust and age.
Groaning as he rolls over, last think Ryan remembers is being in his apartment and resting, but he's been taken by The Syndicate before, and he checks himself over for the fogginess that follows of drugs in his system. Moving his hands and feet, he finds that the ropes that bound him are amateurly done and he easily slips out of them.
Going around the room, Ryan tries to find any way of escape. The barred window, the concrete floor, a metal door. Not a lot of options for him as he paces around the room, "What all do I have on me...let's see...let's see..." he notes as he searches through his pockets, no phone, no keys, no wallet. His belt was left with him to keep his pants up, so he quickly whips it off, trying to unattach the belt buckle for something to pick a lock with.
The captors may have made some oversights, and as Ryan begins to figure out his situation, a critical eye would likely find that the window, though small and barred, beckons as a sliver of hope, but it is too high and therefore out of reach without something to stand on. The door has a not so imposing handle, but it could present a formidable challenge to a belt buckle, but maybe Ryan is a MacGyver and can conquer such a thing. Thick walls seem designed to swallow sound, and who knows how remote this place is, or there are guards outside of the rusty door. If escape is the goal, subtlety and cunning could be the best tools, and it seems that this man is forming a plan.
Putting the metal belt buckle on the floor and stepping on it, Ryan puts all his weight on the end of it as he wraps the leather belt around his good arm, crouching down to stand up again, giving some leverage in trying to seperate the belt buckle from the leather belt by force right on the small connectors. He's looking to disassemble the buckle and the small pin that goes through the belt holes, using both of the pieces as different parts of a lockpick for the door.
Under the dim, unwavering light that is coming from a bulb rather than the sun that seeps through the barred window, Ryan set to work with that determined grit. That makeshift lever of his arm has those manly muscles likely tensing under the strain of it all. The leather creaks, protesting against the force being applied, and the man is able to separate the buckle from the rest of the belt and extract the pin. He's gaining the components crucial to this improved plan to escape. Small connects that held the buckle to the belt detach with a slight give, and the pin easily slides out. Now liberated from its usual function, the surfer can use it as he pleases. However, the silence of his concentration is broken by the sound of footsteps. They are heavy and deliberate, echoing through whatever might be outside of the rusty door, and seeping in beneath it. A captor or someone new -- one can only guess. Either way, time does not seem to be a luxury that Ryan can afford.
Shoving the metal parts into his pocket, Ryan pulls up the thick leather of his belt and wraps it around a hand, using the other end of the belt to wrap up in the opposite hand and pull it taught like a garotte. He puts his back against the wall next to the door as he takes a deep breath, settling his mind and breathing, so he can listen to anything outside of the door or any people attempting to come for him.
Ceasing right outside of the door, the heavy footfalls get replaced by an ominous silence that hangs in the air. It's the kind of silence where one can almost hear their own heartbeat, with each thud echoing inside of their eardrums. Then, without any warning, a loud rapping against the rusty door shattered that moment of intense stillness. The knocking against the only barrier between Ryan and his unknown visitor vibrates the door slightly with each smack of a fist. After a brief pause, a deep and rugged voice of a male cuts through with authority and an undercurrent of impatience, "Ryan, we know you're in there. There's no use in hiding or trying to escape. I'm opening up the door so we can talk." The voice is unfamiliar. Keys jingle and then the sound of one slipping into the lock is followed by a *click* and then the door handle begins to turn.
Tensing as he holds his makeshift garotte in his hands, Ryan gives some room for the door, taking a step back so that he can see who comes in before jumping them and choking them to death. "Yeah. It's me. What do you want? You couldn't have called or texted me first?! You had to kidnap me like The Syndicate?"
After Ryan has replied, the silence that follows is heavy, and certainly almost suffocating to most. His words just hang there in the stale air as a challenge and in an accusation against the unseen man on the other side of the rusty barrier. The door handle is old and worn from years of both use and neglect, and it grates out a groaning noise as the metal creaks under the strain as if in a prelude to the horror that might await on the other side. After a final, torturous squeal, the door handle turns completely and inches open. A sliver of light from the hallway outside spills into the room, and then a figure emerges. He's of average height, 5'10" with a husky build, in his fifties, and dressed in dirty attire that has seen better days. He's definitely not with The Syndicate. His dress shirt is dingy, with unbuttoned sleeves rolled up sloppily up each forearm, and trousers are ill-fitting, leading down to scuffed brogues. In his right hand is a tyre iron."
Tensing as he holds his belt-garotte in front of him, ready to defend himself from the man, Ryan says, "Talk? Well you certainly are looking like you're going to talk with that tire iron, aren't you? How about we both give each other some space. It's a totes tense situation here and maybe I don't strangle the shit out of you if you start making sense. I've got places to be and people to save. Why the fuck did you kidnap me?"
Caught off-guard by Ryan's readiness to defend himself and the pointed accusation, the man's initial shock quickly morphs into a grimness. The realisation that his captive was not only free but also prepared to fight back seemed to force him to recalibrate his approach. That tyre iron he clutches in his hand, initially intended as a means of intimidation, now is gripped as a tangible threat against Ryan's makeshift weapon.
"You think you're real clever, huh?" the man sneers, attempting to make that surprise with bravado instead. Eyes dart briefly to the floor, searching for the ropes that were supposed to bind his captive, and there's a silent acknowledgement of his oversights. "You're in no position to be making demands," he adds whilst trying to sound menacing. Despite his non-professional demeanor, the man's intent was clear as he tightened his grip on the tyre iron, preparing to strike. It is a desperate gambit -- an attempt to regain control of a situation that had slipped unexpectedly out of his grasp. This threat is imminent, and the cell is now charged with tension from a volatile mix of fear, anger, and the instinctual drive for survival. A stand-off... fraught with potential violence... and then the man lunges at Ryan with that weapon raised high.
Trying to catch the man's weapon or arm in the leather belt-garotte, Ryan is looking to take the arm or weapon way from the man and leverage his body for a kick, getting in the melee with him.
With Ryan being far more capable than the captor had anticipated, the surfer dude moves with both precision and agility, likely honed not just from his preferred sport, but also from an innate survival instinct. In that one single, fluid motion, he uses that belt-garotte as both a shield and a snare, catching the stranger's arm mid swing. Leather wraps tightly, forcing his own swing against him, and the surprise and confusion in the man's blue eyes are evident, finding himself now at a complete disadvantage. His weapon is rendered useless, falling to the concrete floor belong with a *CLANG*.
Pressing the advantage, Ryan pushes the man over and bowls him to the ground, grappling him as he presses the belt-garotte off o his hands, fighting him to put it around the man's throat as he attempts to disable the man, "Stop! Strop struggling! I don't want to kill you, dude! Just...let's talk." he says as his actions betray him, pressing down on the garotte to get the man to stop struggling, but only choking him enough to make him light headed, able to breath barely but taking the fight out of him.
The belt started the evening off as a way to keep a pair of pants on Ryan, and then it was about to become a tool of potential liberation, but now it serves as a garotte. It saps the fight from the man it is being used against, and his struggles wane as lightheadedness takes hold. He lays there on the cold concrete, and the efforts to try and free himself grow weaker with each and every second that passes by. His struggle ceases as the fight he had in him is now drained from his body, leaving him entirely vulnerable to Ryan's controlling hold on him. Now the room that was a simply prison minutes before has become a stage for a far more complex moral play.
Flipping the man over, Ryan pulls his arm in a chicken wing as he is weakened and uses the belt to bind his wrists together, "Now, you're going to tell me why the -fuck- you took me from my house, and why the -fuck- you want to talk, or beat me up or who you work for. Now...I may not be one of the bad ones, but I'm not a person to fuck around with, because you and your friends are going to find out."
With the man now immobilized via his wrists bound tightly with the leather belt, Ryan's command of the situation was undisputed. Now the room evolves into an interrogation chamber. The kidnapper is gasping for breath and visibly shaken. It is now that he is finally seeming to grasp the severity of his predicament. Fear is in his blue eyes as she tries to look at Ryan. He has underestimated the surfer's resilience as well as his resourcefulness. "I... I was just... following orders," he rasps out. "It isn't personal. They... they told me you had information. Information they need. Who 'they' are I don't know? They paid good money, and said you would probably pay me even more to try and get freed." He continues, "I don't know the details. I was told to bring you in alive."
"You were just paid to bring me here to this room? Were they going to pick me up here or were you going to knock me out with that tire iron and drag me off to somewhere?" Ryan asks, roughing up the man a little as he grumbles at him, "Look, there's dangerous shit out there, I want to know if you're in danger from whatever it is that's paying you."
The man visibly trembles under Ryan's firm grip, and the rough handling has him grimacing. He swallows hard, and the fear is evident in his eyes as he weighs his options -- which are few and far between. Bound and cornered, he appears to understand that honesty is his only way out of this predicament. "No, no. I wasn't going to take you anywhere else. This was the meeting point," he confesses in a tone laden with a desperation to be believed. "They... they were supposed to come here, to collect you after I...after I secured you." Fail. "I don't know much about them, okay? I was just hired for the job, that's all. They contact me through burner phones, and through encrypted messages. I've never met them in person," the man continues in his attempt to distance himself from his employers, but likely doing little to alleviate the tension in the room. The man's eyes dart around the cell as if searching for an escape that doesn't exist. Finally, he sighs out a sound of resignation. "Yeah, I'm in danger. We all are."
"Give me your phone. I will deal with them." Ryan says as he leans down over the man to murmur in his ear. "How much. How much are they paying you? And when are they showing up? I've got some people I'd like them to meet. Now you're going to get the fuck out of here and you're going to leave this life of crime, you got me? Because there's some shit that's way worse than me around here, and I don't want you to die, got it?"
Nodding quickly, the man has become a figure of palpable fear and desperation in response to Ryan. The nod is a clear indication of his acquiescence to the demands. Hands tremble as he says, "My phone... My phone is in my back pocket." And sure enough, the outline of the electronic device can be seen in the right rear pocket of his trousers. If it is retrieved, Ryan will find that it is a cheap, disposable phone -- the very kind that you use once and then discard, untraceable and favoured by those who wish to remain in the shadows and unseen. "Please, just take it," he says with a haste that betrays his eagerness to be rid of the thing, and maybe even all that it represents. "They... they were offering me five grand -- just to hold you here until they came," the man confesses bare above a whisper. "They're supposed to come...any time now. I don't know when exactly, they just told me to be ready. And yeah, yeah, I'm ready to leave. I'm ready to leave it all."
"Yeah." Ryan says as he reaches in the man's back pocket, pulling out the phone as he taps on his hidden earpiece, "Order? We've got work to do. Non-syndicate kidnapping, they got me, but I'm texting you from a burner phone. If we gear up we can put a stop to this." he gets the guy up to his feet and jostles him through the basement, trying to find a way out, "I'm going to get you back out of this place, and you drive and don't come back. I'll make it right by you." he slips a business card to the man as they walk along, "Call this number, leave a voicemail. Open a bank account and put it's details there. We'll make this right."
Once Ryan has the burner phone extracted from the man's back pocket, the guy continues to listen to the other man. As he's listens a plan that would not only extricate Ryan from immediate danger, but also retaliate against those who had dared to target him, the stranger is surprised by the surfer's presumed belief in second changes, and in the possibility of turning one's life around even after descending into the murkiness of criminal activity. While navigating the basement, the man does not put up any sort of a fight. Mustiness can be smelled, and the floors are grimy. Stacks of old and forgotten boxes line a wall, and there is various pieces of long discarded furniture to hint to the fact that this was once, a long time ago, a lived in space. Their footsteps echo through area. A nondescript door leads out to the cool night air, and the two men find themselves in an alley way with no one else in sight.
Untying the man's wrists with his belt, Ryan shoves him forward to make some distance as he says, "Hey man. It's tough. Sometimes you're down on your luck and the only way out is to do the kind of shit like this? There's a better way." he nods to the man as he gets on his earpiece and asks, "Can someone drop by my place and pick up my duffel bag full of weapons? This may go hot."
The man stumbles slightly. It's such a dramatic shift in the dynamic between himself and Ryan. As the belt is removed from his wrists, thought certainly a relief, does little to assuage the turmoil of emotions the guy feels. There's fear, but there's gratitude. Then also a sense of shame at his own actions, of course. Ryan's words are encouraging, even if they do not excuse the man's actions. That recognition alone of the desperation that drives people to such lengths means something to him. He's visibly shaken, but he's able to nod in response -- unable to find the words to express the myriad of thoughts and feelings swirling with him currently. Here he is in an alley way, presented with a glimmer of hope in what had seemed like an inescapable darkness... by a surfer. The mention of weapons and the potential for confrontation sent a shiver down the former captor's spine. After a final and grateful glance, the man turns and disappears into the night. The weight of his past actions heavy on his shoulders, but also with a newfound resolve to change his path.
As time goes by, Ryan finds that no one shows up to the location. The Order does their best to find leads, but for now... nothing comes up, and there does not seem to be a current, further threat to The Hair tonight.