You know the Lads would be a fucking nightmare if they were kidnapped. Not the irritation of Geoff’s sarcastic drawl, the disquieting politeness of Jack’s unerring calm or the terrifying menace of Ryan’s entire existence, but a full blown regret all your choices, please god take them back nightmare.
Ray not so much; he shoots off a few snarky comments then closes his eyes and settles down, for all intents and purposes appearing to go to sleep despite the chains on his wrists and the cold concrete cell they’ve been locked in. Just sleeps and refuses to stir, limp and unaffected by anything from physical pain to the yells of his crew-mates. It’s an infuriatingly difficult reaction to combat and eventually their captors just give up and ignore him.
It’s impossible to ignore their other three captives though; they’re fucking loud, for one. Michael is throwing insults around left and right from the moment he opens his eyes, from the state of their lodging to the intelligence of their captors and everything in between; no threat works to shut him up and hurting any of the others only makes him exponentially louder. Michael calls out every ridiculous statement and every ineffective torture technique as though he’s merely watching a bad movie rather than living through one.
Jeremy is nearly as vocal as Michael though not nearly so straight forward about it; Jeremy drips sarcasm as he pushes every question back against his asker, inviting them to share where they stole their ideas from, who they thought they were kidding with this whole big bad act, if they’d chosen their last words yet. He and Gavin goad each other into increasingly absurd conversations whenever things are getting too tense, and Jeremy repeatedly acts like he’s broken and is ready to talk only to whisper another dumb pun into the interrogator’s ear; cackling wildly at his own jokes even as he spits blood.
Gavin flips back and forth between antagonising and commiserating, endearing himself to their enemies only to pick on their weaknesses and instigate in-fighting. He critiques their captors like they are on even footing, scathingly judgmental and haughtily unimpressed, identifying soft spots for Michael to tear into. For all his ability to deflect the anger of other people Gavin’s never been great at sitting back and watching his boys get hurt, so when things get a little too heated his comments tend to get more vicious and offensive. He twists deep into every insecurity, grinning wide enough to show all his teeth as he carefully pulls everyones attention back to himself. This honestly only pisses Michael and Jeremy off - Gavin you are a twig alright, just shut up and let the brawlers take the bruises - so soon enough all three are fighting each other as much as their captors, bellowing so loud and incomprehensible that the cell doors rattle and their interrogators are forced to take frequent breaks or risk going deaf.
Another strike against the Lads is their combined impatience; never content to just sit back and wait for the Gents to collect them, no matter how dire or trivial their situation may be. It’s not like the Gents won’t come, it’s not like their arrival wouldn’t be one hell of a show, a firestorm of possessive rage and righteous fury. It’s just that the Lads have never been passive, have always been threat. It’s just that they’re smarter than anyone gives them credit for, and nastier than most could ever imagine. It’s just that the Lads never could let anything slide, lean full force into everything they do and what they do is devastate, what they do is destroy.
The end begins, as most ends do, with a regrettable mistake. With a guard cocky enough to come in on his own, to taunt and jeer and rile them up. A guard green enough to let them see the keys he drops into his pocket, to think himself safe in their shackled presence. He’s clearly not well versed in the art of breathing menace, his efforts are rudimentary and uninspired at best, an embarrassment to the craft, and the Lads play him like a fiddle. He’s frustrated when Gavin lays on the mocking flirtation too heavily, circling behind in a clumsy attempt at intimidation and failing to notice to moment his pocket grows lighter. He rises to the bait when Jeremy sneers out a cutting commentary on his skills, completely missing the flash of silver flicking from Gavin’s hands to Michael’s in the blink of an eye. He turns his back on the three of them to aim a petulant shove at Ray, whose eyes pop back open for the first time in hours, snapping into motion as quick and dangerous as a snake. Ray uses his chained hands to pull himself up and deliver a solid kick, propelling their guard right into Michael’s waiting arms.
It’s unsalvageable after that; not quite quick, by no means clean, but hopelessly unstoppable; something akin to watching a man being torn apart by wild dogs. The rest of the mysterious crew have no chance to intervene, left watching in shocked silence over the security feed, their horror unnervingly acknowledged as the Lads bare their teeth at the cameras, chilling mockeries of real grins, full of promise. It doesn’t get better, the restless energy in the cell only growing as the four efficiently free each other from their remaining binds, laughing and crooning out childish singsongs as they destroy the room; Ready or not here we come.
See, the worst thing about taking the Lads hostage, the very worst part, isn’t their volume or aggression, isn’t the indifference and blatant disrespect. It’s not the looming danger of retribution from the rest of their crew, not even the way they will eventually, inevitably, break themselves free from any restraints. No.
The worst thing is the fact that even when they get out the Lads will not leave. There is no stealth, no mad rush for freedom or careful plans to storm the exit; they won’t escape, at least not until there’s nothing left to escape from. When the Lads break loose they don’t look to regroup, aren’t interested in taking a moment to recover before coming back with support. They want their vengeance and they want it immediately; want compensation for every injury, want to fulfil every promised threat, make good on every nasty laugh and hungry smirk, watch the terrified realisation in the eyes of their prey. When the Lads break loose they want to play.
