It’s not a proud knowledge that Hank and Zlatko have known each other for several years. They are not friends by any stretch of the meaning, but they have a symbiotic relationship; favors and secrets are the foundation of their relationship and it’s all tied together with a ( at least for Hank ) tentative, guarded trust that could potentially collapse and ruin everything at any moment. One wrong move by either man and everything could go south.
But it never did. And until the day that Hank got the report about Zlatko being attacked on his own property, he considered the madman to be a reliable source of both information and resources.
Hank never wandered far in that big mansion. He never explored much, but he had happened down to the basement once. He recalls it that day as if it had just happened. Seeing those creatures down below; neglected and forgotten failed results of Zlatko’s experiments. He did nothing, said nothing—at the time, he felt nothing other than some slight disturbance at the mind that would not only create but keep such abominations.
But things change, and so has Hank. Connor is to thank for much of that. And so it’s a troubled guilt the lieutenant feels when, one night after the end of a late shift, he catches sight of some familiar, monstrous figures through a half-destroyed chain-link fence. The bright moonlight reflects off of what surfaces are left to reflect off of and although they aren’t doing much to draw attention to themselves, Hank has spent too long in Detroit to not be aware of his surroundings and too long as a detective not to pick up on those subtle details that a layman may miss.
So, he stops there on the sidewalk simply looking at the pair of creatures. He wonders—has been wondering since he stuck his nose into the investigation—if they truly were the ones responsible for Zlatko’s death. Once Hank heard the cells in the basement were empty except for a few spare parts, he knew what must have happened. But now he can confirm it.
“Hey.” He doesn’t speak too loudly ( doesn’t need to with the quiet of the sleeping city all around them ) and he doesn’t address them—he wouldn’t even know how to—but it’s quite clear that he’s speaking to them. His eyes remain fixated on them except for momentary glances left and right to check for any intruders.
“Don’t run.” It’s immediate, before they even get the chance to decide whether or not they should run. But he says it not in a commanding freeze or I’ll shoot kind of way, but a I’m not here to give you any trouble manner; friendly, approachable.
“You two were with Zlatko, right? In that basement.” And even he cringes now at the thought of being trapped down there after being so mutilated and tortured. Empathy, it’s a human emotion after all.
And he falls silent, waiting for a response—not only an answer, but a show of willingness to ( even just temporarily and cautiously ) trust him.
@ccrrupted
