a/n: i'm late to the party, but i'm glad to get some watch dogs out of my system. i enjoyed writing this, but trying to stay in aiden's head for an extended period of time is quite an experience. stupid jerkface.

i love the grenade launcher, but i often forget to use it. it's a shame most of the criminal convoys frown upon blowing up your target.

It happens little by little. One girl, and then another, and then five, ten—and so on, until next thing he knows he's standing in the darkness with a limp body at his feet.

He could say he doesn't know how it came to this, but then he'd be lying. It happens a lot more these days than he'd care to admit—the moments when he forgets his own strength because he's no longer fighting beasts, only cowards hiding in the skin of beasts. The ones who come at him now are little more than flies, nuisances too small to comprehend their own weakness. You can swat at them, but they'll come back.

The man at his feet groans, interrupting the metallic beat of raindrops on the warehouse roof. Aiden watches as he shifts, blinks awake, eyes wide, scrambles up in confusion as his surroundings slowly sink in. He struggles to move, muscles too stiff from lying cold on the concrete floor for half an hour, and every stretch of his limbs results in a bony pop.

He doesn't look ready to stand any time soon, so Aiden decides to help him out, bending down to stare him in the eye before greeting, "Rise and shine, princess."

His captive takes one look at him and begins swearing. It's not a bad start, especially compared to the other guys he gets.

Aiden straightens, starts checking his phone. "So—Lance, was it?"

The man's eyes widen. "What? How did you—"

"How's the wife?"

Lance freezes. If his eyes get any bigger they're going to pop out of his skull.

"I hear you're expecting a baby. Congratulations."

No response either, but Aiden can see the cogs turning in his head. "It's a wonder, isn't it? Not a lot of people are so lucky in your line of work. A lot of accidents happen."

"What do you want?" Lance asks. He's breathing hard now—shivering, too—and his breaths are visible in puffs under the dim moonlight filtering in from above.

"That's good. You're a quick learner."

He'd been expecting another one of the Club's goons, and that's exactly what he got, but that doesn't mean he can't make do. Self-preservation wasn't exactly a dominant trait in the ones who decided to stick around after Lucky Quinn's death, but most of them didn't have family, either.

Lance is quiet again, his eyes darting around from Aiden to the duffel bag in the far corner, and Aiden looks up from his phone just long enough to watch the interesting display of emotions that runs across his face.

"You don't sound like a bad guy, Lance. I don't have any reason to hurt you." He lets his phone stand by and slips it back into his pocket. "At least, not yet. We can make a deal: you help me out, I'll help you out. You can go somewhere to live with your wife and kid and nobody's going to bother you. How does that sound?"

"No—no way. I'm already dead."

Just when Aiden was beginning to think he'd gotten one of the smart ones. He's got his Px4 under his coat just in case he decides he needs to speed up the process, but luckily for Lance, there's no shortage of time and Aiden is feeling extra accommodating tonight.

"Yeah?" The man shrinks as he leans in, close enough to see how wet his eyelashes are. "The way I see it, Niall Quinn doesn't know about any of this yet, and he doesn't have to. But I do. I'm sure you can figure out what that means."

Lance has enough sense to scramble backwards, trying to put as much distance between Aiden and himself as he can, but he seems to realize after a moment that it's not getting him anywhere and deflates a bit. Aiden had briefly considered tying Lance up while he'd been knocked out, but it looks like he was right when he assumed there would be no need. The man had come waving a gun, all talk and bravado, not quite realizing how useless it was in the hands of an amateur. Without it he was at a loss.

The Club had sent him to do what was supposed to be a straightforward job. It was easy to see why.

Lance's phone is lying just out of his reach. It rings, rumbling against the hard floor, echoing in the wide space, making him jump a foot. Lance's head whips around to look at it, then at Aiden, who raises an eyebrow back.

Aiden motions at the phone with his chin. "Answer it."

Lance fumbles, the phone nearly slipping through his fingers as he grabs it and holds it to his ear. "It's me. Yes, I—" He looks over to Aiden again and swallows. "—I've got the money. Y-yes, I'll be there soon."

The call ends, and Lance looks so spooked he's probably going to piss himself any moment now. "Please," and he actually begs, sniveling and everything, "I don't know what you want. I don't know anything. I'm just doing what they asked. They'll kill me."

"What did you think I was going to do to you?"

That makes his mouth shut immediately, and the horror takes an almost material form on his face.

Some progress is being made, so Aiden's feeling almost charitable now. He takes out his phone again, swipes a few times to bring up the Profiler. "I've got all your records here. Kidnapping, assault, drug possession—it's going to be hard raising a kid like that."

He makes a show of tapping the screen a bit, fiddles with the man's profile. Throw him a bone, show him a glimpse of the possibilities. One less damning thing on his record is nothing. Lance winces at the harsh light of the phone against the darkness as Aiden turns it to him.

"I can make it all go away. Like it never happened. You can leave this dump behind. How about it?"

Lance's mouth opens and closes, but no noise comes out. His eyebrows are furrowed, eyes squinted, trying to take in what's in front of him, trying to understand.

"Don't worry, you don't have to do anything," Aiden says. "I've put a tracker in that bag of yours, and you're going to carry around a little wire for me. Just take it back and pretend this never happened. Simple."

"Wh-what are you going to do?"

Aiden adjusts his cap enough to give Lance a better look at what little of his face he has uncovered. "Why? Are you in?"

Lance plays the part of a good little dog, dropping the bag of cash somewhere in the Loop. It leads him around in circles through the downtown alleys, around the Wards, and finally into Brandon Docks, and Aiden is almost impressed by how predictable it is when he recognizes the exact point at which it stops.

Of course, if Niall Quinn was trying to rebuild his father's empire, why bother starting from the ground up? All of the resources are already there, he just has to use them right. Show everyone that he can walk in his father's footsteps after all, starting with the auction.

The auction had been an essential part of Club livelihood, so it wasn't all that surprising that one of the first acts of the new leadership would be to reestablish it. They had been careful about it though, upping their activities in almost every other realm they had some hand in, but reluctant to announce their re-entry into human trafficking so soon—a surprisingly thoughtful diversion from a man Aiden hadn't been all too concerned with in the first place. He might even have potential.

They had learned from their mistakes, from their past encounters and from watching his movements. Everything is done to ensure no more surprise drop-ins from the vigilante. The entire operation is shrouded in darkness, disconnected from ctOS entirely. Phones are abandoned as soon they've been used long enough to create a semblance of a trail. Information is spread out in little pieces among those who need to know it. It was admirable, how hard they were trying.

Not that any of it would actually stop him, of course. It would inconvenience him, just a little. Maybe there would even be a delay. But Aiden has dealt with plenty of people more paranoid than this. They aren't nearly as prepared as they think they are, and Aiden has plenty of resources on his own. He's already in and they don't even know.

Only the side with more information can win a war. Aiden considers this a few turns away from checkmate.

Lance's wire brings him very little interesting information, but that's to be expected. A guy like him isn't going to be fraternizing with the top. But it does give him an insight into day-to-day Club dealings. It's mostly minor crime, some transportation of money and goods, the occasional but increasingly frequent kidnapping. They're trying to be subtle about it, but Aiden knows it's all for the auction.

What does come as a surprise is that Lance is actually well-liked by the rest of the Club, as a family man who is easy-going and not terribly assuming. He doesn't stand out, but he's good enough at his job. They notice he's more jittery than usual, ask him if he's okay as they hand him some more goods to deliver. Sometimes those goods are alive.

He collects ransom too, under the continued guise that they're no more than ordinary criminals doing ordinary kidnappings. Aiden doesn't intercept those like he already has.

Every night he returns to his run-down low-rent apartment in the Wards, back to the arms of his loving wife so he can pretend he doesn't have a foot in this world. She knows about it, doesn't like it, naturally, but he tells her to hold on just a little while longer. Aiden stops listening after that.

Aiden has a few options. He knows where the auction is going to be held, and he knows the comings and goings of the Club. He could wait until the auction, ruin the party. He could sabotage it before it happens. He could get the man himself. It doesn't matter what he does, as long as he gets the message across.

Niall Quinn barely registers as a threat, really. He's just an upstart next to the rising Militia. He doesn't even have enough leverage to set himself apart from petty crime. Blume has cut itself off from the Club and all of the blackmail is out there now. All Quinn has left is his money and his name.

There's no better timing to see that the Club will never get back on its feet. Quinn might end up being just as ruthless and cunning as his father, but it doesn't matter if Aiden makes sure that it never happens. He has no more right to the streets, and Aiden will see to it himself that everyone gets the message once and for all that the Club no longer welcome in Chicago.

Lance is reluctant to divulge much, and even more reluctant to meet, but he still takes the replacement wires and cameras and a burner phone Aiden leaves for him outside of his apartment, and Aiden reminds him what he's getting from their arrangement in turn. Just in case he needs the encouragement.

He isn't meant for this world. Lance does everything he should, and he does it right, but he doesn't have the temperament. It doesn't suit him. But he carries out his jobs dutifully, acquiescing when Aiden tells him where to plant the cameras even while he gains more of the Club's respect with each task he carries out. The irony of it doesn't escape Lance, either.

"I don't like it," he says one night. "What if they find out? How long are you making me do this?"

"Relax," Aiden replies, though this entire time he's never seen the man relaxed. Slightly less twitchy, maybe.

From whispers he picks up, the Club is waiting for him to appear any day now. They expect him to start nosing around in their business, getting more and more anxious with each day. So Aiden indulges them, roughs a few of them up indiscriminately, interrupts a few interactions, saves a few girls—random enough to pretend they're isolated and not because he knows, and definitely not because he's planting himself on all of them, hacking into their phones, tracking their every movement.

Only problem is, Lance is too low on the chain to have important information come his way and provides very little insight on it himself even if it's there, so Aiden resorts to keeping an eye on the others he's planted. What he gets is an abundance of meaningless information. The Club is increasingly paranoid, its information increasingly fragmented, and very little pieces together.

His patience pays off, however, because Lance gets lucky. Really lucky.

"Hey, Lance," he overhears, "looks like you've got a call from Hughes himself. He wants a driver tomorrow and we gave him a good word for you."

Aiden has heard the name before, mentioned in passing conversations but never connected to anything incriminating. Daniel Hughes, from what he understands, is close to Quinn—one of his circle. His profile turns up nothing of use.

That's fine though, because now there's contact. He waits until Lance returns home, gets comfortable in his apartment. Waits until he has a home-cooked dinner with his wife, watches TV with her, and sends her to bed. When he sits alone on the couch after all of it, Aiden calls.

It takes a few rings for him to pick up, even though the phone is right in front of him. Every time he calls, the wait gets longer.

"What's the job tomorrow?" Aiden asks.

"I don't know, something to do with the girls, I think," Lance answers, sounding uncomfortable. "But Hughes is the one overseeing the auction. It's probably important."

"Are you a good driver?"

"What? I guess."

"Good."

Aiden is silent as he considers the information. Lance cuts in. "Are you going to, uhm, kill him?"

"Are you worried?"

"Well I—I don't think you should kill him."

"Tomorrow," Aiden says, "keep your phone on. And when you see me, hide."

He cuts the call off there as Lance starts sputtering, and starts preparing.

Aiden is usually conspicuous, but never to this extent unless he has a reason to be. Today, however, he's sending a message, so he decides it's a special enough occasion to bring out the big guns—namely, his GL-94.

The traffic in the streets of the Loop is light enough during this time of the day. Too many people around would mean casualties and distractions. He's left his car parked on the curb, one eye focused on the rear-view mirror while the other follows the dot on his phone's GPS. In the passenger seat sits the grenade launcher, ready for use at a moment's notice.

Lance is driving Hughes the long way around, through the back alleys and side streets, but sooner or later he has to cross the bridge, and Aiden is ready for when that happens.

The dot reaches the nearby intersection, and that's his cue. Aiden gets out of his car, rounds the front to reach through the other side for the GL-94. One pedestrian passing by that moment recognizes him and starts gawking, and as Aiden slides the grenade launcher through the door he gives her a look that silences her.

Hughes' escort comes into view minutes later, one car in front and two trailing behind. Aiden surveys the area one last time to make sure the area is clear before shifting the grenade launcher in his arms slightly so he can use one hand to hack the bridge.

As the bridge rises, Hughes' car screeches to a halt even before the leading car does. Aiden doesn't give them the time to wonder or back out of the street, slipping his phone back into his pocket to free his hand and taking aim with the grenade launcher in one motion. His shot hits, and the front car goes up in an explosion of fire.

One down. He's got a few minutes before the calls start to come in and ctOS scans pick up on things, so he doesn't waste any time taking cover behind his car to switch the grenade launcher for his pistol. Fire and smoke are billowing out of the trashed car, and five men from the last two cars emerge cautiously, guns in hand, to survey the scene. Faintly, he can hear Lance telling Hughes to duck.

He's already shot two through the head by the time the others turn around and see him. Three down.

He ducks down and out of sight, but they've already figured out where he is and begin firing at him. Pistol in one hand and phone in the other, Aiden connects with the street camera, spots two taking cover while one advances on his car, assault rifle in hand. The Profiler beeps that moment to tell him that one has a grenade.

In the meantime, the car he's ducked behind is peppered with the spray of bullets. The gunman is advancing steadily, and there's nowhere else to take cover, so Aiden has to finish it quickly. The assault rifle fire is insistent, unrelenting, trying to draw him out as it comes closer and closer.

With his back pressed against the car, he connects successfully with the grenade. It beeps, the sound almost drowned out by the sound of the gun, which stops just in time for its owner to notice.

Typically, it would be too risky. They know where he is, and are just as likely to blow themselves up as toss the grenade in his direction, but it doesn't matter. Aiden only needs the distraction. Even with the delay, the grenades owner's fumbling hands manage to find it in time, but it never manages to leave his grasp as Aiden grabs the grenade launcher again and takes quick aim.

He's not worried about accuracy, and it lands slightly off-target, but the impact is enough to make the grenade drop at his feet, where it goes off—four. One of the two remaining men ducks clumsily out of the way, hits the ground hard, while the other manages to remain standing, though shaky. Idly, Aiden wonders if Lance is out of the picture yet because it's steadily becoming messy.

The one still standing up isn't standing for very long. Five down, one to go.

Aiden leaves the cover of the car to approach the last one still on the ground, when a bullet just misses him. Farther off, Hughes has disregarded Lance's suggestion altogether and found enough misplaced heroism to put himself out in the open, gun aimed at Aiden.

The split second diversion is enough time for the last man, who, having dropped his own gun, resorts to tackling Aiden. Aiden grunts as he hits the ground, heavily armored body on top of him. They wrestle together, and the man manages to knock Aiden's gun out of his hand and even get a punch in, looking triumphant while Aiden aims for somewhere vulnerable.

Aiden lands a punch to the head, which shakes the man off of him long enough for him to get on top, knee digging his entire weight into the armored chest. Aiden reaches into his coat to pull out his baton and strikes his head hard one, twice, three times, until he collapses.

Steadying his breathing, Aiden pries himself off the body, picks up his fallen gun, and looks in Hughes' direction.

Lance is nowhere in sight. Hughes really should have listened to him. Not that it would have stopped Aiden, either way.

With his entire escort bleeding out on the street, Hughes seems to realize the situation is no longer in his favor, and he begins to scramble backwards, shooting wildly in Aiden's direction as he retreats. Aiden, however, isn't interested in a foot chase. Two shots in the leg, and he falls with a heavy thud. His gun slips from his grasp, out of reach, clattering away.

The only sound on the street now is the rumbling of fire that's still rising out of the destroyed car. No guns, no screams. His phone buzzes in his pocket, lets him know the ctOS scan has finished.

The threat neutralized, Aiden takes his time walking up to Hughes, who tries to make a crawl for his gun, but Aiden reaches it first. He kicks it away, and Hughes gets a split second to process the scene before Aiden grabs him by the collar and picks him up, shaking him roughly while slamming him against the car.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Hughes gasps at him, struggling to free himself under Aiden's grip. Aiden slams him into the car harder, and is rewarded with a guttural scream as the sounds of the metal body crumpling and bones cracking mix together.

Hughes falls limp, his eyes are wide. His breathing hikes as Aiden leans in closer.

"I've got a message for Quinn," he says, "and you're going to deliver it."

"Okay—okay! What do you want, I'll tell him!"

"No," he corrects as the police sirens begin blaring in the distance. "You're the message."

He listens in on the police radio from his car, a different one this time. The other had too many bullet holes and a shot tire.

The voices drifting through the speakers had come and gone in a flurry of confusion, trying to understand the scene he had left. He'd left Hughes beat up and unconscious, but alive to be discovered by the police who would be trying to piece everything together. There was nothing on him to connect him to the Club, or the kidnappings, but Quinn would know exactly what happened, and he would know exactly what it meant.

He had checked in on Lance after, and the man was alive, at least, but no doubt someone from the Club would catch on soon that one body was missing from the count. By that time, Lance will be far, far away from Chicago.

His phone rings, and he glances at the caller for a moment before picking it up.

Jordi's voice crackles uninvited over the phone. "You've got some weird priorities, Pearce," he says. "Got an entire city of fixers out for your blood and you go for baby Quinn and his merry little band? Really."

"I deal with fixers when they become a problem."

"Yeah, yeah. So noble, placing the well-being of Chicago before your own. You're the vigilante, I get it. Just let me know next time, yeah? Lots of potential clients are interested in the Club. I can cash in on this kind of stuff. "

"I'm hanging up now."

He sits in the silence for a moment, before he starts up the car.

He's not done, of course. No doubt Quinn has learned about Hughes' predicament already. If he's smart, the Club will get the man out and then retreat for a bit, reorganize itself, and emerge again with even more vigor. All of the planning Aiden has done so far will have to be done again. Except he doesn't plan on letting them have the pleasure.

But tonight, he has other business to take care of first.

He pulls into the dark lot, and Lance blinks against the headlights in panic before Aiden steps out.

"I-I really thought I was going to die there. I don't think there's anyone who hasn't heard about today. Fuck, man, you're crazy, you know that?"

He's been hearing that a lot lately. Aiden puts his hands in his pockets and raises an eyebrow.

"Well? Are you done? Is it over?"

"For you," Aiden says. "I'd suggest you get out while you can. Take your wife and drive as far as it takes you. Start a new life in the sticks where nobody will find you."

It's over. For Lance, at least. He's never been deep enough in this world, and the chance for him to get out had always been there even if he hadn't seen it himself. Aiden, however, passed that point a long time ago. He was going to see it to the end.

Aiden tosses him the key to the car, and Lance fumbles to catch it. He stares at Aiden with a slack jaw and loose grip before he comprehends the gesture and his fist tightens around the keys. He doesn't thank him—the situation is too fucked up to be grateful—but his expression is awed nonetheless.

Lance nods and with one last look, gets into the car. It roars to life, bathing Aiden in light.

Aiden watches as he drives away, watches as the car rounds the corner, out of sight, until it's only him left in the darkness.