Cry Havoc

Chapter 1: Klogrim, Nelson & Murdock

Gunnar fell heavily into his new leather chair. His knee knocked the edge of the desk in front of him, but he took no notice. A content sigh left his lips in a huff. At last, they had an office. Their own office. With which they could do whatever they liked.

Wind whistled past the window, announcing the presence of a bad draft. He would have to fix that later. He already had plans for decorations on his desk, and also had ideas for his colleagues' desks as well. The room smelt of fresh paint and rotting wood. The building was old, but he loved it. 'With age comes character' and all that. He welcomed the space into his memories with open arms.

A knock on his frosted glass, wood framed door had him looking over to see who it was.

Oh, it was just Foggy; grinning like an idiot.

"It's great, isn't it?" the young lawyer asked excitedly.

Gunnar stood up, the chair creaking and re-inflating. He walked over to where Foggy stood, meeting his friend's eyes.

"It's perfect," he told the other man, smiling widely. "We did good, Mr. Nelson."

Foggy chuckled, slapping Gunnar on the bicep affectionately. "Yes we did, Mr. Klogrim," he replied readily. "Hey, we should get drinks later. You down?"

Foggy must have known he didn't have to ask. But Gunnar wasn't surprised when he did; the man had a kind nature. So he nodded, clapping a hand on Foggy's back.

" 'Course, man," he laughed. "When have I even turned down a drink with my two best friends?"

As expected, a voice piped up from across their empty reception space. "Last week."

Gunnar rolled his eyes. "I was busy, Murdock. You gave me ten minutes notice. What did you expect?"

Foggy laughed, letting the banter continue between the two men. It was just another normal day for the three of them.

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It was late afternoon when Foggy and Matt picked up their first case. It was then that Gunnar found out Foggy had bribed Brett Mahoney. He let it go, for now. The two left for the police station, and he decided to stay behind at the office. In all honesty, he wasn't as ready for cases as the other two were - just yet, anyway. He still had a lot of adjusting to do.

With the office layout, and also the route to the office to memorize, he left them to it. He had work with Bain to do.

It was at times like these that he wished he had Matt's powers. It would make everything a lot easier for him. But he shook that thought away. He learnt not to get jealous as a child, and he had to apply it in this situation. With his vision, there came obstacles. Training and retraining his guide dog was one of those obstacles.

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The sun was just setting when he got home. Bain had aced the walk home. The beast of a dog had needed little correcting. Stepping into the entry hall, Gunnar bent down and unbuckled the leather harness, letting Bain step out of it on his own, like they had practiced for years.

Once the dog was free, he bolted out of sight. Gunnar could only assume his big boy had gone to get a drink from his bowl. The young man hung the harness on its hook; which was situated at Bain's height, next to the coat rack. The sound of Bain's claws clicking on the wooden floors echoed through the quiet house as the dog ran around.

Gunnar shed off his coat, tossing it onto its hook, and set his keys and wallet down on the shelf to his left. They went through this routine every day. Gunnar would have put all of his stuff down just in time for Bain to reappear with his favorite teddy bear; a formerly white, severely matted, decently sized bear named Kramsnö.

Bain came right up to Gunnar's legs, pushing the bear against his hip. He took the bear from the dog, and Bain's entire backside wagged with joy. Gunnar threw the bear down the hallway, causing the Anatolian Shepherd to chase after it.

He left the dog to amuse himself, knowing the beast would likely spend the rest of the evening sucking on the browning fur. He was a strange dog.

Slowly, Gunnar made his way up stairs to his room. Having lived in this house for nearly two years now, he knew his way around, despite being half blind. He took the stairs slowly, though. He was tired from all the mental reasoning he had had to do during the day. Plus, his right eye was sore and tired from being forced closed all day. He didn't want to open it just yet though; not without his patch. He trailed a hand along the wall, tracing a finger along the old paint, and turned to enter his bedroom.

The door was open, as always, and his bed had been made. It wasn't, and never had been, Dottie's job to make his bed or tidy his house, only to clean and cook for him. But the woman had been doing it out of her own volition for the last few months. It had made the move into the new office much easier for him. Not having to worry about keeping his home presentable always relieved some stress. He headed straight for the bathroom attached to the room, shedding his jacket and unbuttoning his shirt as he walked. His shoes were kicked off in the doorway, and his jacket was thrown onto the armchair next to the large window on the far end of the bedroom. He dumped his white button-down and his undershirt in the laundry basket, and his slacks and socks quickly followed.

Gunnar sighed, stretching his arms above his head, trying to relieve the stiffness he had managed to gain in just a few hours. Walking over to the vanity, he studied his own face. There were bags under his eyes and a paleness to his skin that was almost worrying. His tattoos stood out stark against his pale arms and chest. Markings covered his skin in delicate lines. He traced the goat skull that covered his chest with his eyes, following the lines down his chest to his stomach, where they morphed into swirling rows of letters and runes only spoken by his mother and others like her. As he braced his arms against the counter top, he watched the trees and herbs on his arms shift with his muscles. He was proud of his ink. He had worked hard to design, plan, and pay for them. He was proud to call them his.

Tearing his gaze from the mirror, his wound his dreadlocks up into a bun, using a scrunchie on the bench to hold the stragglers in place. He then proceeded to shuck off his underwear and step into the large, open shower.