MICK HAD NEVER WISHED HE WAS ANYWHERE ELSE MORE THAN NOW.
mick would never lie and say he isn't a runner. mick will run from things he knows he cannot face. he'll take whoever he can with him.
but this doesn't seem like it's something he can run away from.
he was trying to be anywhere but where he was.
there were too many guns trained on him to run. there were too many people to fight.
and he stared blankly at the knife in his hands, and at his teammate who sat, restrained, and looking so damn uninterested, even past this nightmare mick just found himself in. yeah, himself. obviously spy doesn't give a shit.
"did you not hear him, bushman?"
that man's voice pierces directly to his inner ear.
it's worse than any bullet.
"it said to cut me. are you going to listen?"
he hated this guy, sometimes. he genuinely hates this guy sometimes. he's so confusing, and nonchalant, and it pisses mick off. it pisses him off that he's more willing to distance himself from the entire situation that it's making mick wonder whether or not he was actually asleep.
he couldn't find an answer. he couldn't verbalize anything that would make sense to say.
it didn't help this nightmarish feeling he's struggling with.
he registered the clicking of his tongue, and the stare focused elsewhere for a moment.
can i at least get a cigarette while we wait for him to find his balls?
okay, this isn't a big deal.
obviously, he's making this something it doesn't have to be.
he really shouldn't even care this much.
there was a knife in his hands.
he could feel the weight of it.
"alright, i'm getting bored."
he heard that. he registered it somewhere.
"bushman, i'd like to tell you something."
he reflexively responded.
"around three months ago, you had woken up to your pockets being emptied. you said your card and money had come up missing. i did that."
"a week prior to that, you found that van of yours was absolutely dry. no oil, no gas, no coolant. not even windshield fluid. i did that, too."
mick blinked. his brows furrowed.
he didn't think that his grip on the knife had tightened. he felt like his hand was starting to hurt a little bit, though.
"and two months prior to that, the flat tire. i put the nail there."
"truth is, bushman. damn near everything ranging from mildly inconvenient to life threatening that has happened to you off the clock, i had an active role in. somewhere along the line you got this idea that we were friends. and you're too stupid to see where it's getting you."
mick got one sharp inhale in as spy continued, as even paced as ever. uncaring of the transformation taking place in front of him.
"it got you here. you're making bad decisions, mick."
for a split second, mick thought about how much he looked like scout. as he played this screen of indifference. looking up, as though trying to recall what he had for lunch. the way he almost lit up as he had something to pull at.
"you need to stop talking."
and the smile that spread across spy's face.
at this point, it seemed dumber to let him continue.
the room erupted in a quiet chatter.
before he said something that mick really couldn't forgive.
he still didn't think he cut him, though.
he just watched the chair fall back.
and heard a gurgled noise.
as it continued, he realized he was laughing.
this son of a bitch, faux rich prick, limp dicked, grew-up-in-the-god-damn-shit-and-thinks-he's-better-than-it was saying everything he could to hurt mick. to push him to this.
and he's fuckin' laughing.
the chair thudded as it rotated to the side. he watched the man's feet scramble for some form of purchase to sit the chair back up.
a lot of things ran through mick's head to say.
and then he had the momentary realization that the issue was that he cared too much.
mick didn't have to, either.
he was choosing to let this hurt him.
he watched the tip of those dress shoes find enough strength on the ground that the chair was finally beginning to tilt upwards.
watched the tip of the shoe turn into one full foot on the ground before he put his own shoe to the side of the chair and kicked it. and as it tumbled to the floor, the man hitting his knees, the laughter grew louder.
he heard a sniffle, then a snort. the sound of a congealed liquid hitting the floor, and a soft gasp.
"get this mask off of me, i can't breathe."
the frenchman found purchase much quicker, kicking up to the seated position once more, his head leaning back.
for a man who just got hit, he looked very awake.
"you don't want me to die, do you?"
he watched the chair tilt onto one leg and rotate, and he stared that man in the eyes as he came to face him.
"you know that corpses are no fun."
then he realized that smile never left that face.
it looks like you're ready to have some.
mick didn't know what this freak was seeing.
he just knew he was ready to do something.
