[attr="class","beck"]"you still don't seem to understand."

a sigh escapes him. their back and forth grows painfully tiresome. it tests what little patience he has left and tempts him to simply reach for the gun and end things. but he takes a moment, pauses, then meets gavin in the eye.

"kill him or i kill you."

[attr="class","noodles"]Cillian Quinn

Well, then.

Cillian stares back at Beckett, the whimpering of the hostage reduced to background noise over the blood rushing in his ears.

"You're not serious."

Yet in spite of calling Theo's bluff, there's a note of uncertainty in his voice.

[attr="class","beck"]life continues to drain from the bounded man, murky red slowly seeping through the cracks of the floorboards. the whimpering grows quieter, weaker, and yet it does little to ease the tension in the room. if anything, it adds to it.

"i am."

[attr="class","noodles"]Cillian Quinn

His throat is dry, and the room feels smaller than before.

His gaze shifts uncomfortably to the broken man on the floor. Can he truly smell the blood, or was the taste of iron in the back of his throat purely psychological? He can see bone through skin. His stomach turns.

He's dead anyway. If it's him or me—

"Give me your gun, then." He hadn't missed the gleam of metal at Theo's hip. There remains a spark of unchecked arrogance in the eyes of the youth. Theo wasn't much older than Gavin but he wore his years heavily in the vacancy of spirit.

[attr="class","beck"]"why do you need a gun?"

almost tauntingly, he reaches a hand towards his hip and brushes against the ends of his blazer just enough to reveal the gun. he peers down at it, shrugs, then returns his gaze, crossing his arms over his chest with an air of indifference.

"use your hands or something."

[attr="class","noodles"]Cillian Quinn

"Because I'm a fucking scientist, not a Machamp!"

Stress sees the words tumble out sharp and bold. Like a dog backed into a corner, he shows his teeth not out of bravery but fear. Yet he's not whipped enough to cower in the aftermath, posture strong and gaze defiant.

They'd let him keep his knife. In retrospect, it wouldn't do much against a gun, so what did Rocket have to fear from one as green as Cillian? Or had they known, the second they allowed him across their threshold, that he would not be getting out?

Its blade is sharp, well-kept. It gleams in the pale light as it extends. Cillian is breathing heavily through his nostrils to fight back bile, his grip tight enough to turn knuckles white. Him or me. He knew what he was getting into. He knew—

But that doesn't make it easier to block out the screams.

[attr="class","beck"]the screams gradually stop. he watches the pool form beneath them, following it along the lines of the floorboards before it hits the tip of his shoes. he doesn't move — instead, he reaches for the same pack of cigarettes. he doesn't offer one this time.

"good. don't make the next time as difficult."

[attr="class","noodles"]Cillian Quinn

He's shaking. His chest is heaving. He's going to be fucking sick.

His hands are covered in blood, and he registers in the back of his mind that some of it is his own. Injured though he had been, survival instinct had seen his victim fight back as much as he could. His own knife had caught him in the struggle.

As it so often does with trauma, Cillian's mind settles on bizarre thought. I hope I don't fucking catch something.

"Fuck you," he snaps, with what heat he has left.

[attr="class","beck"]"don't hate me just yet, merlino. you can do that on your own time."

he takes a long drag, silently savoring the expression on gavin's face. ash falls, scattering across pools of red.

"for now, you're officially one of us. congratulations."

[attr="class","noodles"]Cillian Quinn

Merlino. Gavin. He's going to have to get used to that — and so much more.

A blood-coated blade retracts into its handle, and Gavin pockets the weapon with trembling fingers. It will be a long while before the shaking stops.

His anger seems to roll off Theo; the realization only serves to anger him more. He buries it deep, bitterly withholding whatever satisfaction his emotions might provide. You're not weak, are you, Cillian?

No, Gavin decides, I'm not.