[center] [hr] [img]https://imgs.search.brave.com/6VENAb6ziz6zMs1CIFAK5loyzyOlcZ2CTeBLzkHEIDk/rs:fit:860:0:0:0/g:ce/aHR0cHM6Ly9zdGF0/aWMudmVjdGVlenku/Y29tL3N5c3RlbS9y/ZXNvdXJjZXMvdGh1/bWJuYWlscy8wNTEv/NDUyLzE5OC9zbWFs/bC90aGUtdmlldy1m/cm9tLXRoZS13aW5k/b3ctd2luZG93LWlu/LXRoZS1hcGFydG1l/bnQtaW50ZXJpb3It/ZGV0YWlscy1waG90/by5qcGc[/img] [hr] [i] Afternoon. I can hear Moore mocking me in my sleep. The higher ups at Washington thinks this is a goose chase. This is a hunt, and Moon's been in a coma for the past weeks. Harder to track him without her watching me. He walked to the wharf, then, back to his rathole. Slippery little fuckwit. Maybe, the night will be more generous to me today. [/i] [hr] The sun battled his mold-dappled curtains in the afternoon. Pike was lost in the gun, the metal. He liked to dissapear into the stench of mineral oil soaking his fingers, the sensation of wiping a fresh clean rag until it was black to the fiber. The mechanical purity of it, the quick brutality of a 1 pound trigger igniting cordite and gunpowder, brass bouncing against the concrete floor. Burnt tobacco and tar wrestled alongside it, the ashtray to the right of him overgrown with a forest of marlboros. He reracked the slide of the Colt, his ear hunting for the telltale sign of a jam but finding no respite. He slid a 13 round mag in and out of the magwell, thumbed the trigger, sanded the hammer, tried to find some flaw. Eventually, he found one in the barrel. The dark narrow cave mocked him, drew him in like a well of shit and misery. Muskie kept him from trying to wander inside it but right now, Pike did feel like wandering around. Why not? The itch at the back of his head, the throbbing in his mind, whispered for a scratch. That one place you could never conquer. His hand twitched, the barrel of the pistol angling to his mouth. The knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. He placed the Colt down on the surface of the table regretfully and walked over to the door to open it. She was there. He ducked his gaze before he could meet her eyes. He didn't even want to look at her face. Her shadow was a puddle at the bottom of her brown leather office heels. The silence was a wall, broken by the sounds of cats yowling or the slow wake of a car driving outside but it felt as though they were standing at the opposite sides of a bridge. Eventually, she spoke, sounding more tired than angry. " Rest of his will." The box was dropped at his feet with a dull thud, " Waste of my fucking time in my opinion." The door was still open. The seconds passed by. Maybe, she was still standing there, glaring at him, waiting for him to say something. " I know what you want me to say." He could barely hear his voice. " What everyone wants me to say. I killed him. It's the truth I want. " Just more silence. His throat felt rough already, missing the warm embrace of a cigarette. Something to calm his nerves down. " You know what it's like growing up Irish? How could you know, some fucking east-coast broad like you?" A sneer escaped his mouth. " You grew up in some cushy street in New York. You never played with the kids on the street. Never had to work until your palms had cuts on them. You think you have family but family, the community was everything to us. He was the older one, I was the younger one. I welcomed his shadow. It comforted me. He was my compass. " Another breath. His throat was an iron pipe right now. " The fish shop was his idea. The guns were his idea. I'm just the fucking idiot who thought he was smart enough for the business. You think I had the ambition? Muskie had the vision and I was the one to execute - ," He gulped at the word, his faces pawing at his arms to rub off blood that wasn't there. " - I was the one to execute his vision. I'm the friggin' pushover."" " When he - When he started doing what he did, I knew it was wrong. Hell, I tried to hide it, help him before he got worst. And when that night passed, when I held his body to my side, I was the one left to pick the pieces up after him. I know all the looks you give me. The way you condemn with your fucking words, your table-side whispers. Got the guts to accuse but you ain't got the guts to tell me straight, huh? And how would you handle the truth, you fucking bitch? You think you know where he goes? How he lies? Could you even handle it? Believe it? I know I wouldn't. " The last sentence came so slowly that Pike couldn't feel his lips moving. " I may have killed your husband, Maria, but I was already a dead man walking." He looked back up. The stairwell was empty. She'd already left before he even began to speak. With a shuddered breath, Pike closed the door and walked back to his table, releasing and closing his hands. His hands were still shaking until he grabbed the smooth-textured cow-grain leather grip of the Colt, steepling his fingers over it. He breathed in the musty wafts of his apartment, exhaled and then, returned back to cleaning the gun. [hr] " Whiskey. Neat." Shoshanna slides the glass over to his open palm without looking at him, her ink-carved arms moving in a blur behind the countertop. She moves to another customer sitting a few seats away from him, a man in a leather trenchcoat who orders a cherry heering. He admires the efficiency of motion in her movements before raising the glass to his lips. It burns a long, hot trail down the back of his throat and into his belly. Two decades of oak-fermented rye makes him drop his guard momentarily, calms him. Then, the weight comes back, sinking its fangs into his shoulders. The Soiree was less crowded than usual. It had been two years since Pike visited the place and it was exactly as he remembered - a place that was seemingly proud of how rundown it was. Half the halogen lamps riveted to the ceiling were flickering or had gone dim entirely. The air was queasy with the breath of two dozen bodies and the ghosts of forgotten regrets. His index finger was tracing the rim of the glass as he watched beads of grey condensation drip down his reflected face. Before he could ask for another drink, Pike feels the man's footsteps and knows who it is. The basement floor, stained brown by spilt beer and a thick carpet of greasy grout, shuddered with each step they took. The stool to the right of him squeals with complaint and the voice was a knife running down his spine. " The hell are you doing here, O'Malley? Didn't realise you sold hardware here as well." " Not here to sell, Roger. Just here to talk, " Pike replied, pushing his glass away from here, silently nodding to the barkeep. His eyes twitched over to see a massive fist the size of a dinner plate reach over for the toothpick dispenser. The silver of wood was barely visible in between his sausage fingers as the club bouncer ground it in between his molars. " Talk. " Roger said, tasting the word slowly as the barkeep handed Pike a new glass. " Like you talked with Garcia?" The glass Pike was holding froze, the rim almost touching his lips. He set the glass back down on the counter, the ice cube shaking up and down in the amber liquid. Roger angled his body around, shoulders sloped like a bear, lips curled in a sneer of disgust. " Oh, yeah. Used to work out in the gym with him. He was a hard worker that one. Told me all about how you gave him the job with an advance pay. Said you saved his ass from having to send his kids to the orphanage." The chuckle that came after felt like a jackhammer in Pike's ears." So, you think I believe all that horse shit you spread around about him a month ago?" " You've killed people before, Roger." " Oh, sure, but I've never lied about it." Roger paused " Why try so hard to pretend to be something you're not, Petey?" Two feet on him. He knows it'll take a second and a half for him to pull his Walther and half a second for Roger to lie face down on the floor. His hand inches towards his belt and he meets Roger's eyes for the first time. His throat, an adam's apple the size of a grapefruit, is wide open. Just like where he shot Garcia. " Roger." Shoshanna speaks, her tone soft yet stern, as she crosses her tattooed arms. "He's had enough. You want to explain to Pearl why you're harassing a guest?" The bouncer shakes his head, casting a narrowed gaze towards him, before he leaves, parting the crowd apart with each step he takes. He doesn't hear what the barkeep says - something about Pearl coming to meet him soon- and watches Shoshanna pour another glass of whiskey for him. [/center]