certainty of what comes next. He chambers a round, praying to some god – any god – that his hands don't shake too much. Sure, Seth has buried a bullet between the eyes of the man who shot his father, but face-to-face with an unarmed stranger, this is an entirely new horror. Yet, he cannot hesitate, cannot be considered weak. He bites his own tongue, lifts the pistol and pulls the trigger in one fluid movement. No time to think, or to hesitate. Thugs don't think.
The percussion ricochets around the small space until it becomes a ringing in Seth's ears. Hot blood sprays across his face, and he can't stop himself from jerking back as though he's the one who's been hit. Trauma threatens his resolve, not from the present, but the memory of his father's blood on him, the first time he killed. In the wake of the shot, there is no sound, just the snapping backward of the stranger's head, and the slumping of his body as the back of his skull explodes. A wisp of smoke wafts from the gun barrel, and the remaining Cubans shift and relax. Seth looks to Miguel, then his gaze drifts down to his gun. There's blood on it, and on him. He blinks.
“Come on,” says Miguel, “I'll show you to the bathroom. Get you cleaned up.”
Miguel always prefers to practice his English on Seth, rather than let Seth practice his Spanish, and since he is of higher rank, Seth must honor that. Sometimes, though, it's a small comfort to speak his own language, even if the answers are heavily accented. He nods, turns away from the tragic story and spilled brains. It's someone's tragic story. Not his.
He holsters his gun, and peels the t-shirt over his head as he follows Miguel. The splashes of blood make for a dramatic contrast to the otherwise purity and simplicity of the white. If he had had any inkling about today's test, God knows he would have worn any other color. He blinks, glances at his hands. Yes, of course, they too are bloody. Such a close range, was that part of the test? Is he supposed to know the feel of the blood from someone he'll never know, blood he spilled? It's better to believe that he'll learn something from this rather than consider that he feels no remorse. Better that death come to the commoners. No, he's just thankful for those other guys, because he's not the one who has to clean up the mess.
Miguel motions to a bank of dirty sinks, then slips out of his shirt, as well. The pipes are antiquated, but they chug to life when Seth turns them, and the two spend the next several minutes silently scrubbing blood from their skin.
Seth catches his reflection in the splintered mirror before him, sees the darkening red against his perfect tan. For a moment's breath, he pauses. This is an image he will never forget, the face of a ghost, with a hand of death. The memory of the emptiness in his gut might haunt him tomorrow, forever, and yet maybe not. Perhaps he'll care less and less each day. He lets his hands fill with water, and buries his face in it.
This is the nature of our way. You know that, but it's always bothered you. His father's dying words. It must always bother you, Seth.
“Hey.” Miguel's voice cuts into Seth's stormy thoughts, and the Morgan wipes the water from his eyes to make contact. His friend and boss' features have softened considerably. “You ok?”
A question lingers on the tip of Seth's tongue; how old was Miguel when he had to do what Seth just did? He bites it back, and cocks his devilish smirk. “Yeah, man, I'm good. Swear. I do wish I had worn different pants. These are my favorite jeans.”
Miguel's eyebrows lift. Then he shakes his head and chuckles. He looks back to his own reflection in the mostly in tact mirror above his sink, and his smile fades as he wipes at some blood on his cheek with his shirt. He says, “I doubt we'll be here very long.”
“Another big job?” Seth asks. He notices the somber change to Miguel's tone.
“I have a
The percussion ricochets around the small space until it becomes a ringing in Seth's ears. Hot blood sprays across his face, and he can't stop himself from jerking back as though he's the one who's been hit. Trauma threatens his resolve, not from the present, but the memory of his father's blood on him, the first time he killed. In the wake of the shot, there is no sound, just the snapping backward of the stranger's head, and the slumping of his body as the back of his skull explodes. A wisp of smoke wafts from the gun barrel, and the remaining Cubans shift and relax. Seth looks to Miguel, then his gaze drifts down to his gun. There's blood on it, and on him. He blinks.
“Come on,” says Miguel, “I'll show you to the bathroom. Get you cleaned up.”
Miguel always prefers to practice his English on Seth, rather than let Seth practice his Spanish, and since he is of higher rank, Seth must honor that. Sometimes, though, it's a small comfort to speak his own language, even if the answers are heavily accented. He nods, turns away from the tragic story and spilled brains. It's someone's tragic story. Not his.
He holsters his gun, and peels the t-shirt over his head as he follows Miguel. The splashes of blood make for a dramatic contrast to the otherwise purity and simplicity of the white. If he had had any inkling about today's test, God knows he would have worn any other color. He blinks, glances at his hands. Yes, of course, they too are bloody. Such a close range, was that part of the test? Is he supposed to know the feel of the blood from someone he'll never know, blood he spilled? It's better to believe that he'll learn something from this rather than consider that he feels no remorse. Better that death come to the commoners. No, he's just thankful for those other guys, because he's not the one who has to clean up the mess.
Miguel motions to a bank of dirty sinks, then slips out of his shirt, as well. The pipes are antiquated, but they chug to life when Seth turns them, and the two spend the next several minutes silently scrubbing blood from their skin.
Seth catches his reflection in the splintered mirror before him, sees the darkening red against his perfect tan. For a moment's breath, he pauses. This is an image he will never forget, the face of a ghost, with a hand of death. The memory of the emptiness in his gut might haunt him tomorrow, forever, and yet maybe not. Perhaps he'll care less and less each day. He lets his hands fill with water, and buries his face in it.
This is the nature of our way. You know that, but it's always bothered you. His father's dying words. It must always bother you, Seth.
“Hey.” Miguel's voice cuts into Seth's stormy thoughts, and the Morgan wipes the water from his eyes to make contact. His friend and boss' features have softened considerably. “You ok?”
A question lingers on the tip of Seth's tongue; how old was Miguel when he had to do what Seth just did? He bites it back, and cocks his devilish smirk. “Yeah, man, I'm good. Swear. I do wish I had worn different pants. These are my favorite jeans.”
Miguel's eyebrows lift. Then he shakes his head and chuckles. He looks back to his own reflection in the mostly in tact mirror above his sink, and his smile fades as he wipes at some blood on his cheek with his shirt. He says, “I doubt we'll be here very long.”
“Another big job?” Seth asks. He notices the somber change to Miguel's tone.
“I have a
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