Heavy Rain Chronicles: A Night In (Scott)
Heavy Rain Chronicles (Part 1/?)
1. A Night In (Scott). POSSIBLE SPOILERS. "All Scott can do is hide away in his apartment and wait for the stalker to come knocking. "
Rating: T (minor language, some violence)
Characters/Pairings: Scott, male OC, gen-fic
Warning(s): possible end-game spoilers
Notes: Inspired by the announcement that the DLC for Heavy Rain might be canned. I, for one, wanted more backstory about the characters. I wanted to try capturing the writing style of Heavy Rain and write genfic, something I don't do enough of. Also, I wanted to write something to Scott, because he is under-appreciated, IMO.
Notes II: If there's enough interest, I was thinking of at least writing one section for Norman (tripto addiction story) and one for Ethan (what is with those blackouts???) .Madison already has The Taxidermist so I'm not as inclined to write one for her.
"Things turned out the way I had expected them to, but I don't know how much more I can take of this," Scott thinks to himself as he stumbles into his apartment. He's soaked to the bone, and he has mud caked on his shoes and the hems of his trousers to boot. He changes as quickly as he can--he doesn't want to catch a cold--and makes immediate use of his inhaler. The dirt under his nails and the mud on his palms wash away as if he had never been forced to grip mud. He doesn't even bother putting pajamas on despite the late hour. He's too pumped up with adrenaline right now. Scott can't even imagine trying to lay down to go to sleep.
All he can do for the first fifteen minutes is pace back and forth around his home, running the events off to himself as he tries to reach some sort of conclusion. While doing this, he manages to listen to three phone messages from unimportant clients, drink three shots of whiskey, toss the junk mail into the trash and cook himself some eggs. Scott plops down at the kitchen table, heaving a sigh as he practically stuffs his mouth.
The last time he ate was early this morning, because he's been so busy. He had to drop that letter off at the post office today--that letter--and then he had to go to the warehouse. He had heard a tip about the location of the Origami Killer's most recent victim, Jeremy Bowles. Seeing as he was born to chase the crazy bastard, Scott had to follow the lead and at least save the young boy from his death.
He failed.
He drove away as fast as he could from the train tracks where the poor boy was dragged to, but he can't help but feel that someone has been following him ever since he first started driving home. Not even making a couple of wrong turns on the way back threw off his follower. All Scott can do is hide away in his apartment and wait for the stalker to come knocking.
He has his pistol tucked in the pocket of his coat just in case. He is ready for anyone who might try to attack him or otherwise question his motives. Now it's just a matter of playing the waiting game. The blacked rimmed clock in the kitchen ticks too loud for Scott's tastes, the tiles click too much as he walks to the kitchen sink and dumps his dishes in there. He takes a look at the clock, arching a brow as a frown turns the corners of his mouth.
It's not even quarter past two yet.
"You've got to be kidding me. These things usually take longer," Scott mutters.
He goes back to pacing around the apartment, tucking his coat in the back of the armoire near his study, making sure the back is completely covered. He's not exactly in the mood to clean things out in there at the moment, so better to hide it. When anyone comes poking around here, Scott wants it to look as natural as possible. Still though, despite all his cleaning and preparations, Scott can't help but wonder why he is so terrified, so nervous. He should be used to this sort of thing by now. He's had a long life--the police force, his time as a private eye, even...further back.
He shakes his head, taking another swig of whiskey from the bottle in his desk and taking another glance at the clock on the wall.
Now it's quarter past two. No, wait, it's sixteen past two.
Scott slumps into the chair at his desk, checking off his list of things to do. He already ran out and delivered the letter, and he's located some prostitute whose child was killed by the Origami Killer. He needs to go interview her soon, he figures, within the next couple of days or so. He already has money set aside to pay her sitting in the left drawer, although he has a feeling that she won't want to talk regardless of how much she is paid...Speaking of which, he needs to send his landlord the rent for the month, and he needs to go pick up groceries for the weekend.
"Groceries," Scott scoffs, crossing it off the list.
He doesn't even have time to cook microwave dinners right now, and money is tight as it is.
The lamp flickers, and the lightning claps outside as it begins to rain harder. Scott almost swears that he could have heard footsteps outside, but he relaxes his grip on his pistol.
It's times like this that Scott wonders what he got himself into exaclty. He remembers moving around a lot as a child, and he remembers that he never quite got along with most of the families he lived with. He always had trust issues. Hell, he still has trust issues--but what does it matter? If people knew the full extent of his job, people wouldn't trust him neither.
No, Scott Shelby was never one to make friends, nor does he care to. He just wants to get his job finished, whenever the hell that is. He wonders sometimes if he should regret everything he has done for the last few years, but this is something he has always wanted to do, needed to do. People always told him he should find some closure, and this was the only way he could think of successfully doing so.
Maybe that is all anyone needs, especially when they have been suffering for as long as Scott has, and with no one to cry to. He's very much used to being alone after quitting his job as a cop, but still, it's hard. He's never been able to explain it to anyone, not even the therapist that his third adopted mother insisted on. Some good it did, that's for sure.
Why should he have to go to a therapist when everything makes so much more sense the way it is now? Not everyone would approve of his methods, but Scott knows what he's doing. If he can rescue that many more mothers from the wrath of their terrible, terrible husband, then he's done everything right. That's what he tells himself every night before he goes to bed.
Speaking of which...
The clock says two-thirty. The clock from his bedroom, set ahead of his wake-up time, chimes loudly. Thunder claps outside as a loud knock comes from the door. Scott double checks sure he has the pistol fully loaded, even reloading it as quickly as he can as he silently glides to the door. If this person at the door turns out to be the stalker from before, he doesn't want to be caught unarmed.
He can only hope that it doesn't come to that.
Scott takes a peek through the peep hole, his brows furrowing as he sees a man, probably around thirty or forty years old, shoving a set of car keys into his pocket. Scott stands there silently as the stranger outside knocks again.
Three...
Another knock. This time the man clears his throat. Scott can't help but notice that he sounds congested--perhaps the stranger has a cold, or he could be a smoker.
Two...
"Is anyone home?" the man asks, his Indian accent plucking at his words.
Scott's shaky hand is on the door handle.
One...
"Hello? I'm looking for Scott Shelby? I apologize for the time, but I saw his car being parked not even an hour ago..."
The door flies open and Scott takes on the most intimidating persona that he can. The man in front of him is much calmer than he expected though...almost too calm. The stranger isn't even flinching in the face of the private eye's suspicious expression. Scott almost jerks back when the stranger sticks a hand out, but he reluctantly takes it, his other hand loosening from the grip on his gun tucked in his back pocket.
"How can I help you?" Scott asks, his voice cold as he lets the man into his apartment. He makes a mental note of the fact that the man doesn't even hand him his soaked coat to hang on the rack.
"My name is Mandeep Haaz, Mr. Shelby. Perhaps you have heard of me?"
Scott shakes his head. "Can't say the name rings a bell."
Mr. Haaz's deep, brown eyes bore at Scott as he looks over at the private eye's desk, eyeing the pile of papers sitting atop it. Scott stands at attention as the Indian man's glance jerks away from the desktop, glancing back at him as he runs a hand through his salt and pepper hair. Haaz's fingers drum the wooden surface as he grimaces, his lips tightening. His red-tinted skin looks sickly in the lighitng of Shelby's home.
"I don't suppose you have at least heard about the Philadelphia Inquirer's ongoing investigation on the Origami Killer."
Scott swallows nervously, already hating where this conversation is going. "The Inquirer and every other newspaper out there," he retorts. Mandeep pauses, narrowing his eyes. "If you believe you have new evidence to show me, then you are mistaken, Mr. Haaz." Scott leans on the back of an armchair. "I'm experienced in such investigations. I know what I'm doing, and I don't appreciate upstart journalists trying to prove me wrong."
Mandeep only looks slightly taken aback. "That is not why I am here."
"Then why are you here?" Scott's fists clench and unclench.
"I'm here to interview you." Mandeep rummages into his coat pocket and pulls out a small tape recorder, clicking it on and off. "If you would indulge me."
"...Fine." Something is off about this man. Scott can feel it deep in his gut. It's too early to pull out his pistol, however. All he can do for now is play along until the right opportunity comes along. "But make it quick. I don't have all night, not when there is a young boy out there whose life is in danger."
Every little lie helps.
Mandeep coughs and clears his throat before he turns the audio recorder on. "2011 has been a terrifying year around Philadelphia. The Origami Killer has yet taken more innocent lives in a murderous rampage with no signs for slowing down after the disappearance of Jeremy Bowles. However, I am here with Scott Shelby, a freelance detective who has been tracing the Origami Killer ever since the first murder happened. Mr. Shelby, can you give your opinion on the way the police department has handled the OK cases?"
"Well, it's very difficult to say. I have friends in that department, friends who have worked so hard to put an end to these...murders." Shelby's sight catches something strange in the window. A flicker. Something. He looks away. He's just being paranoid--probably just some rain drops. "I cannot give a full answer to this question. It is tragic, however, that the higher rate of crime in these poor neighborhoods have made the investigations more difficult."
"I see, I see..." Mandeep's eyes are running across the floor...right to the muddy foot prints Scott forgot to mop up earlier. "Do you believe that it is easier for you to investigate than it is for the cops?"
"Most certainly, Mr. Haaz." Another flicker in the window. This time, Scott is sure that there is definitely an outline of a shadow there. "I don't wear a uniform, so if I am careful enough, nobody really has to notice what I am doing."
"And the killings? Why do you think nobody has seen the killer himself? Why, despite the patterns that the murderer utilizes--the orchids, the train tracks, the origami, the rain--why has nobody been able to find any clues concerning the identity of the killer himself?"
Scott chuckles darkly, looking over at his armoire. "I guess the killer is careful...He's..." Scott's eyebrows shoot up. "He's calm, organized, scrupulous...The worst kind of killer that an investigator can try to follow. And the symbols...they all relate to his past."
"What makes you so sure about that, Mr. Shelby?" A malevolent smile twists the corners of Mandeep's mouth.
Scott spots the man on the fire escape outside his window, standing on the next building over.
"I'm an investigator." Shelby doesn't let the new stalker frighten him. "It's my job. I have to think in new ways that others don't so that the crime can be solved."
Mr. Haaz leans forward, pointing the audio recorder even closer towards Scott. "Then tell me, Mr. Shelby, do these new ways include walking to the scene of the crime before newspapers announce them?"
The man in the window is starting to point something.
Scott's heart begins to race.
"Yes."
A flash comes from the window, but it sure as hell isn't lightning and thunder.
"With the recently deceased body of a young boy lying untouched, unreported?" Mandeep's voice grows thicker, more animal-like as his smile stretches his chapped lips to reveal his yellowed teeth. His brown eyes turn black as they begin to gleam in satisfaction when he sees Shelby's concentration begin to break. "And what if, the boy is Jeremy Bowles?"
"I didn't kill Jeremy Bowles."
A second flash.
"Have you been out tonight, Mr. Shelby?"
A third flash.
"Investigating."
"Investigating what?"
He knows, Scott realizes.
Mandeep knows where he has been, what he has been doing, who he is. The bastard has just been leading him all along. What he intends to do with this information, he doesn't care to find out. All he knows is that he has to put an end to things now before Mandeep blows his cover.
A fourth flash.
This time, Scott can't take it anymore. Before he can even stop himself, he whips out his pistol and fires it, the noise a loud crack as the bullet flies through the window. By some miracle, the bullet manages to hit the man outside right in the head, causing him to crumple over in a heap. His head smacks against the railing on his fall, and the object in his hand--a camera, most likely, lands on the ground in a smash.
"I don't appreciate your questions," Scott growls, pointing the gun at Mandeep Haaz's sweaty forehead. Mandeep's smile drops as he lowers the audio recorder. His pride falls to his feet, his bravado all but gone when the barrel of Scott's gun is leaving an impression on his skin.
"Maybe I don't understand everything, but I know who you really are."
"If you're so sure, smart guy, than say it."
"I--"
"Say it." Scott presses the barrel harder into Mandeep's forehead as he grits his teeth. This mess is going to take a lot of clean-up--if he wipes the fingerprints off his pistol and makes it look like Haaz committed suicide...He really had hoped it wouldn't come down to this, but he has to keep up his cover. What's another life taken away when he's taken so many others in the last three years anyway?
"Origami Killer," Mandeep answers in a hoarse whisper.
"Good job," Scott says, sarcasm dripping.
A pause.
The two men just stare at each other for a split second. Everything is a sensation to both of them at this point--the sound of their breathing, their heartbeats, the rain hitting the windows, the wind begin sucked through the bullet hole in the window. The sight of the lights flickering slightly, the widening and flickering of Mandeep's eyes, the wrinkles on Scott's tired, ragged face. Their feet sinking into the floor, as if they are statues captured for a moment in time. The saliva going down Mandeep's dry throat as he swallows nervously.
"Shoot me, and more people will come after you," he says bitterly, the dark glee never quite leaving his eyes. "And then one day, people will know what you have really done."
Scott reaches into Mandeep's other pocket and pulls out a small pistol. He fires this one just right below the bullet hole from his first shot. He tries to pull the trigger again, but it just clicks at his bidding. "And only one shot? ...Not that it matters. What will you have done, Mandeep? What was your purpose in coming here tonight?"
"I'm doing my job."
Scott takes one last look at Mandeep.
"So am I."
1. A Night In (Scott). POSSIBLE SPOILERS. "All Scott can do is hide away in his apartment and wait for the stalker to come knocking. "
Rating: T (minor language, some violence)
Characters/Pairings: Scott, male OC, gen-fic
Warning(s): possible end-game spoilers
Notes: Inspired by the announcement that the DLC for Heavy Rain might be canned. I, for one, wanted more backstory about the characters. I wanted to try capturing the writing style of Heavy Rain and write genfic, something I don't do enough of. Also, I wanted to write something to Scott, because he is under-appreciated, IMO.
Notes II: If there's enough interest, I was thinking of at least writing one section for Norman (tripto addiction story) and one for Ethan (what is with those blackouts???) .Madison already has The Taxidermist so I'm not as inclined to write one for her.
"Things turned out the way I had expected them to, but I don't know how much more I can take of this," Scott thinks to himself as he stumbles into his apartment. He's soaked to the bone, and he has mud caked on his shoes and the hems of his trousers to boot. He changes as quickly as he can--he doesn't want to catch a cold--and makes immediate use of his inhaler. The dirt under his nails and the mud on his palms wash away as if he had never been forced to grip mud. He doesn't even bother putting pajamas on despite the late hour. He's too pumped up with adrenaline right now. Scott can't even imagine trying to lay down to go to sleep.
All he can do for the first fifteen minutes is pace back and forth around his home, running the events off to himself as he tries to reach some sort of conclusion. While doing this, he manages to listen to three phone messages from unimportant clients, drink three shots of whiskey, toss the junk mail into the trash and cook himself some eggs. Scott plops down at the kitchen table, heaving a sigh as he practically stuffs his mouth.
The last time he ate was early this morning, because he's been so busy. He had to drop that letter off at the post office today--that letter--and then he had to go to the warehouse. He had heard a tip about the location of the Origami Killer's most recent victim, Jeremy Bowles. Seeing as he was born to chase the crazy bastard, Scott had to follow the lead and at least save the young boy from his death.
He failed.
He drove away as fast as he could from the train tracks where the poor boy was dragged to, but he can't help but feel that someone has been following him ever since he first started driving home. Not even making a couple of wrong turns on the way back threw off his follower. All Scott can do is hide away in his apartment and wait for the stalker to come knocking.
He has his pistol tucked in the pocket of his coat just in case. He is ready for anyone who might try to attack him or otherwise question his motives. Now it's just a matter of playing the waiting game. The blacked rimmed clock in the kitchen ticks too loud for Scott's tastes, the tiles click too much as he walks to the kitchen sink and dumps his dishes in there. He takes a look at the clock, arching a brow as a frown turns the corners of his mouth.
It's not even quarter past two yet.
"You've got to be kidding me. These things usually take longer," Scott mutters.
He goes back to pacing around the apartment, tucking his coat in the back of the armoire near his study, making sure the back is completely covered. He's not exactly in the mood to clean things out in there at the moment, so better to hide it. When anyone comes poking around here, Scott wants it to look as natural as possible. Still though, despite all his cleaning and preparations, Scott can't help but wonder why he is so terrified, so nervous. He should be used to this sort of thing by now. He's had a long life--the police force, his time as a private eye, even...further back.
He shakes his head, taking another swig of whiskey from the bottle in his desk and taking another glance at the clock on the wall.
Now it's quarter past two. No, wait, it's sixteen past two.
Scott slumps into the chair at his desk, checking off his list of things to do. He already ran out and delivered the letter, and he's located some prostitute whose child was killed by the Origami Killer. He needs to go interview her soon, he figures, within the next couple of days or so. He already has money set aside to pay her sitting in the left drawer, although he has a feeling that she won't want to talk regardless of how much she is paid...Speaking of which, he needs to send his landlord the rent for the month, and he needs to go pick up groceries for the weekend.
"Groceries," Scott scoffs, crossing it off the list.
He doesn't even have time to cook microwave dinners right now, and money is tight as it is.
The lamp flickers, and the lightning claps outside as it begins to rain harder. Scott almost swears that he could have heard footsteps outside, but he relaxes his grip on his pistol.
It's times like this that Scott wonders what he got himself into exaclty. He remembers moving around a lot as a child, and he remembers that he never quite got along with most of the families he lived with. He always had trust issues. Hell, he still has trust issues--but what does it matter? If people knew the full extent of his job, people wouldn't trust him neither.
No, Scott Shelby was never one to make friends, nor does he care to. He just wants to get his job finished, whenever the hell that is. He wonders sometimes if he should regret everything he has done for the last few years, but this is something he has always wanted to do, needed to do. People always told him he should find some closure, and this was the only way he could think of successfully doing so.
Maybe that is all anyone needs, especially when they have been suffering for as long as Scott has, and with no one to cry to. He's very much used to being alone after quitting his job as a cop, but still, it's hard. He's never been able to explain it to anyone, not even the therapist that his third adopted mother insisted on. Some good it did, that's for sure.
Why should he have to go to a therapist when everything makes so much more sense the way it is now? Not everyone would approve of his methods, but Scott knows what he's doing. If he can rescue that many more mothers from the wrath of their terrible, terrible husband, then he's done everything right. That's what he tells himself every night before he goes to bed.
Speaking of which...
The clock says two-thirty. The clock from his bedroom, set ahead of his wake-up time, chimes loudly. Thunder claps outside as a loud knock comes from the door. Scott double checks sure he has the pistol fully loaded, even reloading it as quickly as he can as he silently glides to the door. If this person at the door turns out to be the stalker from before, he doesn't want to be caught unarmed.
He can only hope that it doesn't come to that.
Scott takes a peek through the peep hole, his brows furrowing as he sees a man, probably around thirty or forty years old, shoving a set of car keys into his pocket. Scott stands there silently as the stranger outside knocks again.
Three...
Another knock. This time the man clears his throat. Scott can't help but notice that he sounds congested--perhaps the stranger has a cold, or he could be a smoker.
Two...
"Is anyone home?" the man asks, his Indian accent plucking at his words.
Scott's shaky hand is on the door handle.
One...
"Hello? I'm looking for Scott Shelby? I apologize for the time, but I saw his car being parked not even an hour ago..."
The door flies open and Scott takes on the most intimidating persona that he can. The man in front of him is much calmer than he expected though...almost too calm. The stranger isn't even flinching in the face of the private eye's suspicious expression. Scott almost jerks back when the stranger sticks a hand out, but he reluctantly takes it, his other hand loosening from the grip on his gun tucked in his back pocket.
"How can I help you?" Scott asks, his voice cold as he lets the man into his apartment. He makes a mental note of the fact that the man doesn't even hand him his soaked coat to hang on the rack.
"My name is Mandeep Haaz, Mr. Shelby. Perhaps you have heard of me?"
Scott shakes his head. "Can't say the name rings a bell."
Mr. Haaz's deep, brown eyes bore at Scott as he looks over at the private eye's desk, eyeing the pile of papers sitting atop it. Scott stands at attention as the Indian man's glance jerks away from the desktop, glancing back at him as he runs a hand through his salt and pepper hair. Haaz's fingers drum the wooden surface as he grimaces, his lips tightening. His red-tinted skin looks sickly in the lighitng of Shelby's home.
"I don't suppose you have at least heard about the Philadelphia Inquirer's ongoing investigation on the Origami Killer."
Scott swallows nervously, already hating where this conversation is going. "The Inquirer and every other newspaper out there," he retorts. Mandeep pauses, narrowing his eyes. "If you believe you have new evidence to show me, then you are mistaken, Mr. Haaz." Scott leans on the back of an armchair. "I'm experienced in such investigations. I know what I'm doing, and I don't appreciate upstart journalists trying to prove me wrong."
Mandeep only looks slightly taken aback. "That is not why I am here."
"Then why are you here?" Scott's fists clench and unclench.
"I'm here to interview you." Mandeep rummages into his coat pocket and pulls out a small tape recorder, clicking it on and off. "If you would indulge me."
"...Fine." Something is off about this man. Scott can feel it deep in his gut. It's too early to pull out his pistol, however. All he can do for now is play along until the right opportunity comes along. "But make it quick. I don't have all night, not when there is a young boy out there whose life is in danger."
Every little lie helps.
Mandeep coughs and clears his throat before he turns the audio recorder on. "2011 has been a terrifying year around Philadelphia. The Origami Killer has yet taken more innocent lives in a murderous rampage with no signs for slowing down after the disappearance of Jeremy Bowles. However, I am here with Scott Shelby, a freelance detective who has been tracing the Origami Killer ever since the first murder happened. Mr. Shelby, can you give your opinion on the way the police department has handled the OK cases?"
"Well, it's very difficult to say. I have friends in that department, friends who have worked so hard to put an end to these...murders." Shelby's sight catches something strange in the window. A flicker. Something. He looks away. He's just being paranoid--probably just some rain drops. "I cannot give a full answer to this question. It is tragic, however, that the higher rate of crime in these poor neighborhoods have made the investigations more difficult."
"I see, I see..." Mandeep's eyes are running across the floor...right to the muddy foot prints Scott forgot to mop up earlier. "Do you believe that it is easier for you to investigate than it is for the cops?"
"Most certainly, Mr. Haaz." Another flicker in the window. This time, Scott is sure that there is definitely an outline of a shadow there. "I don't wear a uniform, so if I am careful enough, nobody really has to notice what I am doing."
"And the killings? Why do you think nobody has seen the killer himself? Why, despite the patterns that the murderer utilizes--the orchids, the train tracks, the origami, the rain--why has nobody been able to find any clues concerning the identity of the killer himself?"
Scott chuckles darkly, looking over at his armoire. "I guess the killer is careful...He's..." Scott's eyebrows shoot up. "He's calm, organized, scrupulous...The worst kind of killer that an investigator can try to follow. And the symbols...they all relate to his past."
"What makes you so sure about that, Mr. Shelby?" A malevolent smile twists the corners of Mandeep's mouth.
Scott spots the man on the fire escape outside his window, standing on the next building over.
"I'm an investigator." Shelby doesn't let the new stalker frighten him. "It's my job. I have to think in new ways that others don't so that the crime can be solved."
Mr. Haaz leans forward, pointing the audio recorder even closer towards Scott. "Then tell me, Mr. Shelby, do these new ways include walking to the scene of the crime before newspapers announce them?"
The man in the window is starting to point something.
Scott's heart begins to race.
"Yes."
A flash comes from the window, but it sure as hell isn't lightning and thunder.
"With the recently deceased body of a young boy lying untouched, unreported?" Mandeep's voice grows thicker, more animal-like as his smile stretches his chapped lips to reveal his yellowed teeth. His brown eyes turn black as they begin to gleam in satisfaction when he sees Shelby's concentration begin to break. "And what if, the boy is Jeremy Bowles?"
"I didn't kill Jeremy Bowles."
A second flash.
"Have you been out tonight, Mr. Shelby?"
A third flash.
"Investigating."
"Investigating what?"
He knows, Scott realizes.
Mandeep knows where he has been, what he has been doing, who he is. The bastard has just been leading him all along. What he intends to do with this information, he doesn't care to find out. All he knows is that he has to put an end to things now before Mandeep blows his cover.
A fourth flash.
This time, Scott can't take it anymore. Before he can even stop himself, he whips out his pistol and fires it, the noise a loud crack as the bullet flies through the window. By some miracle, the bullet manages to hit the man outside right in the head, causing him to crumple over in a heap. His head smacks against the railing on his fall, and the object in his hand--a camera, most likely, lands on the ground in a smash.
"I don't appreciate your questions," Scott growls, pointing the gun at Mandeep Haaz's sweaty forehead. Mandeep's smile drops as he lowers the audio recorder. His pride falls to his feet, his bravado all but gone when the barrel of Scott's gun is leaving an impression on his skin.
"Maybe I don't understand everything, but I know who you really are."
"If you're so sure, smart guy, than say it."
"I--"
"Say it." Scott presses the barrel harder into Mandeep's forehead as he grits his teeth. This mess is going to take a lot of clean-up--if he wipes the fingerprints off his pistol and makes it look like Haaz committed suicide...He really had hoped it wouldn't come down to this, but he has to keep up his cover. What's another life taken away when he's taken so many others in the last three years anyway?
"Origami Killer," Mandeep answers in a hoarse whisper.
"Good job," Scott says, sarcasm dripping.
A pause.
The two men just stare at each other for a split second. Everything is a sensation to both of them at this point--the sound of their breathing, their heartbeats, the rain hitting the windows, the wind begin sucked through the bullet hole in the window. The sight of the lights flickering slightly, the widening and flickering of Mandeep's eyes, the wrinkles on Scott's tired, ragged face. Their feet sinking into the floor, as if they are statues captured for a moment in time. The saliva going down Mandeep's dry throat as he swallows nervously.
"Shoot me, and more people will come after you," he says bitterly, the dark glee never quite leaving his eyes. "And then one day, people will know what you have really done."
Scott reaches into Mandeep's other pocket and pulls out a small pistol. He fires this one just right below the bullet hole from his first shot. He tries to pull the trigger again, but it just clicks at his bidding. "And only one shot? ...Not that it matters. What will you have done, Mandeep? What was your purpose in coming here tonight?"
"I'm doing my job."
Scott takes one last look at Mandeep.
"So am I."