Note: The italicized lines are thoughts, in Nina's perspective. The other lines are third person narration. Wow. Confusing, eh? My apologies…
Also, this was written while listening to the acoustic version of "Push" by Matchbox Twenty. I find it to be a lovely Nina/Jack song.
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Is this pathetic? Do I look weak right now?
Something about this scene must be pathetic. Most of it. All of it.
Whatever.
She kneels, right in front of him. Her arms curve up toward her head. Slowly, her hands flatten. She presses them against her short hair, tousling it slightly.
He should kill me this time. I know he won't, but, really, he should.
Only breathing stains the air. She can hear hesitation from him, as he shoves the muzzle of his gun up against the back of her head. Could she have escaped this?
Why did I stop?
Yes, of course.
Damn it!
Wait, that's his catchphrase, isn't it? I think I can borrow it for this occasion.
The gun is shaking, she can feel it. It darts from side to side, placing some sort of mark on her head.
Gradually, she can feel the heat of the barrel subside. A cool rush of air greets her head, brought by the swishing of his hand as he puts the gun away.
Good boy.
Now, a clanging echoes from the depths of his pockets.
Handcuffs, ha.
He hasn't said a word since that raspy, "Drop it, Nina!" when he first came across her.
I wish he would say something.
Her hands are cuffed, one at a time, and then brought down to rest behind her.
What's he so nervous about?
Nina can sense him shaking. His arms, his hands, his face.
His eyes shoot in all directions, not getting a clear look at anything, being totally useless.
The only sound now is his rapid breathing and the frozen pounding of her heart. It hasn't sped up at all, as a normal person's should in this near-death encounter.
She is calm, he is nervous.
It's always been like this… but when did I learn?
This shouldn't be routine in anyone's life. For one, nobody should be arrested or handcuffed so many times. And second, nobody should escape from them so many times, either.
A combination of both made this routine to her.
A sad routine. Without a word exchanged, she'd completely given up. She needed no instruction on this subject.
Not even he was so accustomed to this set of actions.
If someone were after him, he would certainly try anything he could to resist capture. He made a game of trying new things.
She made a game of getting into his mind. She twisted her way into it and took it over. Nothing he thought went by without her stamp of approval. She had to be one step ahead, all the time.
It was best in her line of work.
What, Jack?
One of his hands twitches as it reaches for her. He pulls her up from the ground and forces her to walk.
Their pace is slow, but certainly not relaxed.
She stumbles, only once. He looks down, only once. For the rest of their walk, his attention is aimed directly ahead of them. Never at her. Always beyond her; she means nothing.
That was pathetic. Now I'm going to cry, ready? I'm going to look weak now.
She does so, putting her sly smile away for just a second.
And he feels bad for her, for just a second.
