There were only five things that Mike regretted in his entire life.
(denial)
He's been there so many times. Seen this room, walked this floor as Leonard had crooned. Every weekend, the same designation. 273D squawks out on the radio and off they go, him and his partner. He's greeted by the same sight, every damn time. Something's broken. A smear of blood. And of course, Gordy, chest heaving, fists bunched and looking like a prize fighter who'd just won the title.
Except for the frail, huddled woman lying at his feet, too scared to move. Too scared to even make a sound. Wide eyes. Wrists like little branches. A victim in anyone's book.
It's a stupid, stupid game and worst of all Gordy knows it. And Mike imagines, when the nights stretch on and he works the beat late, that the bastard can't wait for his next visit. That he loves when he hears the car pull up outside the house, and sees Mike's face. That same expression, every time-come on, tonight's the night we press charges-but knowing that it'll all end the same way. Gordy in the backseat, Mike in the front, throwing him into the drunk tank and letting him go the next day. Like clockwork. Like a game.
So maybe he takes himself down a dark path that night, and takes Gordy down an even darker one, looking for the bright light in the middle of nowhere to bring it all to a close. But no matter how many times he tries recalling the ultimate surge of satisfaction as Gordy stared up at him, mouth wrapped around the gun barrel and choking on his prayers-knowing that this is justice, as pure as it ever gets-
He only remembers Gordy's wife, sprawled on the floor. Dead eyes coated with blood and watery grey. The last look on her face is one of surprise. Likely she hadn't seen the blender coming, to break upon her one last time. At least he gave her that, the medics commiserate, and Mike is pretty sure he wouldn't give Gordy the same favour.
Her surprise isn't a comfort but Mike can pretend, and it isn't a half-measure, so he can live with it. Lying to yourself doesn't go out of fashion, and neither does revenge for that matter, but it's the latter that sees him turn in the badge.
(anger)
Mike is a cleaner, and when Goodman calls him, frantic, expects to find the turgid waste of space that all junkies are. Only he finds the kid instead.
"Saul Goodman sent me," he says, and he could have told the kid that Bugs Bunny sent him and it would make as much sense to him right now. Stinking of sweat and burnt metal. Wide-eyed, red-eyed, dead-eyed. The why of it lies on the bed inside, soaked in vomit and staring at the ceiling. He doesn't need to feel for a pulse. He's seen enough of them to know when they've checked out.
And it hurts to see the girl like that, because Kaylee is turning nine next month and this is ABQ, where the drug lords and restaurateurs are one and the same and all manner of bad shit can happen to a kid. But contempt is safer than compassion, so he gets to work. He does his business. He cleans up.
Slapping some sense into the kid doesn't bother him any. It feels good, in fact. The local cops will go even harder on him if it means a viable lead, and ever since the blue meth started cropping up they've gotten even worse. ODs are not a high priority, and on some level that is hilarious. A thousand bloated corpses lying inside their dens would be a pay-off if it meant securing some crystal. Otherwise, it's just a nuisance.
Mike is angry. Mike is jaded. Mike wants the kid to stick to the story, just so, and ensure he keeps his sad excuse of a life far away from him or anyone near to him.
But Mike's not stone-hearted, as much as he tries to be, and gives the kid what little reassurance he can. There isn't much. Mike knows the world is a bad place, knows that it punishes everyone by the same set of numbers and that junkies are just a little lower down on the scale than most. Even if he survives today, more than likely he'll find his way to the shooting gallery and die gasping, like the girl did.
You're in the home stretch. Mike drives away. He doesn't look back.
But fast-forward a few months and the kid is helping run the goddamned meth lab, and the kid's name is Jesse, and Mike has bigger problems.
(bargaining)
Pinkman is a loose cannon, and Mike is almost embarrassed to have him as part of the operation. But embarrassment doesn't last. Jail, on the other hand, can last a damned long time. So he gives Walt the professional courtesy, tells him the story he's never told anyone.
It's amusing because the movies and TV shows would have you believe that you only shared that sort of thing with your closest, closer-than-blood family. Instead Mike fashions it into a weapon-no, a shield, something to stave off the explosion that he believes, knows that Walt is going to be.
But then Walter is refusing to go down the stairs, and babbling all kinds of offers and promises, anything to keep breathing, and Mike is just reminded of Gordy, all animal whines and uncontrollable sobs. Walter is a weedy man, turned thin and mottled by the cancer but some things translate easily. Mike wonders, does he really have to do this? Gordy unleashed himself on one woman, night after night. Walter has blundered about like a child in the dark, and sure, people been hurt, been killed. But Mike knows if they compared body counts, then Mike would be due for a bullet to the skull, ten times over.
Is it necessary?
"Shut up! Shut. Up. I can't do it. I'm sorry."
Mike wonders, later, if Gale went out the same way, lisping with tears and barely able to speak. He doesn't mourn him, because he's past that sort of thing, but still, he wonders. Not because there's a better way to go-there aren't any better ways to go-but because he wonders if he would have hesitated, if Gale and Walter's positions had been reversed.
He stops wondering after a while. Mike has no time for it. Gale is dead, Walter is alive and Mike is truly sorry. Sorry he didn't gun him down, right there on the spot.
It comes back to bite him, of course. Of course.
(depression)
His wife died years ago. He had the cavalcade of remembrances and goodbyes a hundred times over, and, like a child at Christmas time, he's tired of tradition.
Except now.
The sounds of the playground are too loud, and the sunlight spears into his eyes. Time isn't stretching, it's him that feels stretched. He can feel DEA eyes on him and he knows that this is it. His carefully constructed facsimile of a life has fallen around his ears. It started with Gus, and it ends now with Walter White.
Why did every disaster begin with that bastard's name?
Mike is used to making swift exits. Prides himself on them. He figured he'd make one sooner or later, whether behind the wheel or facing the bullet. It comes with the job.
But leaving her on the swings cuts him deeper than he'd ever thought possible. Hurts him worse than all the bullet wounds, all the shrapnel, all the dead wives and lost kids and-
Funny thing to happen to a man who'd often looked into his soul and found nothing there worth having.
Funny how there's always a little left to lose.
(acceptance)
Gut shot.
It's bad. He knows it.
He didn't look in the bag. He should have. It was part of his training, when he first entered the world of private investigation. Always suspect the worst. Never take anything at face value.
Gus Fring had known the importance of that, right until the moment of his death. He shares that with Mike and he's amused they both made such amateur mistakes. Gallows humour.
Hell, even Walter knew it. And now the petty, prideful, egomaniacal son of a bitch was free to cook his meth. Build the empire. Take Jesse and crush whatever was left of the poor kid.
He hears Walter speaking but he can barely make it out. It doesn't matter. Anything he says is poison, a venomous white noise. He lets Walter know what he thinks, and for once the stupid bastard does as he's told. Shut the fuck up.
He feels the cool riverbank mud on his cheek before oblivion takes him.
Five times Mike regretted. Probably there would have been more. But it's alright.
All bad things come to an end.