A/N: THERE THAT WAS WAY MORE DRAMATIC THAN I HAD PLANED BUT BUM BUM BUM. Happy late birthday Haytchee! Have some Tig!
The rubber ball bounced against the concrete wall and landed back in his hand with a satisfying thump. He watched as it hit the wall, over and over, each time returning to him like a faithful dog. He had traded four smokes for it, the cigarettes had tasted like shit and he needed anything to take his mind off the boredom that was eating him alive.
The Maximum State Penitentiary was run down, poorly lit and smelled like burnt rubber. With no visitors, no yard time, and only one meal a day, he had lost track of how long he had been behind those white-washed bars. Too fucking long, that was for sure.
"Tig," a voice hissed from the cell next to him. He caught the ball and turned his head. From his spot on his cot, he couldn't see who was talking to him. Maybe he was hearing things? Fuck, he couldn't go crazy yet—well, crazier. "Tig!" the voice came again and he turned on his side.
"What?" he said, annoyed.
"You got any smokes?" the man said. His voice was wavering, unsure, meek. Tig shook his head, even though the other inmate couldn't see him. Chucky was a poor excuse for a criminal, and a waste of taxpayer dollars by being in such a high security place. Someone must have hated the man's guts for him to end up here.
"Nah, Chuck," he resumed tossing the ball. "Fresh out."
"Liar," came the small voice.
"Pretty tough when there's a foot of stone between you an' the next guy, aren't ya?" Tig said. "I heard what Cho did to your hands. Tha's fucked up man."
There was silence for a minute and he heard the springs of the cheaply made bed frame groaning as Chucky moved to his own bars. "You got a smoke?" he repeated. "Please?"
"Tell ya what," Tig said, sitting up and swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. "How about you suck my dick and I'll give ya one? I don't do charity, man. Everybody's gotta earn."
He was joking, of course, didn't want that little creep anywhere near his jewels, but the other man thought for a moment then said with a nod, "I accept that."
Tig's face twisted up in disgust, and he shook his head. "Jesus Christ, man. I was kidding." The smaller man would never last in a place like this. He'd be someone's bitch before the year was up, giving head for much less than a pack of Lucky Strikes, or dead, if he was lucky.
With slow movements he stretched his back and moved to the far wall. Good thing about prison was, the bedroom and the bathroom were in the same place. There was no mirror, for the same reason there were no bed sheets—safety precautions. Oh well, no mirror meant he could ignore the graying of his wild, black mane, that had started before he went inside. Fuck, this was not how he thought it all would end.
His large hands rested on the porcelain sink, the only piece of furniture apart from the bed. He remembered asking the guard what he should do if he had to piss? The rent-a-cop had nodded at the sink. Well, then.
He would have gladly pissed in the floor if it meant they'd give him a window, though. He missed sunlight, missed the California heat, and the way the light warmed the leather on his motorcycle. He missed home. Never one to settle down, anywhere on his Dyna had been home. It had been perfect, now, it was gone.
He laid a hand on the cold wall. It was slightly damp and it made him want to crawl under his scratchy, cotton blanket and stow away from this hell hole. The thought made him straighten his shoulders, stand tall—Tig Trager didn't hide.
A loud buzzing sounded from down the hall. It announced someone was entering the cell block. Whistles and the sound of hands slapping against the bars could be heard as the distinct clicking of high heels moved up the catwalk.
"Hey, princess, you wanna spice up my cell?"
"Walk slower, baby, let me finish jerkin' it!"
"I gotta better way t' use those cuffs."
A woman was on the cell block? Tig moved from the sink and to the bars. If there was one way for him to know how long he had been behind bars, it was how long since he had had pussy. He missed it more than home cooked food.
He slid his arms around the bars and watched as a tall broad in a tan blazer and slacks moved passed the rows of inmates. She looked around like she smelled something disgusting. She had thin lips and tight lines around the edges of her eyes from spending her entire career glaring—this was one he had a feeling he wouldn't be able to charm into getting on her knees. Damn.
When she stopped at his cell and turned those hawk-like eyes on him, he moved back a little.
"Alexander Trager?"
He raised an eyebrow, "Who wants to know?"
"I'm Agent Stahl," she flipped a small leather booklet and flashed her badge. "This is Agent Hale." She jerked her head over her shoulder and indicated the man behind her. In his cheap suit, the other agent looked very uncomfortable.
"What do ya want?" he asked, pulling his hands back through the bars and flopping back onto the cot.
"You're in a lot of trouble, Mr. Trager," she continued, putting her hands on her hips, under the jacket. The motion revealed an empty gun holster on her belt, no doubt they took it when she entered the cell block.
"Oh yeah?" he cocked an eyebrow and grinned at her before looking back up at the molding ceiling.
"Fifty years old, GED, US Marine," she rattled off his biography as he heard the sound of a file being opened and papers being flipped. "Divorced twice, two daughters-"
"Well, look at you," he cut her off. "You know everything about me. How about tellin' me a little about you?" He turned and looked at her from under his arm that was resting on his head. "What color panties you got on, doll?"
Her lips tightened and she snapped the file shut. "I'm here to help you, Mr. Trager."
"Sure, ya are," he said.
"How many years you got left?" she cocked her head, straightened, sandy hair, falling to the side. She knew damn well the answer to her question. He stayed quiet. "Twenty-two hundred counts of second degree murder. Even at the minimum sentence for each, that will put you in here passed the second coming of Christ. But, something tells me you're not a believer."
"Nope," he glared at the ceiling and adjusted his hands behind his head. "If he is real, god doesn't give a shit about me."
"Any remorse for all those people you killed?"
"Those charges were bullshit. I was a scape goat," he snarled. "Take that file and shove it up your ass, sweetheart."
"You want to tell me about Lt. Herman Kozik?" she switched gears and Tig felt his fists clench."Where is he now?"
Tig stayed still, refusing to give her his gaze. This bitch had the files, did her homework, she knew where he was, knew the answers to her little games. He wasn't playing.
"He's dead, isn't he, Trager? And that's your fault, too," she pressed him. "Ah, not so talkative anymore?"
Tig bit along the inside of his cheek, keeping his face as stoic as possible. Who did this gash think she was? Maybe if he ignored her, she'd go away, but that was wishful thinking. He knew her type. Desperate to prove herself, wanting so much to run with the big boys and soothe unresolved daddy-issues, that every morning she buckled on her metaphorical strap-on and devoured anything with testosterone.
"You want out, Mr. Trager?" she continued. "I can make that happen. Freedom sound good? Something tells me you're not the type to last long inside a box."
He gave a short bark of laughter. "I didn't bite at your sentimental bullshit, so, now you're offering the outside?" he shook his head. "Tha's desperate, doll. Desperate move-"
"We can help you," her partner spoke up. He had a softer demeanor, but hard eyes that had seen some serious shit. Tig knew cop eyes when he saw them. Agent Hale moved closer to the bars and rested his forearm against them, leaning in to get a better look at Tig.
"Yeah?" Tig said, snarkiness returning once he had a minute to compose his thoughts. "Unless you can get me a curvy brunette and a bottle of Wild Turkey-"
"They're revamping the Jaeger program," he said and the woman glared daggers at him.
"Hale!" she exclaimed as her jaw tightened.
Now, that was interesting. Tig sat up and looked at the Agent. "No shit?" Hale nodded. "Damn," Tig said as he ran a hand through his hair. "Things that bad out there?"
"You have no idea," the other man said, feeling like he was gaining some ground with the convict.
Tig stood and sauntered back over to the bars. He put a hand to his chest and grinned. "So, what you're saying is, you need me?"
Hale's face fell slightly, he wasn't expecting that. Agent Stahl hit him with the file in her hand before shoving it against his chest. "Idiot," she sneered. "Go stand over there." She waited for him to leave before turning back to Tig.
"I don't pilot anymore, doll," he lowered his voice as he leaned against the bars and looked at her. "You should know that."
"You think if we had adequate pilots, I would be here talking to you?" she crossed her arms under her breasts. "Most of them are dead. Against mine, and most of the world's, better judgment, we've integrated the outlaw division to fill the gap."
"You what?" he whispered. Out of all the things that could have spilled from her mouth, that was the last thing he had expected and by the way her eyes tightened around the edges in anger, he knew she wasn't lying. "Who's alive? What have they been doin'? H-"
"You want answers?" she said, stone cold cop face returning once she realized she had him on the ropes. "Come with us."
He looked at her, resented the sly smile that covered her face as she watched him like he was a tiger behind the glass of an exhibit. Dammit, she had him, she really had him. A decade on the inside and she wasn't just offering him freedom, she was offering him answers.
He looked around the room before giving her a grin of his own. "Alright, doll, you win. Let me just pack my things." He stayed still and paused for a moment before holding out his hands. "Oh, look at that, I'm done."
She looked at the guard, not impressed by his jokes. "Bring me Alexander Trager's personal items and street clothes." The guard nodded and pulled out his cuffs to take Tig to be processed for release, but she stopped him. "I don't think those are necessary, are they, Mr. Trager?"
"Nah," he shook his head. "I'll behave." He held up two fingers and winked at her. "Scout's honor."
"I wonder why I don't believe that," she said and he chuckled. As the guard put the large keys into the cell door, he watched, partly mesmerized. And to think, he thought it was going to be another boring day.