Blood does not bounce on the ice, as promised. It merely splatters.
Exactly as he was expecting, then. By this point in his career, Murdoc rather fancies that he has an understanding with blood. Its ways, its habits, its scent...
By his side, Penny Parker is squeaking away. "...oh, I'm sorry you had to see that! Usually they're so careful, and- oh, no, here comes Mac. And he's so sweet usually."
"I'll be perfectly honest, I can't tell any of them apart in those ridiculous helmets." Just a simple lie to keep his hand in, and the sentence had even started off truthful. But this blonde-haired arrival's caught his eye for some reason.
He has no interest whatsoever in the byzantine rules of the local sport (his dear leading lady's attempts to explain have certainly left him none the wiser), but this much is clear enough: there are twelve players on the ice, eleven of whom are keen to play a good game and beat their rivals.
The twelfth just wants to murder everybody.
Perhaps he doesn't know hockey, but Murdoc's taught himself to read body language, however grotesque the circumstances- and the new player comes in with a hot violence that utterly overshadows his luckless, hapless fellows, showing them off for the sheep they are. In, out, indifferent to his teammates and slashing his way through the crowd, with a style purified in sheer brutality. Cunning brutality, too- one favourite play with his bat (or whatever it is they call it), just doing nothing, flicking lazily about, until precisely the right moment comes to slam the target home- oh, characteristic as a fingerprint! A viciously perfect little sweep that dominates the field of play, as it so thoroughly deserves.
This bloodlust was never meant to grace a provincial backwater. Like Mozart trapped in Peoria, Beethoven doomed to a Cardiff sitting-room.
"He has this coffee shop not far from the theatre, I love it," Penny says. "Like I said, he's nice the rest of the time - but I don't know if he really ought to play hockey so much. I mean, you can see he's not even very good at it."
"I wouldn't know," Murdoc murmurs, as the umpire flags up blondie for a penalty. Of course. They wouldn't appreciate real artistry in a place this shallow.
And blondie nods, and goes- but not before one last slam, a harsh sweep of bat against ice, ringing all the way to hell with its clarion anger.
Unholy catharsis. Of course he would have done the same. Of course he would have.
Well-honed assassin's instincts awake. Time to leave. Now. Forget his vacation of self-indulgent stage performance, forget this backwater town, find an airport and forget this entire continent exists, if necessary. If there is one sin forbidden in his profession, it's empathy.
But like many a better man, Murdoc finds himself the hopeless prey of temptation.
"Coffee shop, you said? I really must go there sometime."
xxxxxxxxxxxxx
"Tea. Not whatever dreadful bagged stuff you Americans drink."
"Not much call for anything besides that," MacGyver says. Away from the ice he seems relaxed enough, in an easy-going way calculated to put customers off their guard. Perhaps it even succeeds; how many other people in this town would recognise the symptoms of that momentarily-slaked anger? Sleek and self-possessed now, as a feasted panther...but it never stays satisfied for long.
"Hang on, though." He pulls out a tea caddy from under the counter, rather dingier than the display canisters. "Christmas present from my niece. Earl Grey all right?"
"I suppose it must suffice. How much?"
MacGyver hums to himself, as he sets about the brewing. "You know, you're the first person in about six years to even ask? Tell you what, you can have it on the house."
"What a terrible businessman you must be," Murdoc says, slapping a tenner on the counter. "Keep the change. No doubt you can use it."
"Hmm. You think so?" MacGyver says, ringing up the receipt. "But suppose I'd told you that I charged ten dollars for one cup of tea? You'd have laughed in my face and gone somewhere else."
"I have already tried half a dozen shops in the area...oh, you bastard," Murdoc hisses. It's been years since anyone's caught him out in a dodge. And a childish one like that to boot, the man's driving him to distraction. (Besides, he craves another glimpse at that glorious frustrated anger.)
But MacGyver's voice stays calm. "It really is my tea caddy, though. If you're gonna be sticking around, I'd better lay in a supply."
"Two months. I'm playing the Phantom in dear Miss Parker's production...acting is a hobby of mine, you see. It took some little trouble to find a production where I could overplay it as I liked."
"Huh. Well, you sure found the right theatre for it. Good news for me..."
"Oh?"
"Aside from the business," MacGyver says, not making eye contact (is it shyness or complete indifference? He'll find out and change it, one way or another). "I've never had anyone come in and cuss me out in their first five minutes. D'you know how refreshing that is, after forty years of Minnesota nice?"
Ah ha.
There's the viciousness.
