Chapter 2: Inhumane

"You know what, Spencer? I've had enough of you," I said, my Glock pointed unwaveringly at his head.

Spencer raised his hands, a half-smile still on his face.

"Aw, come on, Lassie, you know you love me," he said, his voice wavering slightly as his eyes locked on the end of my gun.

I grinned.

"You're not going to talk your way out of this one," I said, my voice both cheerful and vicious, "You've pushed me too far this time."

"Seriously, man, put down the gun," Spencer said, his voice growing higher pitched with every word.

I shifted my feet to better brace myself for the recoil and he took a step backwards, his eyes flittering from side to side, looking for escape.

I laughed, chuckling harder at the look of confused astonishment that flitted over his stupid face.

I stopped laughing.

"Run," I said quietly, a smirk twisting my features.

"W-what?" he stuttered.

"I prefer a moving target," I explained, shifting my stance once again.

"I… you… You can't be serious!" he exclaimed, shaking his head.

I glared at him, raising the gun once again to his forehead.

"Or you can just stand here and die quickly. Your choice."

I saw the change in his hazel eyes as he finally realized I wasn't joking.

He ran.

I watched him for a few seconds as I lined up a shot. He did an admirable job of running serpentine, but the nearly empty warehouse gave him few choices for cover.

BAM.

The discharge of my pistol echoed against the steel walls of the building, as did his high-pitched screech of pain.

He was on the floor now, his fingers wrapped around his bloody left bicep. He was looking up at me, betrayal in his eyes.

"Run," I said again, staying in firing position as he scrambled to his feet.

I savored the flash of hopelessness I saw in his eyes before he turned and ran.

I let him almost make it to the paltry cover of a broken shipping box when I fired again.

BAM.

He went down with more than a yelp but less than a roar.

He turned over on his back, his hands immediately abandoning the wound on his arm and clutching around the hole in his thigh. The profusely bleeding hole.

He was in too much pain to even notice my approach, much less evade it.

"Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God," I heard him mutter from between clenched teeth as he tried, and failed, to stem the hemorrhaging.

It wasn't until I entered the edge of his peripheral vision that he looked up at me, pale and shaking.

"Lassie, please," he begged, his voice just below a whine, "It's too much. Too much blood. I can't…"

I aimed my Glock at him again.

"Run."

"I can't, I can't," he whimpered, shaking his head even as his eyes refused to look away from the motionless weapon in my hand, still smoking slightly.

I chambered a round and his short, quick breaths stopped.

"Please, Detective Lassiter," he pled, his voice low and serious, "Please, don't. Help me. You can still…" he looked me in the eyes, his hazel orbs meeting my icy blue and he shivered.

There was no mercy to be found. Only pure, unadulterated hatred.

"I'm going to kill you now," I said calmly.

He pushed with his good leg, moving scant inches before the pain had his eyes rolling back.

I waited for him to recover, watching his body shudder as his blood pooled across the dirty cement floor.

"I don't understand," he whispered, a tear escaping his eye and running, unheeded, down his fashionably stubbled face.

"That's the problem, Spencer. You never have."

"Lassie," he croaked, one blood-coated hand reaching out towards me.

BAM.

His body jumped, rising from the floor for a moment before going completely limp.

His hazel eyes gazed emptily up at me, a stream of crimson dripping over his eyebrow and following the track of his tear.

I woke with my hand wrapped around my Glock. I sat up quickly, taking quick inventory of my surroundings. It was only when I called a mental 'clear' that I allowed myself to slump back against the headboard.

What a nightmare. I couldn't rightly call it a dream. No matter how often I'd fantasized about putting that little punk in his place, I'd never seriously hurt him. Sure, he was annoying, but, in his own way, he was almost, but not quite, a friend.

But it didn't matter what Spencer had done, no one deserved to die like that- tortured and afraid. It was… inhumane.

The sun was barely visible in the distance, but I knew there would be no more sleep for me.

Maybe I'd go for a jog. A nice long one. Past Spencer's place. Just in case.

AN: So, I've finally got a rough idea of where this is going. I don't know how many chapters it's going to be yet.