Dark Little Man With a Gun

How nice it must be, to have a cause.

Because J makes it look easy, he really does; just giving in to that sudden, all-consuming impulse towards violence. Bouncing the cranium of a guy off the top of a bar table, like it's nothing at all, like it's not an act with consequences. Like he doesn't think about how this particular cranium belongs to an implacable man-in-black, with a cause of his own. Like he doesn't think about concussion, the way a person's brain sloshes and slams back and forth in their skull. Like he doesn't think about the very idea of inflicting pain, causing harm. Scott wonders if there'd been that deep, automatic cringe of empathy inside J. Of the; "oh, that's gotta hurt!" variety.

Only probably not, because in the few moments of staggering, pole-axed semi-consciousness, the redhead's planted a hand on the back of Jonquil's skull, and leveraged his weight, shoved his height upward, pinning the SPECTRUM agent to the table with a clenched fist of golden blond hair.

Scott's not been frozen through all this careful unraveling of philosophy, he's already scrambled out of the booth. Go!—but with no idea where he's going. He practically runs into the third member of the game (Player 3? Player 4?), circling out from behind the bar, brushing briskly past Scott to seize hold of Jonquil, yanking him bodily off the table to sprawl on the floor, still dazed but rapidly recovering. Scott watches him recover enough that his eyes come back into focus, and stare down the barrel of a gun, leveled at his face.

The small, dark man says, "Stay."

And J says, "Shoot him."

And somehow Scott just knows J doesn't know what that actually means.

The order falls through dead air, and it's ludicrous, and sharing a glance with the man with the gun for the first time, Scott knows it's not going to be acted upon. Never mind that even a silenced gunshot will reverberate around the closed space like a cannon, never mind that there are GDF right outside the door, and a civilian witness holed up in the kitchen. Never mind the only important thing Scott's learned about J is that he's got a secret so big and and so powerful that he thinks he'd kill to keep it.

In the middle of flat silence, Jonquil starts to laugh. There's no hysterical edge to it, no edge of madness or psychosis. Just pure, genuine amusement, sat on his ass with his hands very carefully on the floor behind him, not about to do anything stupid; but equal with the other two men in the room; perfectly aware that he's not about to be shot in cold blood.

It's almost impossible to tell who's in charge of the room, but in Scott's experience, generally speaking, it's safe to bet on the man with the gun. Appropriately, when he speaks, his voice quiet and deadly and neutral. "In front of him," he says, and gestures towards Agent Jonquil, "you will call me 'Ben'. And you will never, ever presume to give me an order like that again."

J doesn't answer. Scott thinks it's possible that his brain is catching up to what he'd just said, because he swallows, hard, and sits down. He's still clutching his bag and he starts to rummage through it, fishing out his earpiece again and cramming it into his ear. His expression goes blank, still, and Scott wonders what the hell he's being told.

"You," Ben summons Scott's attention with tones that are crisp, military. "I need you to search the agent. He'll have a gun, more probably two. Take the magazines out of both. Take his glasses. If you feel him move at all, get away from him immediately. Don't talk to him."

"You're mean," Jonquil pipes up, still grinning up at Ben, even as Scott approaches and pulls the glasses off his face, pockets them on impulse. His forehead is red, bruising from the impact . "You're just really mean, Uncle Ben, I was just trying to make some friends. Can't a few guys meet up in a bar, have a few drinks, get to talking? 'Bout life, 'bout what's important, 'bout which one of them got their hands on the Artificial Intelligence that SPECTRUM's been after for the past few years? It is a nasty one. Been waiting for it to trip up again, you know. Waiting for it to cause a big enough mess that there's only one possible perpetrator. It's my lucky day, you know. Right place, right time."

Scott finds a Glock holstered beneath Jonquil's jacket, a smaller pistol strapped to his ankle. The floral motif gets picked up again, sutbly patterns the man's black socks. It takes Scott a while to find the knife, and he only finds it because it seems like there has to be one; cleverly concealed in Jonquil's belt buckle. These are all placed up on the bar top. He finds a pack of cigarettes, a book of matches. Against Ben's orders, he can't help a comment, "These'll kill you, y'know."

"Yes, but I get very stressed," Jonquil fires right back, still with that jackal grin. "Who're you, squirt? Seems like you're out of your league."

Scott shuts back up, pulls out a glossy black slice of a phone, completely devoid of buttons, unresponsive to touch. He moves to Jonquil's pockets for keys. A wallet, though Scott's sure it contains absolutely nothing of substance. A little brass pillbox that seems to merit extremely careful handling.

"Just aspirin," Jonquil tells him, gleeful. "Pop a couple, head off that hangover."

Prudence has Scott give the agent another quick once over, brisk but careful, and then he steps away, with a nod to Ben. Wary, he moves over to the booth, stands next to J. "You all right?" he asks, noticing trembling hands and imagining a thundering heartbeat.

"Fine," J answers, but his tone is empty, robotic. He's got his own earpiece back in place, is turning Scott's over and over in his fingers. He seems to remember, and hands it over. "Here. She's…says she wants to talk to him. I don't know what to do next."