Disclaimer: Why do you wish me to repeat it? Do you like torturing me? I
don't own the thing!
By the way. Red Witch, I do apologise if I have seemed to have insulted you recently. Believe me here when I say I apologise for any misinterpretation, it was not my idea to insult you. Also, are you aware you have started every review on this piece with 'Oh'?
Oh yeah, the middle section may seem a tad too silly, but I couldn't think of what else to write.
Without further ado...
&&&&&&
Five years ago, in the town of Littleton, New England...
There were the subtle clinks and clatters of cutlery as the waitress took away the cup on the table in front of Bosshog, who acknowledged the service with a nod. She sat back in her chair, stared out of the window and sighed. When this was all over, she thought, it would be nice just to come here without a care in the world. She looked down at her hands, then clasped them together. However, until then, I have a job to do.
There was a jangle of a doorbell, and a fiery-headed youth entered the café. He looked around briefly, and spotted Bosshog with a sudden glimmer of mischief. He quickly walked over to her table, and sat on the chair opposite to her. He moved his arm over the backrest slothfully, and lazily smiled at her.
"Hello Catherine."
Bosshog nodded only in reply.
"How are you doing?"
She tapped her fingers on the table. "I'm fine. You?"
The boy grinned suddenly, his eyes sparkling with an insane joyfulness. "Never better, my dear. Never better."
"Just why are you so joyful?"
He leaned forward, and his grin grew wider. "Because my uncle has finally stopped lazing around on his fat ass, and decided to start his, how shall I put it? His masterpiece."
Bosshog shrugged. "That's very nice, but that doesn't explain the reason for you contacting me about it for no reason."
"Au contraire my beautiful, but dangerous, Catherine." He leaned back, and his demeanour became more serious. "We need your help to accomplish it."
Bosshog chuckled in a patronizing manner. "What use can I be? If your uncle wishes to start gaining power in all forms, good luck to him. Until that time, however, I doubt I shall be doing much for you."
"Don't be so dismissive, Catherine..." his tone a parody of pity, "...if you keep up that attitude permanently, then you shall never be able to get the most out of life."
Bosshog raised an eyebrow. "What coin do you offer to purchase my skills?"
The man pursed his lips, and placed a finger to his temple. "We can supply you with a handsome sum, speaking from a fiscal point of view..."
"Money does not interest me."
"Are you that untouchable, my dear?"
"I do not consider myself a mercenary."
"Just as a scarlet woman does not consider herself a common prostitute?"
Bosshog's eyes narrowed. "There's no need to insult me that way."
The boy's look for a fraction became cold. "You insulted me, though. An eye for an eye, as you always say." He leaned forward, his face regaining a disturbing joviality. "Until the time which you cut your last strings with us, Catherine, you are a mercenary who works for us. Do not think that because you have a good education or good upbringing that you are not. There's no denying who you really are."
She gritted her teeth, and dug her fingernails into the tables surface. She breathed out, then put on a forced smile. "Thank you so much for reminding me." You twisted bastard, she thought.
The boy grinned again. "That's my girl!"
"At your service." She felt the bile gathering in her throat.
"Well now... to business. Uncle dearest desires your help in arranging a little 'private army', so to say."
"Why me?"
"You have had the training, you have the skills, but above all, you have had the oppression necessary to make a perfect fighting machine." He briefly looked over her. "Your violent and confrontational past has made you one of the best fighters Uncle has ever seen. He even thinks you to be better than me..." he trailed off, looked momentarily annoyed, then he rallied. "For this reason, he has decided for you to hand pick a small, covert unit who can do certain jobs not normally expected by normal people."
"You want me to arrange a kill-team, don't you." It wasn't a question, only a statement of fact.
He shrugged. "Call it what you will."
"What constraints are to be in place?"
He tented his fingers and leaned his elbows on the table. "Well, the team is to be made up of only those who posses the mutant gene."
"That's a tall order. There are barely more than a few thousand across the entire planet."
"Ah, ah, ah! I just told you not to be so dismissive! Uncle will provide the necessary funds needed to cover the costs of arranging such a team. You are allowed to get anyone of any background, but preferably youths."
"That'll cause tension."
"Exactly. With tension comes oppression." The boy waved his hand in a dismissive fashion. "You know as well as I do that the best trained fighters are not those who are given the best training, but those who can adapt the quickest, survive oppression and change, those who learn defiance from despair." He looked back at Bosshog. "Uncle wants a team made up of people like that."
"That's a tough order."
"But it's not impossible."
"It'll cost a lot in money and resources."
"Uncle's coffers have been steadily filled in order to meet any demand you may have." You see..." the boy smirked, "...Uncle has been planning this for many a year."
"It'll not happen overnight."
"Is it not written that the long way is the safe way?" The youth leaned back and crossed his legs.
Bosshog breathed out through her nose. "What shall I get in return for doing this job?"
"Uncle shall reimburse you with enough money to make it worth your while, and..." he pointed suddenly, seeing her about to object, "...you have His word that he will never bother you again, and you can retire to some old, abandoned place somewhere out here for the rest of your life." He finished with a sneer of disdain.
Bosshog paused. "Will he do that?"
The boy smirked. "You know Uncle. He always keeps his word."
Bosshog leaned back. "It's a tempting offer..."
"Think about it, my dear. Never again will we hound you, and you can forget all about your previous life. What happened to your parents..." He smiled at the sudden glare he received. "You see? Even when I casually mention a simple topic, you become aggressive."
"You are aware you are a complete bastard."
"Of course! You have to be to get ahead in this world."
She sighed, and ran her hands over her skull. "I'll have to think about it."
The man got up from the table, and gave her another phoney smile. "You know how to contact us when you make up your mind..."
&&&&&&
Five years and two days later, on the road to Bayville...
Bosshog turned to Rosemary, one hand on the wheel. "Mary, if you ever distract me again, I will personally throw you off the Mississippi Bridge with weights attached to your feet."
The red-haired girl pouted. "Sneaky started it."
There was a squeaking sound which could be interpreted as: 'Did not!'
"You did so!"
Again the squeak.
"You liar!"
Squeak.
"Shut up!" Bosshog bellowed, then turned back to the road. "Whistler, where do you suggest we go now?"
Whistler shrugged, and bit into an onion. "As far as I can tell, McIllvanney went this way, probably looking for information, then went on the road again, after finding it."
Bosshog rolled her eyes. "Well, is there any way that you could find tracks showing where McIllvanney went?"
"Probably."
"Well then..." she began, clenching her fists, "why don't you, for once in your worthless life, go and make yourself useful by finding these tracks?"
Whistler looked at her in an insulted manner, and bit into the onion for a second time. "If you ask me in that type of manner, I don't see why I should."
Bosshog dug her nails into her palms. Why, oh why am I surrounded by these idiots? She thought in self-pity. She composed herself.
"Look, just please do this one thing for me, okay?" Whistler shrugged and took another bit of the onion. "Please?"
Whistler sighed, opened the car door and jumped out. "And for God's sake, stop eating that onion!" Bosshog added as an afterthought. She then sat back in the car and breathed a very bad word.
"Bosshog? Can I have something to eat?" Rosemary's voice called from the back mournfully.
"There isn't anything to eat. You should've eaten before we left."
"But I did..."
"Well, just improvise then!" Bosshog shot back. Silence was the only reply. She sat back and closed her eyes, relaxing. Blessed quietness... Then there was a wail of horror, and Sneaky leapt into her lap, and gripped onto her arm.
"Rosemary..." Bosshog began. "Did you try to eat Sneaky?"
"I was hungry..." Came the reply.
"You're going to be eating my foot if you're not careful!" She snapped. She sat back, and tried to unsuccessfully push Sneaky off of her. For not the first time in the past hour she wondered if it was a wise idea to bring the whole gang over at once...
&&&&&&
Five hours into the future, Bayville coffee shop...
"Thank you..." the cashier sang, "have a nice day." She closed the register, and then, seeing at the outskirts of her vision, two people at the counter, started her sales mantra again. "Hello, what can I... get..." she trailed off.
There were two men at the counter. One was tall with blonde hair. The other was a teenager with long hair and red lips. However, their condition was what made her pause. Both had blood covering their mouths and chins, giving the effect as if they had been tearing out horse's throats with their teeth. The teenager's nose was skewed alarmingly to his right, and his face was quite bruised. The other man had large slashes in his clothes surrounded by blood. In short, both looked as if they had been in a war.
"Uh... do you want an ambulance?" The cashier hazarded. The blonde-haired man shook his head and gave what he thought was a reassuring smile, which is hard to do when you have sharpened teeth. "No, luv. We're just here to get some drinks. I'd like a small espresso, and my friend here..." He said, looking at the long-haired teenager with a stare that went beyond murderous.
"Ah'd glike a cupb of chot chogl-" the boy began, then he raised a finger. "Ahg'm tzorry abahd dis." He gripped his nose with his left hand, and then hit it with his right hand sharply. There was an audible snapping noise, and the kid bent over howling in pain. More blood dripped from off of his face onto the linoleum. He stood up and composed himself. His nose was back in the expected position.
"I apologise for that." He said softly. "I'd like some hot chocolate, several paper napkins, and ice, if you have id."
The woman nodded wordlessly.
The guys stood at the counter, waiting for their order. The blonde-haired man looked at an extremely scared-looking couple to his right. "Is there something wrong?" He asked, grinning maliciously. They shook their heads silently.
"Knock id off, McIllvanney." The kid snapped, then turned back as the cashier put their drinks, napkins and ice. "Thank you, ma'am." He said in a choked voice. "My friend here will pay for the drinks." He walked to a table, closely followed by McIllvanney.
They both sat down, opposite from each other. McIllvanney sipped his espresso, then started to wipe his face clean of sweat and blood. "Are you going to have a drink, Piter?" he asked, mopping his forehead.
Piter shrugged faintly as he wrapped some ice up in a napkin and clenched it under his nose. With his free hand, he clumsily picked the cup up, and took a long drink. He put the cup down, and licked the foam on his upper lip. He then made a 'tut' of annoyance. "I can't believe you broke my nose."
"You don't believe it? Well, you broke mine. Several times if I remember. If you want to, I could do it again."
Piter shook his head, and winced. "I can't help it if you have hyper- healing abilities, McIllvanney."
McIllvanney shrugged. "It's a perk."
"I don't doubt it."
The two guys paused, surrounded by a blanket of silence.
"How long is this cease-fire going to last?"
Piter looked up from the table, and glanced at McIllvanney's bloody face. "I think we should wait until a slightly more inconspicuous time. I think that we drew a bit too much attention to ourselves with your little declaration back there."
McIllvanney snorted, and began wiping blood off of his chin. "You're just saying that so you can lick your wounds, my friend."
"I'm not your friend, McIllvanney." Piter corrected. "Besides, you're right. That first blow you gave me was unexpected. I didn't know you were behind me."
McIllvanney shrugged. "When we were in the Order, we were told the best time to hurt someone was when they weren't expecting it."
"Yeah, but that's just unsporting. Besides..." Piter trailed off, looking at McIllvanney through his uninjured eye. "You have a distinct advantage over me in a fight."
"Yeah, but then again, I don't have your computing skills." McIllvanney pointed out.
Piter nodded, then took another drink. He paused, wiped a bit of his face, then asked: "I assume an apology isn't acceptable now, is it?"
McIllvanney smirked humourlessly. "Your assumption is correct, my fr- Piter."
Piter glared at him angrily, then winced in pain. "Look, I know you're angry at me, but that's no reason to drag any of my friends, which includes Dean, into your vendetta."
"It's alright, Piter." McIllvanney wiped his knuckles with a napkin. "I'm not planning to kill anyone else but you. Your friends, bar Dean, haven't done anything to me."
"Dean didn't do anything. It wasn't his plan."
McIllvanney shrugged. "Maybe not, but he did trick me to wander the..." McIllvannet raised his voice, "Nevada desert for three days without any water, food or map." He smiled humourlessly. "That kinda puts a crimp into your day."
"I arranged it all." Piter pointed out.
"Which is why when I kill you, I'm going to feel so much better."
Piter breathed in and out heavily. "Look. I know you are very angry at me..."
"Angry?" McIllvanney muttered. Then he chuckled. "Angry? Angry doesn't even begin to describe my feelings towards you. Furious is getting closer. Homicidal is almost there... but there are no real phrases in the English language which conveys my feelings."
"Okay. You are more than angry at me." Piter snapped, getting angry himself. "But now, I'm a different person. I've changed."
McIllvanney sighed, and smiled condescendingly. "Oh, great." His smile turned to a sneer. "I don't give a flying fuck."
"McIllvanney, please, think this out." Piter began. "I know I fucked you over bad, but I had no choice."
"Oh, yeah right. You're a 'human super-computer'. You're supposed to be able to consider all possibilities. Even I could spot a different way of getting out." He leaned forward, and glared at Piter. "You just wanted Bosshog to think nothing was wrong. If you had left before you did the job, you would've still ended up at the institute, safe and sound."
"I guess it says something if I fear Bosshog's wrath over yours, McIllvanney." Piter retorted. He took his makeshift bandage off of his face. "Look, killing me may make you feel better, but it won't bring your sister back."
McIllvanney snorted in disbelief. "You bitch..." he began, "you are not going to deter me with that line. Your change in life-style hasn't brought my sister back, but you've done it regardless. In order to feel better. That is why I am going to kill you." He took a sip of his espresso. "Logic." He explained.
Piter sighed, and looked down at his cup. "So, when do we finish this thing?"
"It all really depends..." McIllvanney said with a sigh. "Do you want a funeral in the spring, the summer...?"
Piter glared at McIllvanney with utter hatred. "Fine then, be that way." He drank the last dregs of his drink. "How about Saturday night?"
"That sounds good. When and where?"
Piter pursed his lips. "I think that the Bayville playing ground is the best place. Around one in the morning. Nobody'll be around. We can have us a good old-fashioned barney, make as much noise as we want. We won't be bothered."
McIllvanney shrugged. "It's a date." He sipped his espresso. Piter got up to leave, still holding his ice to his face.
"Piter..." McIllvanney called out, then pointed to Piter's face, indicating the blood that he had missed in his cleaning. Piter sighed, and gave McIllvanney the finger. McIllvanney grinned. "That's the spirit, old friend..."
Piter exited the shop, and McIllvanney leant back, draining the rest of his espresso with a shiver. He then cracked his neck with relish, picked up an abandoned newspaper and began, with all signs of relish, to read.
&&&&&&
Please review. Your opinion matters, as they say in democracies. What they don't say in democracies is that your opinion will not be taken into consideration by us, you poor pathetic peasant. In this case, however your opinion will be taken into consideration.
By the way. Red Witch, I do apologise if I have seemed to have insulted you recently. Believe me here when I say I apologise for any misinterpretation, it was not my idea to insult you. Also, are you aware you have started every review on this piece with 'Oh'?
Oh yeah, the middle section may seem a tad too silly, but I couldn't think of what else to write.
Without further ado...
&&&&&&
Five years ago, in the town of Littleton, New England...
There were the subtle clinks and clatters of cutlery as the waitress took away the cup on the table in front of Bosshog, who acknowledged the service with a nod. She sat back in her chair, stared out of the window and sighed. When this was all over, she thought, it would be nice just to come here without a care in the world. She looked down at her hands, then clasped them together. However, until then, I have a job to do.
There was a jangle of a doorbell, and a fiery-headed youth entered the café. He looked around briefly, and spotted Bosshog with a sudden glimmer of mischief. He quickly walked over to her table, and sat on the chair opposite to her. He moved his arm over the backrest slothfully, and lazily smiled at her.
"Hello Catherine."
Bosshog nodded only in reply.
"How are you doing?"
She tapped her fingers on the table. "I'm fine. You?"
The boy grinned suddenly, his eyes sparkling with an insane joyfulness. "Never better, my dear. Never better."
"Just why are you so joyful?"
He leaned forward, and his grin grew wider. "Because my uncle has finally stopped lazing around on his fat ass, and decided to start his, how shall I put it? His masterpiece."
Bosshog shrugged. "That's very nice, but that doesn't explain the reason for you contacting me about it for no reason."
"Au contraire my beautiful, but dangerous, Catherine." He leaned back, and his demeanour became more serious. "We need your help to accomplish it."
Bosshog chuckled in a patronizing manner. "What use can I be? If your uncle wishes to start gaining power in all forms, good luck to him. Until that time, however, I doubt I shall be doing much for you."
"Don't be so dismissive, Catherine..." his tone a parody of pity, "...if you keep up that attitude permanently, then you shall never be able to get the most out of life."
Bosshog raised an eyebrow. "What coin do you offer to purchase my skills?"
The man pursed his lips, and placed a finger to his temple. "We can supply you with a handsome sum, speaking from a fiscal point of view..."
"Money does not interest me."
"Are you that untouchable, my dear?"
"I do not consider myself a mercenary."
"Just as a scarlet woman does not consider herself a common prostitute?"
Bosshog's eyes narrowed. "There's no need to insult me that way."
The boy's look for a fraction became cold. "You insulted me, though. An eye for an eye, as you always say." He leaned forward, his face regaining a disturbing joviality. "Until the time which you cut your last strings with us, Catherine, you are a mercenary who works for us. Do not think that because you have a good education or good upbringing that you are not. There's no denying who you really are."
She gritted her teeth, and dug her fingernails into the tables surface. She breathed out, then put on a forced smile. "Thank you so much for reminding me." You twisted bastard, she thought.
The boy grinned again. "That's my girl!"
"At your service." She felt the bile gathering in her throat.
"Well now... to business. Uncle dearest desires your help in arranging a little 'private army', so to say."
"Why me?"
"You have had the training, you have the skills, but above all, you have had the oppression necessary to make a perfect fighting machine." He briefly looked over her. "Your violent and confrontational past has made you one of the best fighters Uncle has ever seen. He even thinks you to be better than me..." he trailed off, looked momentarily annoyed, then he rallied. "For this reason, he has decided for you to hand pick a small, covert unit who can do certain jobs not normally expected by normal people."
"You want me to arrange a kill-team, don't you." It wasn't a question, only a statement of fact.
He shrugged. "Call it what you will."
"What constraints are to be in place?"
He tented his fingers and leaned his elbows on the table. "Well, the team is to be made up of only those who posses the mutant gene."
"That's a tall order. There are barely more than a few thousand across the entire planet."
"Ah, ah, ah! I just told you not to be so dismissive! Uncle will provide the necessary funds needed to cover the costs of arranging such a team. You are allowed to get anyone of any background, but preferably youths."
"That'll cause tension."
"Exactly. With tension comes oppression." The boy waved his hand in a dismissive fashion. "You know as well as I do that the best trained fighters are not those who are given the best training, but those who can adapt the quickest, survive oppression and change, those who learn defiance from despair." He looked back at Bosshog. "Uncle wants a team made up of people like that."
"That's a tough order."
"But it's not impossible."
"It'll cost a lot in money and resources."
"Uncle's coffers have been steadily filled in order to meet any demand you may have." You see..." the boy smirked, "...Uncle has been planning this for many a year."
"It'll not happen overnight."
"Is it not written that the long way is the safe way?" The youth leaned back and crossed his legs.
Bosshog breathed out through her nose. "What shall I get in return for doing this job?"
"Uncle shall reimburse you with enough money to make it worth your while, and..." he pointed suddenly, seeing her about to object, "...you have His word that he will never bother you again, and you can retire to some old, abandoned place somewhere out here for the rest of your life." He finished with a sneer of disdain.
Bosshog paused. "Will he do that?"
The boy smirked. "You know Uncle. He always keeps his word."
Bosshog leaned back. "It's a tempting offer..."
"Think about it, my dear. Never again will we hound you, and you can forget all about your previous life. What happened to your parents..." He smiled at the sudden glare he received. "You see? Even when I casually mention a simple topic, you become aggressive."
"You are aware you are a complete bastard."
"Of course! You have to be to get ahead in this world."
She sighed, and ran her hands over her skull. "I'll have to think about it."
The man got up from the table, and gave her another phoney smile. "You know how to contact us when you make up your mind..."
&&&&&&
Five years and two days later, on the road to Bayville...
Bosshog turned to Rosemary, one hand on the wheel. "Mary, if you ever distract me again, I will personally throw you off the Mississippi Bridge with weights attached to your feet."
The red-haired girl pouted. "Sneaky started it."
There was a squeaking sound which could be interpreted as: 'Did not!'
"You did so!"
Again the squeak.
"You liar!"
Squeak.
"Shut up!" Bosshog bellowed, then turned back to the road. "Whistler, where do you suggest we go now?"
Whistler shrugged, and bit into an onion. "As far as I can tell, McIllvanney went this way, probably looking for information, then went on the road again, after finding it."
Bosshog rolled her eyes. "Well, is there any way that you could find tracks showing where McIllvanney went?"
"Probably."
"Well then..." she began, clenching her fists, "why don't you, for once in your worthless life, go and make yourself useful by finding these tracks?"
Whistler looked at her in an insulted manner, and bit into the onion for a second time. "If you ask me in that type of manner, I don't see why I should."
Bosshog dug her nails into her palms. Why, oh why am I surrounded by these idiots? She thought in self-pity. She composed herself.
"Look, just please do this one thing for me, okay?" Whistler shrugged and took another bit of the onion. "Please?"
Whistler sighed, opened the car door and jumped out. "And for God's sake, stop eating that onion!" Bosshog added as an afterthought. She then sat back in the car and breathed a very bad word.
"Bosshog? Can I have something to eat?" Rosemary's voice called from the back mournfully.
"There isn't anything to eat. You should've eaten before we left."
"But I did..."
"Well, just improvise then!" Bosshog shot back. Silence was the only reply. She sat back and closed her eyes, relaxing. Blessed quietness... Then there was a wail of horror, and Sneaky leapt into her lap, and gripped onto her arm.
"Rosemary..." Bosshog began. "Did you try to eat Sneaky?"
"I was hungry..." Came the reply.
"You're going to be eating my foot if you're not careful!" She snapped. She sat back, and tried to unsuccessfully push Sneaky off of her. For not the first time in the past hour she wondered if it was a wise idea to bring the whole gang over at once...
&&&&&&
Five hours into the future, Bayville coffee shop...
"Thank you..." the cashier sang, "have a nice day." She closed the register, and then, seeing at the outskirts of her vision, two people at the counter, started her sales mantra again. "Hello, what can I... get..." she trailed off.
There were two men at the counter. One was tall with blonde hair. The other was a teenager with long hair and red lips. However, their condition was what made her pause. Both had blood covering their mouths and chins, giving the effect as if they had been tearing out horse's throats with their teeth. The teenager's nose was skewed alarmingly to his right, and his face was quite bruised. The other man had large slashes in his clothes surrounded by blood. In short, both looked as if they had been in a war.
"Uh... do you want an ambulance?" The cashier hazarded. The blonde-haired man shook his head and gave what he thought was a reassuring smile, which is hard to do when you have sharpened teeth. "No, luv. We're just here to get some drinks. I'd like a small espresso, and my friend here..." He said, looking at the long-haired teenager with a stare that went beyond murderous.
"Ah'd glike a cupb of chot chogl-" the boy began, then he raised a finger. "Ahg'm tzorry abahd dis." He gripped his nose with his left hand, and then hit it with his right hand sharply. There was an audible snapping noise, and the kid bent over howling in pain. More blood dripped from off of his face onto the linoleum. He stood up and composed himself. His nose was back in the expected position.
"I apologise for that." He said softly. "I'd like some hot chocolate, several paper napkins, and ice, if you have id."
The woman nodded wordlessly.
The guys stood at the counter, waiting for their order. The blonde-haired man looked at an extremely scared-looking couple to his right. "Is there something wrong?" He asked, grinning maliciously. They shook their heads silently.
"Knock id off, McIllvanney." The kid snapped, then turned back as the cashier put their drinks, napkins and ice. "Thank you, ma'am." He said in a choked voice. "My friend here will pay for the drinks." He walked to a table, closely followed by McIllvanney.
They both sat down, opposite from each other. McIllvanney sipped his espresso, then started to wipe his face clean of sweat and blood. "Are you going to have a drink, Piter?" he asked, mopping his forehead.
Piter shrugged faintly as he wrapped some ice up in a napkin and clenched it under his nose. With his free hand, he clumsily picked the cup up, and took a long drink. He put the cup down, and licked the foam on his upper lip. He then made a 'tut' of annoyance. "I can't believe you broke my nose."
"You don't believe it? Well, you broke mine. Several times if I remember. If you want to, I could do it again."
Piter shook his head, and winced. "I can't help it if you have hyper- healing abilities, McIllvanney."
McIllvanney shrugged. "It's a perk."
"I don't doubt it."
The two guys paused, surrounded by a blanket of silence.
"How long is this cease-fire going to last?"
Piter looked up from the table, and glanced at McIllvanney's bloody face. "I think we should wait until a slightly more inconspicuous time. I think that we drew a bit too much attention to ourselves with your little declaration back there."
McIllvanney snorted, and began wiping blood off of his chin. "You're just saying that so you can lick your wounds, my friend."
"I'm not your friend, McIllvanney." Piter corrected. "Besides, you're right. That first blow you gave me was unexpected. I didn't know you were behind me."
McIllvanney shrugged. "When we were in the Order, we were told the best time to hurt someone was when they weren't expecting it."
"Yeah, but that's just unsporting. Besides..." Piter trailed off, looking at McIllvanney through his uninjured eye. "You have a distinct advantage over me in a fight."
"Yeah, but then again, I don't have your computing skills." McIllvanney pointed out.
Piter nodded, then took another drink. He paused, wiped a bit of his face, then asked: "I assume an apology isn't acceptable now, is it?"
McIllvanney smirked humourlessly. "Your assumption is correct, my fr- Piter."
Piter glared at him angrily, then winced in pain. "Look, I know you're angry at me, but that's no reason to drag any of my friends, which includes Dean, into your vendetta."
"It's alright, Piter." McIllvanney wiped his knuckles with a napkin. "I'm not planning to kill anyone else but you. Your friends, bar Dean, haven't done anything to me."
"Dean didn't do anything. It wasn't his plan."
McIllvanney shrugged. "Maybe not, but he did trick me to wander the..." McIllvannet raised his voice, "Nevada desert for three days without any water, food or map." He smiled humourlessly. "That kinda puts a crimp into your day."
"I arranged it all." Piter pointed out.
"Which is why when I kill you, I'm going to feel so much better."
Piter breathed in and out heavily. "Look. I know you are very angry at me..."
"Angry?" McIllvanney muttered. Then he chuckled. "Angry? Angry doesn't even begin to describe my feelings towards you. Furious is getting closer. Homicidal is almost there... but there are no real phrases in the English language which conveys my feelings."
"Okay. You are more than angry at me." Piter snapped, getting angry himself. "But now, I'm a different person. I've changed."
McIllvanney sighed, and smiled condescendingly. "Oh, great." His smile turned to a sneer. "I don't give a flying fuck."
"McIllvanney, please, think this out." Piter began. "I know I fucked you over bad, but I had no choice."
"Oh, yeah right. You're a 'human super-computer'. You're supposed to be able to consider all possibilities. Even I could spot a different way of getting out." He leaned forward, and glared at Piter. "You just wanted Bosshog to think nothing was wrong. If you had left before you did the job, you would've still ended up at the institute, safe and sound."
"I guess it says something if I fear Bosshog's wrath over yours, McIllvanney." Piter retorted. He took his makeshift bandage off of his face. "Look, killing me may make you feel better, but it won't bring your sister back."
McIllvanney snorted in disbelief. "You bitch..." he began, "you are not going to deter me with that line. Your change in life-style hasn't brought my sister back, but you've done it regardless. In order to feel better. That is why I am going to kill you." He took a sip of his espresso. "Logic." He explained.
Piter sighed, and looked down at his cup. "So, when do we finish this thing?"
"It all really depends..." McIllvanney said with a sigh. "Do you want a funeral in the spring, the summer...?"
Piter glared at McIllvanney with utter hatred. "Fine then, be that way." He drank the last dregs of his drink. "How about Saturday night?"
"That sounds good. When and where?"
Piter pursed his lips. "I think that the Bayville playing ground is the best place. Around one in the morning. Nobody'll be around. We can have us a good old-fashioned barney, make as much noise as we want. We won't be bothered."
McIllvanney shrugged. "It's a date." He sipped his espresso. Piter got up to leave, still holding his ice to his face.
"Piter..." McIllvanney called out, then pointed to Piter's face, indicating the blood that he had missed in his cleaning. Piter sighed, and gave McIllvanney the finger. McIllvanney grinned. "That's the spirit, old friend..."
Piter exited the shop, and McIllvanney leant back, draining the rest of his espresso with a shiver. He then cracked his neck with relish, picked up an abandoned newspaper and began, with all signs of relish, to read.
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