How high’s five stories, really? Can that kill me?
Doing what you’re never supposed to do while holding on for dear life — looking down — Thaed gulped, knuckles ghosting against brick.
The nearest car looked a little bigger than his foot, give or take. Totally survivable, right? “You couldn’t have just taken the stairs,” he grunted under his breath, ignoring the stupid, chirpy little voice that rang out a mocking ‘or you could have just fucking sniped him.’ It would have been bloody cleaner, but those stupid fuckers hadn’t the insight to equip him with some magical way to conceal a gun. Oh hell no. That would mean using deductive reasoning and logic. Besides, with the way everyone and their dog collars were hooked up with cameras something more close range was necessarily. You can’t just waltz around all willy nilly joe casual with a bloody sniper rifle.
Oh shit. This was it. Goodbye cruel world.
The squeak of glass and metal cut his panicked introspective into two eyes wide open. Was he— he was! The fool was totally opening the window. Who does that? Seizing his chance, Thaed thrust an arm forward, hand weighed down by his glock, dangling all nonchalant over the windowsill. “The wrong window?” He parroted, the cadence to his voice full of skepticism, the sort of sure, that’s what they all say kinda dismissal. It should be noted he still leaned wildly backwards (in spite of his earlier fear of falling) and seemed to do a mental calculation. This was totally fucking it.
A split-second later and with the gun clenched in his teeth he was climbing inside— that itself a task, graceful entrance totally a fail. It was a small window, or at least the portion that was open, and he wasn’t. Small. Thaed made up for it by springing up to his feet with the prowess of a predator, the clock finding it’s way out of his mouth to point at the targets head — aww fuck, he’s just a kid. Not that it mattered. It’s not Hannah.
“You’re Leif Halpain aren’t you?” He lined up his shot, the barrel end wobbly under all the tension in the air and holy shit were those the bluest fucking eyes. “Those contacts?” Thaed asked casually, knocking the safety off (what, you thought I put a loaded gun in my mouth without being safe?) He took a step forward, finger finding trigger, and damn those eyes. Large and pleading, they were electric, the space between them sparked and sizzled. He squeezed his finger, trigger half-depressed, though not enough for the release to catch and just stood there, like an idiot, the tip of the gun still wavering slightly. “I should apologize, I’m usually a lot better than this.”
Clearing his throat, Thaed gave a half shrug, genuinely sorry. “It’ll be quick, clean, you’ll hardly feel a thing.” Thaed broke the eyelock that had gotten strangely too intense and stared at his glock like he wanted to beat the thing against the side of the nearby dresser. He did visual the act, like that’d make the stupid thing work even if innately he knew the problem wasn’t with the gun. Think about Hannah. Think about Hannah. Still he couldn’t fucking do it, attention redirected to the picture frame on the dresser. He went to it, glock still aimed at Leif’s head. Totally stalling. “Any last words?”
Every child knew to keep their window firmly shut and locked if they wanted to maintain a state of absolute security. They were taught from the cradle not to accept rides or candy from strangers - were taught not to invite any such dangers into their lives lest an unknown variable completely overtake them ... or at least that should have been the plan. But Reginald Halpain must have somehow overlooked just how damn foolish and reckless his only son could be ... or maybe not given the number of security measures he’d put into place. A father had every right to worry over the well-being of his child - and he apparently had cause to worry, since Leif had yet to practice true caution, dutifully falling into line with his father’s orders.
Don’t invite anyone over.
Keep your windows and doors locked at all times.
Don’t answer the door for anyone.
On and on it went ... until he couldn’t even begin to differentiate between the orders. The same old thing, uttered over and over again, until his head felt on the verge of exploding. A relentless, throbbing ache that refused to abate no matter how many times he squeezed his eyes shut and tried to will it away with all his might. It had reached such a level of vexation, in fact, that he would even welcome it at this point - because, well, the old fool wouldn’t stop treating him like some spoiled brat in need of firm guidance and an even firmer hand. It wasn’t so much the overbearing quality of his father’s overprotective nature that infuriated him; it was the lack of trust the man held in his son’s decision-making abilities - as though he expected his own flesh and blood to rappel down five stories in search of the next, big party. Sure, he might possess the agility of a warg. But amazing genetics aside, he wasn’t about to test the durability of a body that carried both animal and human genes by throwing himself into a dangerous, perhaps even fatal, situation brought on by his own foolish recklessness.
A smart move on his part.
Or it would have been if he hadn’t decided to let the very danger his father had warned him about slip into his room with all the sleekness of a predator on the hunt. The window entrance itself had been slightly awkward at first, what with the way the man had leaned so far back that Leif had half-expected him to lose his balance and plummet five stories to his death in an outrageous, dramatic scene of tragedy. But it hadn’t taken him long to find his footing again.
Staring wide-eyed at the thin, sleek barrel - despite wishing otherwise, the danger was very real; he was pointing an honest-to-gods, real-life gun at his head, finger hovering over the trigger in preparation for the kill shot - Leif unconsciously took a step backward, as though hoping that by creating distance between them, it would lessen the danger.
“Better at breaking and entering?” He quipped thoughtlessly, his mind already beginning to grow numb as the possibility of death loomed ever closer. “You should really work on your window entrances.” He had to hand it to him, however; the man had to possess some modicum of skill, considering that he’d actually managed to reach his window through the utilization of such a risky, foolhardy method, which couldn’t have been all that easy. But what was even more surprising was the fact that this hitman - someone must have ordered his death; most likely to punish his father, who was considered a traitor by the government - seemed to be stalling.
Hesitating to shoot a harmless, defenseless kid ... maybe?
Crystal blue gaze shifting from the glock to the gloved hand that held it, then lifting to that of the arresting face - no trigger-happy, gun-toting screwball should look that good - of his own personal assassin - golly gee whiz! Wasn’t he lucky - Leif gave a single nod in response.
But only a few stood out.
“Can I eat first?” Even prisoners were allowed one final meal - a meal of their choice - before they were forced to meet their maker. “Dying on an empty stomach leaves a bad taste in my mouth ... and I bet all that climbing’s made you hungry too.” Someone who exerted so much energy in such a short amount of time was bound to be hungry. No one could argue with proven, scientific fact, after all.
