“You don’t know how to use that thing.”
Jason almost laughs. The guy looks terrified. On the verge of a panic attack. Maybe he knows how to use the gun (most people do, point and pull the trigger) but will he? Doubtful. With how he raises his voice, he must hope he’ll catch the attention of a nurse before he’s stuck like a pincushion. Not like anyone would be fast enough even if they did hear. This is the third time Jason’s slipped out of his cell, the farthest he’s gotten so far. This was his ticket out. And he was taking it.
It’s fine. It’s alright. Jason can use this to his advantage, has gotten out of worse before. This is an opportunity, to get away from whatever the hell was going on here.
“Listen. I’m leaving, whether you like it or not. Whether you wanna be a hostage until I’m out or collateral because you were stupid’s up to you.”
Taking a step forward, angling his gait to corner the technician. Sick fuck. Probably enjoyed watching. Drank from his little coffee cup, clicked his little keyboard, and watched as people pleaded for help. Stared as the patients did, held captive both by restraints and the THING on screen.
It was giving him a headache just thinking about it.
Jason wouldn’t shed a single tear if this worked and he had to kill the fucker anyway. Probably would too, if only to keep him quiet when he got far enough away.
Another step, unblinking stare searching. Waiting for movement. Would the guards care he had a hostage? Hopefully. This might go terribly, terribly south. But it was better than the screens.
“Give me the gun and I won’t hurt you.”
His defenses are laughable. That gun, that bullet, is the only thing separating the two. Could Waylon punch back? Feasibly, he’s built to win a brawl. Getting into one willingly, however, is another story.
“Aht -!! I said don’t! Back up!”
Frantically now, Waylon waves the gun aimlessly in the air.
From the way Waylon tries to bury himself in the corner, he’s practically on the floor. Gun and bullet will put a swift end to this, all he has to do is point and pull. Point and pull. It’s that easy. Weapons are build for efficient slaughter. It could not be any simpler. It makes Waylon sick, and there’s no way he can grab for a cigarette to ground his nerves.
Waylon couldn’t hurt someone. It’s not the kind of person he is. Press a button and let the code do all the dirty work for him. There is no blood on him, his hands are arguably clean. Vastly different from twitching his fingers and a skull, busting brains all over his face. Hell, Waylon wouldn’t kill a stray spider. He’s the one to scoop it up and allow it to crawl outside. There are many more deserving of this than him; Andrew, Steve, Rick…
“I’m not stupid. I know what you had to do to get in here, you sick fuck.”
And Waylon didn’t even think about it. Is that what he had to do? Bawl someone out, so he wouldn’t have to think about what happens seconds after pulling the trigger? The bullet misses the patient spectacularly, burying itself into the wall behind them. There’s only one good that comes from wasting the one bullet; this lunatic will know he’s serious and respect him a little more.
Defeat is evident on Waylon’s face, but to differentiate that from the terror gripping Waylon is no easy task.
titsay
romaincrisis
yousharknotpass
snowghoul
kaledo-art