Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/3665178.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      Other
  Fandom:
      Marvel_Cinematic_Universe, The_Silence_of_the_Lambs_(1991), Hannibal
      Lecter_Series_-_All_Media_Types
  Additional Tags:
      Serial_Killers, Violent_Thoughts, Aftermath_of_Violence, Sexual_Violence,
      Blood_and_Violence, a_lot_of_fucking_violence, violence_of_every_kind,
      probably_as_creepy_as_the_silence_of_the_lambs, so_much_fucking_violence,
      psychopaths, abuse_of_like_everything, Trauma, PTSD
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-04-02 Updated: 2016-01-27 Chapters: 5/15 Words: 5277
****** Descent Into Madness ******
by MiniMoffat37
Summary
     This actually isn't MCU, or anything at all. This is about my
     original character, Lee Scarr, who was birthed in a fandom-flex verse
     on twitter role playing. (He currently has two accounts, twitter.com/
     SpawnOfVile and twitter.com/ChaosOfForce.) It's based loosely off of
     The Silence Of The Lambs. Basically, this is a story told from the
     point of view of The Agent about how Lee came to be.
***** The Interview *****
“Has anyone ever called you insane?” the quiet voice in the dark room asked
you. You remain seated and calm. You’re an agent. You deal with the sickest
cases. You have nerves of steel and nothing. Ever. Scares. You.
But these eyes do.
They’re blue, on a scarred face, bright and mad over a quirky mouth upturned in
a smirk. Lee Scarr is who owns them. Lee Scarr, the British assassin. Lee
Scarr, the last of a long line of psychopathic killers. He has an impressive
lineage. And today his lineage ends.
“We have enough evidence on you to lock you away for at least seventeen
lifetimes,” you say calmly. “You can save yourself. Just give us the address.”
Lee blinks at you hazily.
“If I told you my story, you wouldn’t want to know the address,” he says
softly. Oh, he is so soft spoken. There’s a chill that descends on the room
when he speaks. It settles in your bones, makes it impossible to look away from
those eyes, those lips. You don’t find him sexually attractive, though he could
pass for a model with scars the world would find sexy. No, he’s too terrifying
to be attractive, too mad and unchained.
“We need to know where it is, Lee,” you reply, just as softly. “We need to know
if it was all your fault.”
Finally, finally those terrifying eyes look away from yours and wander to the
slit of a window. He seems peaceful for a moment, calm and rested. It’s almost
horrifying.
“Of course it was all my fault,” he says. For a moment it seems like he’s
speaking bitterly, but it’s just a passing moment. “It always is. Always the
child. Always. That’s what parents say, isn’t it?”
A chill runs down your spine. You are very well aware that at any moment he
could pop open those handcuffs and kill you with a blow. This quiet calm is
unnerving. You can’t follow his moods, what’s going through his head.
“I wasn’t always crazy,” he adds thoughtfully. “I know you think I am, but I’m
remarkably well-adjusted.”
At this you sit forward. Yes. He’s finally giving you something. Could it be?
Ever since you had this case, you would read through all of his crimes and you
could see a sliver of humanity there, a sliver you could never find in the rest
of his family’s files. He always made sure to spare the innocents the horrors
of his work. He always took the kids away before slaying their parents. He was
never excessive, never cruel.
Except with his father.
His father…
“Why did you kill your father?” you ask him. Lee turns that head of his to you,
a strange tilt to it as he fixes his eyes on you.
“Why do you ask? He’s the one death that didn’t hurt anyone,” he replies. That
is disturbing. It’s almost like he was looking at the death of a family member
as just another job. This prompts another question.
“Was it a job?”
Lee opens his mouth and laughs, long and hard. For a moment terror strikes you,
but you struggle to maintain your composure as he gathers his. He has such a
rich laugh. You feel as though there are layers and layers to it, secrets and
pain over thick amusement that no one could ever begin to understand.
“There are many who would pay for it,” he finally says. “But, no. It was not a
job. It was because I wanted to.”
He wanted to.
He just wanted to kill his own father.
You stare at him for several moments, confused. Should you be repulsed? Should
you be curious? Should you leave the room?
Pictures. You can show him pictures.
“What about these?” you ask as you lay out pictures of some of his uncorrupted
victims before him. “Did you want to kill these, too?”
“Are you trying to find my motive, agent?” he asked mildly, but you notice he
doesn’t look at the pictures. Rather, he refuses to and only rests his eyes on
you. Good. He still has some aversion to his sins. “I thought money was the
only motive you need.”
“It may be the only motive a judge needs, but I have a feeling it wasn’t the
only motive you needed,” you respond. You know there has to be more to this
story. The Scarrs have been around for centuries. Uncovering their family home
can reveal so much. You know you need to find it, but only Lee can provide the
location. Agents in your division to this day are still haunted by the cases of
the Scarrs, by the brutality and cruelty exemplified in their work. You caught
one. You owe it to the haunted men and women to provide them with explanations
to the hacked up corpses, the acid, the poisons so grotesque agents have hung
up their boots and left the force altogether. The good guys deserve to know.
And, of course, there is always the mystery of why the Scarr children go
missing.
You need to know.
Lee stays still for a moment, eyes locked on the wall behind you.
“Why must you pry?”
His voice is barely a whisper in the still room, his eyes haunted and sad. He
could be manipulating you. He could be directing you to his own end. He could
be doing any number of things. Eyes can lie.
“Because your family has horrified us for centuries and we need to know why.”
Perhaps that statement was blunt. But you know Lee appreciates honesty. He has
to, being a liar himself.
“Some things are better left secrets,” he says. You nearly scream in
frustration. You know there’s a shred of humanity in him. There has to be. It’s
somewhere, somewhere dear to him. Perhaps you’re too much of an optimist.
Perhaps you’re too quick to forgive, but you need to know.
“And some things should be aired out,” you snap and he smiles. It’s a wolfish
one, slow and cruel.
“Do you have nightmares, agent?”
That smug ass. He knows.
“After your file?” Your hard eyes lock with his. “Every night.”
The smile widens.
“I offer you a deal,” he stated and leaned back in his chair. “You read my
journal. In its entirety. I will give you the coordinates to various bits of
it. If you can manage it, then I will divulge the location of the ancestral
home.”
Yes.
That is perfect.
And yet… The look in his eyes tells you that you may be in over your head. But
you don’t care. You need. To know.
“Deal,” you say firmly.
It can’t be that bad. Not compared to what you have seen. Not compared to the
man hung by his own intestines from a chandelier courtesy of Lee’s father. Or
the woman who had been sliced in two and butterflied out like a shrimp, thanks
to Lee’s uncle. Or the man boiled alive. Or the girl drowned in the blood of
her parents.
It’s sick, but when you saw the decapitated body, Lee’s first kill, you had
been so relieved that one existed that killed as quickly as he had managed it.
The corpse had given you hope that all was not lost, that maybe one day you
could understand.
For a split second, though, when you stared at Lee, you couldn’t help but feel
that you would never see a breath of goodness in those crazed eyes.
God, how you hoped you were wrong.
***** 1994 *****
Chapter Summary
     You are taken to the very first place, the scene where Lee's
     nightmare truly began, and it's already a question of whether or not
     you can continue.
June 23rd, 1994
I turned six today. Bailey didn’t smile. Neither did Cameron. Papa did, though!
Momma hid in her room again and Papa gave me this journal. He says if I wanna
be a REAL Scarr I have to keep it, like Cameron and Bailey do! I wanna be a
real Scarr like them, too! Cameron gave me a knife. She looked sad, though. She
didn’t use to look sad like that… I wonder if her boyfriend broke up with her.
It’s okay. I get to play with Jamie later!
June 24th, 1994
I don’t understand. Guns are loud. Jamie is gone. Papa says I have to write
about how I feel. Red isn’t my favorite color anymore. My hands feel funny. I
feel really sad. He says I won’t soon. He says real Scarrs don’t feel sad and
real Scarrs don’t have bad grammar. We’re going home soon. I want my bed.
 
You sit back after struggling through the childish handwriting scrawled onto
the pages. Who is Jamie? Where is the rest of the journal? From what forensics
have gathered over the year, each journal is specifically made with three
hundred and sixty five pages, with sixty-six for leap years. From one birthday
to the next. Not that anyone has ever been able to analyze them before they go
missing.
You chew your lip and look around the abandoned basement. It was strange that
he would hide such a thing here. It was almost like he knew that he would be
caught, or as though he was setting himself up.
You turn back to the pages, reading over them again. It doesn’t surprise you
that Cameron, who also went missing years ago, gave a six year old kid a knife.
But who is this Jamie? And why is he relevant?
Guns are loud, little Lee had said. I feel sad. It was almost like Jamie had
been executed. Red isn’t my favorite color anymore. Had Jamie been a bodyguard
that knew too much? Perhaps Jamie had tried to save Lee from the fate imposed
upon him. It seemed a logical conclusion.
You look around the barren floor of the basement. There were people around
upstairs, cataloguing and searching for clues. From what your team could gather
this was a Scarr safehouse, registered to a ghost alias.
We’re going home soon.
It clicked.
“Johnson!” you shout. “I need a sledgehammer to clear out this basement!”
 
“It was a kid,” you scream as you slam the crime scene photos on the desk. Fury
was pounding in your veins at Lee’s nonchalance. He was just looking at the
wall while pictures of a tiny skeleton sat before him. “Jamie wasn’t even a
bodyguard. Why is a kid dead?”
“Are you angry about the dead body from twenty years ago or the implications?”
Lee asked softly. He was always so soft. You hated it.
“I don’t even know what the implications are!” you scream at him. “You gave me
two percent of a journal and a skeleton! Why were the pages just laying on the
floor like that? Waiting for me?”
“Because I was preparing, of course,” Lee replied distantly. “Why are you more
upset about pages from a six-year-old’s journal than a skeleton of a ten-year-
old child?”
That slapped you in the face.
Lee was… Expressing anger. It was quiet, hard to see, but the distance? The
cold calculation to lead you through his story? He was venting in a twisted
way, manipulating you to let loose his own emotions and simultaneously free you
from your own pain. He was toying with you, but it almost seemed like he was
toying with himself more.
“Why did your hands feel funny?” you asked after a long silence, which you
spent attempting to calm yourself down. It was the only piece that didn’t fit.
Lee turned his face to look at you and were those… Fresh scabs? It looked like
his cheek had been clawed. “Did someone attack you while you were in
handcuffs?” you demanded.
“I attacked myself. And don’t you know? The most efficient way to make a
monster is to rip away their innocence.” He seemed so mild, so detached, as
though he were discussing the weather. “But you already knew that, didn’t you,
agent?”
A stone settled into your stomach. It had been a fear swirling on the plane
ride back, broiling up in your gut, but you didn’t want to even think about it.
You knew your superiors were watching, that everything was recorded.
“Why did you scratch yourself?” you asked quietly, focusing on the matter at
hand. And why did they let him?
“Scarrs don’t cry, agent,” he replied, training his eyes on the mirror behind
you. “We express in ways we are permitted. You aren’t the only one in living
psychological hell, after all.”
That confirmed it.
“You killed Jamie,” you stated flatly, trying to imagine a blonde-haired,
chubby little kid pulling a trigger to kill their playmate. It was just like
Sinister, but in real life.
“Coming of age ceremony, of course,” he responded, still gazing at the mirror.
Victor must have been inside. “They hand you the gun and tell you to pull the
trigger after a year of companionship to teach you firsthand you can never have
anyone outside of blood. Does wonders for making sociopaths.”
You wanted to vomit. He finally ripped his eyes from the mirror and looked at
you, blue eyes bright and piercing.
“Plan on continuing?” he murmured. The bastard knew. You looked right back into
that terrifying gaze.
“Yes,” you answered thickly. Not that this truly would end the nightmare. You
could already tell it would only make more, but it had to be done.
***** 1995 *****
Chapter Summary
     A hint leads you to Boston. And in Boston you learn of stories of
     poison and pain.
You found the next journal in a loft with a stain on the floor. You could only
imagine where the stain was from. The few pieces of paper were sitting there,
neatly, all bundled up with a little red bow. He had left you a present. You
could already feel your stomach churn as you picked them up with gloved hands.
The rest of the team hung back. They knew they couldn’t raid the room until you
were finished. Slowly, with trembling hands, you unwrapped your present.
 
December 2nd, 1995
I remember saying I didn’t understand once. When I was little. (He still was
little. He couldn’t have been more than seven. The thought made your heart
hurt.) I understand now. What he must have felt like.

I mixed my first poison today. Papa said I had to test its potency, so I had to
take it myself. I hate these parts of my tests. Bailey once told me other kids
just fill out questions on paper for quizzes and don’t have any punishments if
they get one wrong. I don’t think that’s true. Parents have to be upset over a
missed question. Failure is not an option. They have to punish them somehow…
Even a backhand, I would think. One backhand for one missed question.

Anyway.

The poison was a success. My vitals dropped and my temperature rose. As
expected, my throat began to bleed. The antidote was also a success. We aren’t
allowed to carry antidotes, but it was nice to have this once. Estimated time
of death would have been six hours without a cure. If the target had something
to slow it down, perhaps ten hours.

I’m going to bed now. My throat still hurts. I’m probably going to cough up
blood all night.
 
Your eyes drifted down to the stain on the wood, the smear on the wall. You
could track his movements… The little seven year old had taken the poison,
waited patiently on the ground, and once it started to take effect, he had
coughed up blood and stumbled over to…
A seven year old had written this. A seven year old had been forced to ingest a
deadly poison. A seven year old had neatly filled out his symptoms and
estimated what his time of death could have been. How little had he been? How
small? You couldn’t imagine how wide and bright his eyes had been at this
point. They were probably so hardened, so wary. And so obedient.
A scream ripped itself from your throat and you kicked over a nearby chair.
This all had to be some elaborate hoax. Lee had to be making all of this up.
There was no way a man could do this to his children. Lee had to have played
some part in all of this. He had to be some kind of enabler. Maybe he faked
these journals… Forensics said they were entirely genuine, but they had to be
faked. They had to be.
Belatedly, you remembered your team was standing there. Staring at you. You
turned and stared at them tiredly.
“Get these pages to the lab,” you ordered. There were more, but you didn’t want
to read them. You couldn’t. “And test these stains. I’m going back to the
hotel.”
You shoved the pages at a nearby forensics expert and stormed out of the room
to the stairs.
Honestly, you didn’t know what scared you more. The possibility that this was
fake or the fact that this was true. It made you want to poison your liver and
never come back. Take a flight out to the Bahamas and open a bar far, far away
from all of this. But it would still find you and you knew it.
With a shaky sigh, you leaned against the wall and ran trembling fingers
through your hair. You didn’t want to talk to Lee. Didn’t want to accuse him or
sympathize. He was a monster for putting you through this for his own self
gratification. He was sick. You hated him.
Of course, you knew you couldn’t fully blame him. Who knew how long it had been
since he had someone to confess to? Too long, of course. But it made you angry
that it had to be you.
Selfish, you chastised yourself.

But were you? For being angry that someone had endangered your own personal
health? You didn’t want to know these things. You didn’t need to know them. You
just needed to put the killer behind bars.

You signed up for this job, you reminded yourself. It’s your duty to give an
unbiased account.

But this made you biased. This made you want to save him.

He already saved himself.

The thought was shocking.

Lee Scarr had already saved himself. He had done it in a twisted way, but he
had saved himself. And now he was just telling you why.
But why you?
Why you?
 
===============================================================================
 
 
"Why did you pick me?" you asked Lee softly. He had been finally moved to a
cell. You didn't see the point in pulling him out when you were asking a
question unrelated to the case.
It didn't escape your notice that they had taken his blankets away. What the
point of that was, you weren't sure. He could easily make himself a noose out
of his clothes. Whatever helped them sleep at night, you guessed.
Lee looked over at you from his little cot... A cot without a mattress. This
was almost ridiculous. You had no doubt he could kill himself or anyone else
with anything in that room. The most he needed was a nail.
"Why would you ask such a strange question, agent?" he asked mildly. "Are you
afraid you aren't as special as I let you believe?"
"No," you answered evenly. "I need to know why you would only work with me."
Lee smiled, a grotesque look on his scarred face, and stared up at the ceiling.
"Because," he said simply. "Your father is kind. Your siblings are normal and
alive. You have everything I could have wished for. So you need to share my
pain."
A stone settled in your gut.
"What do you mean, share your pain?" you asked lowly and he laughed.
"Look at you, so defensive and quick to jump to conclusions," he teased. "I'm
not going to kill them and twist your father into a manipulative assassin,
don't worry. You were just the best candidate to share my story with."
"That leads me to another question," you said, determined to not let him get
the jump on you. "Is it a story? Or is it fact?"
Lee's one seeing eye locked on you.
"Isn't that a question for the jury to decide, agent?" he asked softly. "What
they want to be true and what they want to be fiction?"
"But I'm asking you," you said stubbornly. He was trying to get under your
skin, the sick fuck. "Is it true or not?"
Lee looked up at the ceiling and said nothing. He wasn't going to be saying
anything for awhile. With a frustrated huff, you slammed out of the unit and
left him in his silence.
***** 1998 *****
Chapter Summary
     The mansion is still empty and you're starting to feel empty, too.
You remembered this place. You remembered the tall room, the ornate furniture,
the fact that people refused to inhabit this tortured room.
They had repainted the walls to cover the blood, redone the flooring. You had
never seen the body itself, only pictures, but it hadn’t struck you until now
that it was a ten year old child that had done this.
The house hadn’t been looked at in over five years. It had been easy for Lee to
sneak in and leave the next stage of his breadcrumbs on the table, neatly
packaged and simply tied in twine. You studied them silently. No forensics team
had come with you, no other agents. It was just you and the empty house with
its vaulted ceilings and furniture covered in sheets to protect against dust.
The widow was going to have it knocked down soon. No one had bought it, and it
was ridiculous to keep holding onto the place. You didn’t mind so much. The
crime scene photos had been chilling, to say the least. No one would want to
buy it, and the place had an air about it. People watched far too many horror
movies nowadays. They knew better than to get the place.
You leaned over and picked up the papers, ignoring the gilded edges of the
table and statue of a guardian angel looking over the journal like a saddened
mother.
Lately, you had been wondering about Lee’s mother. His journals rarely
mentioned her. Scarcely a name. You had to wonder if she still looked over him.
Or if she had ever looked over her children. Perhaps her spirit was in the
gargoyles of the churches and angels in the graveyards, like it was here, in
the ornate angels staring down upon these yellowed pages.
You shook yourself from your thoughts. This room chilled you. It felt like
violated innocence and cruel fates. The golden trappings and heavy red curtains
made it feel like a cage. Lee had been raised into custom suits and poisoned
cufflinks. It reminded you too much of the other journals.
You wouldn’t read it here. With a quiet sigh, you picked up the crinkled papers
and walked out the door to your car, which sat in the long driveway. The rental
could have been an escape from the chill, but you knew it would never leave
your bones.
Starting up the engine, you rolled out, playing the radio loudly all the way to
your hotel. You knew depression was setting in deep inside, but it had never
really left. Your footsteps were heavy and leaden as you walked through the
average lobby and took the elevator up to your room. The work phone in your
pocket was overflowing with messages pressing you to end your interrogation,
get Lee into the justice system, relinquish him to the courts, but you weren’t
ready yet. Not yet. You still had things to do.
Once in the safety of your room, you poured yourself a glass to scotch and sat
down with the papers, thumbing through for the precise date. There wasn’t
enough energy in you to read the rest. Maybe later, when you were ready for the
nightmares and tears that followed. Because, lately you had been crying a lot
over these journals, considering breaking into forensics to burn them. Were
they real? Were they false? You didn’t know. Couldn’t be bothered to care.
Sitting back, you found the right entry and prepared to read.
 
June 24th, December 1998
First kill today. Aside from Jamie. I didn’t want to drag it out. Papa hit me
for it, but I guess I deserved that. Mum just stared at me and said nothing. I
think she was disgusted in me for doing it. I don’t care. It’s not like I had a
choice.
I just don’t care.
I managed to get the blood off, but Papa said I will have longer punishment
later. He told me to clean up and present myself, but I have a few minutes to
get it done.
There will be a party later. I think everyone else will approve. Only Papa can
tell why I did it the way I did. And he won’t say anything. Everyone has high
hopes for me. He doesn’t want me to be the embarrassment.
Guess I’ll just put on my smile and go then. Papa won’t punish so there’s
marks. I know he won’t. I trust him.
 
I trust him.
The words rang over and over in your head. As usual, your gut twisted.
I trust him.
James had made his own child kill a man and then punished him for not dragging
it out. Lee had been ten. And he trusted him still, despite the bitterness
ringing in the piece.
This couldn’t possibly be real. This was all just a big lie. It had to be. An
elaborate hoax. Maybe you were hallucinating. Maybe you were in a coma from
when you had fell off the barn roof when you were eighteen and hit your head.
This had to all be a result of that.
It was beginning to occur to you that Lee was younger than you… No more than
27. He was a baby. Did he even know how a normal family worked, what Christmas
was like, how to build a house or put a baby to sleep?
Did he know any of that?
You set the stack of papers down and turned your face aside to stare at the
wall. Dimly, you remembered reading a short story in school called The Yellow
Wallpaper. You knew how that woman felt now. The need to rip everything down
because everything had a double meaning now. You knew what it felt to be caged.
Did Lee still feel caged, you wondered. Did he still feel locked away from the
world, living in an eternal cycle of death?
But you couldn’t ask him those questions. He would only twist them around and
manipulate you. Or give you the truth through ridiculous riddles.
You needed more to drink.
***** 2000 *****
Chapter Summary
     The jungle wasn't that bad, but you don't know why you feel so
     terrible.
You sat in silence. Lee had given you the location of a jungle in the middle of
nowhere.
You were running out of leeway with your superiors and it was weighing on you.
All of this investigating was costing a lot of time and money, time that could
have been spent putting Lee behind bars.
At least you had the referral of several psychologists, who were all insisting
that this was necessary and Lee could not be tried based on shady evidence. If
Lee was to go through trial, all things would have to be taken into
consideration, not just his deeds.
And now you had this little journal. It didn’t make much sense. There was
nothing too immensely violent in it. Just Lee learning how to work in an
environment that wasn’t urban. Once more, you read over the pages.
March 10th, 2000.
I’ve been here for several days and only just made it back to camp.
But you already knew that, whoever you are.
I’m tired.
Dad had a friend waiting to meet me at camp, which was strange. I didn’t know
Dad had friends.
His name is Sam and I don’t trust his smile.
Dad has been working with me on my off switch. I’m coming along. Slowly. I
think Dad is losing his patience. He says stubbornness is a good trait, but if
my subconscious can’t trust him to know what’s good for me, what am I doing?
I’m not allowed to write down the location of the off switch. Just in case.
People already know what I do, what I am, but off switches are a closely
guarded secret. Or something like that. I don’t know.
Sam is staring at me again. I wish he’d stop, but I can’t tell him off. He saw
Dad and I while we were working on my switch.
He makes my skin crawl.
I don’t like it.
I have to go.
You didn’t know which to be more confused about. This was mystery. Who was Sam?
And what was an off switch?
Did Lee have a spot on his body that made him turn off when he was fighting?
With interest, you sat back and read the journal again.
At least that would explain why Lee was an anomaly in the family. If every
member only had to be touched, or spoken to, or whatever it was to be subdued,
like this was hinting at, it would make sense that so few fled.
Even so, this was a strangely peaceful journal for Lee to be laying around for
him.
You read it again.
Sam makes my skin crawl, Lee had mentioned. Sam is staring at me again.
What was Lee, twelve, at this point? Something like that. Why would this Sam be
staring at him?
You almost wanted to ask Lee. But nowadays you were avoiding him.
“Agent,” one of your operatives said, a respectful distance away. “We have to
go. A storm’s coming in and the pilot doesn’t want to get caught in a tropical
typhoon.”
You shook yourself and stood up, tucking the papers into your briefcase.
“Right,” you said, but you were still worried. “Let’s go.”
It was a bumpy flight back, but you didn’t seem to notice.
I don’t like it.
The words echoed over and over again in your head. For some reason, they made
you sick to your stomach, and this was an incredibly passive journal. No
children killing people. No abuse. No poisoning. It was nothing but Lee working
through the jungle, and, for a twelve year old child, he had done pretty damn
well on his own. Compared to the other things James Scarr had forced his son
through, this was intensely mild.
You had to talk to him.
You had no other choice.
“Why did you give me this journal?” you asked him bluntly.
Today he was in a straight jacket. You didn’t even bother to ask why.
Lee Scarr looked terrible. Red rimmed eyes, dark circles, hollowed out cheeks.
He seemed like he had lost quite a bit of weight during the time you had been
avoiding him. His good eye fixed on you in silence, calculating, sizing you up.
“I read a lot of novels, Agent,” he finally said, leaning back in his padded
cell. He didn’t even have a cot. Somehow, you got the feeling he had tried to
use the one he had used to kill someone. It would at least explain the straight
jacket.
As you stared at him, you couldn’t help but feel like he was losing his touch.
He didn’t seem scary in the slightest today. Passive, yes, but not scary.
Quiet. Withdrawn.
It was like his armor was cracking and he knew it.
“That doesn’t answer the question,” you finally replied after a long silence.
He wasn’t making your skin crawl. He was making you want to hug him.
“I think it does,” he finally said, softly. “Shall I give you the next
location, Agent?”
This felt like it was going nowhere, but you had no choice.
“Sure. Give me the coordinates.”
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