✏ 𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐬.

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐮𝐥𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐥

  
   
“Is that a British Army Browning L9A1 in your pocket..”

It’s a familiar voice that purrs throughout the empty swimming pool, a slight rasp coupled with a pitch synonymous with prepubescent leaving a few pricks tingling down Techno’s spine, diablerie and drowning in swagger bordering on psychopathy. Whatever it was, Techno’s survival instincts (or whatever was still intact at that point) felt that any business to do with them would be better off left unfinished.

Without hesitation, the vice grip on the handgun tightens, tight enough to leave a mark. It’d been bad enough a shock when Wilbur strut out of the pool cubicles with a bomb strapped on his waist like a present, but god, that voice. Puberty must’ve been rough. This was the voice of the man that’s strapped a bomb onto his helpmate, and Techno can’t help but feel his bloodlust thicken into the viscosity of gasoline.

“.. Or are you just pleased to see me?”

Like a model catwalking on a runway, he strutted into view, rearing a lovely bed of golden hair from around the pool corner. It’s a child, a literal child no older than sixteen, and Techno feels his insides crumble and his aim falter. He’s even got braces, for god’s sake.

That wasn’t even the biggest shocker; he’d met him before. Though purged from his memories, he could still remember his outspoken body language and how Techno had deduced that the kid had lied about meeting Zak accidentally.

Wilbur doesn’t seem to take it well either, a filthy concoction of trepidation (though it could be from the bomb strapped to his chest) and nonplus palpable in the consulting detective’s palette.

Techno tries to match the kid’s bravado, barking, “Both.” 

“Thomas Moriarty, Hi-!”

He took a bow, the playfulness in his voice was sickening.

Feigning ignorance to the building perturbation, he tilts his head innocently. “Tommy? Tommy from the hospital?”

“Did I really make such a fleeting impression?” Tommy, a name uglier than sin to Techno, cooed with the innocence of his age, and barely the sinister and vile malice of the pantomime villain he was. “Though I guess that was rather the point.”

Techno’s hand doesn’t sway, stagnant and trained precisely on the entity’s head.

“Don’t be silly, someone else is holding the rifle. I don’t like getting my hands dirty.”

The entity carries on with his drawn out monologue.

“I’ve given you a glimpse, Techno, just a tiny little glimpse of my plan in the big bad world. It’s so terribly simple.”

“Just like you, Techno, I specialise in something.”

It’s a plain cue for Techno to fill in, and he humoured it.

“Dear Tommy, please will you fix it for me to get rid of my lover’s nasty sister.”

The bastard has the audacity to giggle, and that giggle is going to fucking haunt him in his sleep for years to come.

“Dear Tommy, please will you fix it for me to disappear to South America.”

The consulting detective trails off with, “Consulting Criminal.

“And no one ever gets to me, and no one ever will.”

Techno pulls the safety lock on the handgun, the clicks loud and heavy in the choking tension that fogged the swimming pool.

“Well, I did.”

“You’ve come the closest, now you’re in my way!”

Techno shrugs his shoulders. “Thank you.”

“Didn’t mean it as a compliment.”

“You did.”

“Yeah okay, I did.”

Techno wonders how Wilbur’s taking it all, but if that man had left his dear brother’s presence undaunted and has a (self-admitted) addiction to danger, he figured that the guitarist was holding himself up pretty well.

“But the talking’s over, Techno.” Tommy sung, ambling towards the two. “The alpha male’s had enough now~!”

“I’ve spent countless resources to just drag you out of your hole; cut people off, burnt millions of dollars. So, take this as a friendly warning.”

“Although, I have loved this, this little game of ours; playing Tommy from Secondary, playing as a fan. Did you like the little touch with the stan account?”

Techno butts in. “People have died.”

“That’s. What. People. DO!”

Techno flinched from the deafening echo of his scream, eyelid fluttering up and down. He’s quite sure that the shrill intensity of his scream had caused the swimming pool’s water to ripple, and his eardrums to burst.

“I will stop you.”

Tommy asserted with a blank face, “No, you won’t.”

The bastard strutted over to Techno’s helpmate, and placed his hand on his shoulder, barely fazed by his lofty height only being a few inches shy of Wilbur’s lanky stature. With impertinence and lunacy no normal recalcitrant delinquent could ever replicate, he leaned in, kissing personal space goodbye as he murmured into the brunette’s ear, “You can talk, Wilbur Soot. Go ahead.”

Wilbur nods, and Techno’s hand was forced to offer the missile plans.

Tommy seemed nonplussed, scratching his head at it but acquiesced it anyways, sauntering over with callous.

“The missile plans..” Tommy cooed. “Boring~!”

And he flicked the thumb drive into the pool.
  
  

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