Hurricane

Chapter 3

Trigger: Mentions of violence

"Do you really want me dead or alive to torture for my sins?"

Mitch woke up in his own bed, the faint memory of Spongebob's laughter and heartbeat against his ear in his mind as he stretched. He knew that he still needed to talk to Scott and tell him why they were attacked in a dark alleyway, but he really didn't want to. He wasn't kidding when Mitch said he's seen it all. Every death, torture, and plan that man could ever think up he's seen before he reached 18. A scary life it was. Mitch still gets nightmares.

He shuffled to the kitchen, attempting to lay his fringe down flat as he waited for Scott to come back with Starbucks, as he usually does, since he was up earlier than Mitch. He sat at the dinner table and thought, biting his lip. What exactly was he supposed to say? This has been happening for a long while, ever since he was fifteen. How long was he supposed to go back? The pain searing memories and the loss that he felt came back full force and he had to grip the table for support. Mitch breathed in for 5 seconds, held it in for two seconds, then let it out for five seconds, a technique he learned in training to keep you calm.

He waited until the white noise in his head was gone and he could hear Wyatt purring against his leg. Mitch smiled and picked him up, kissing his head before putting the stormy gray cat down, watching him haul ass to the living room. He giggled softly, going to the cupboards and grabbing breakfast. Mitch was just finished his cereal when the door opened to reveal a warmly dressed Scott carrying two drinks. "Good morning Mitchy bean," Scott said, putting the drinks down and walking over, holding his arms out for the brunette. Mitch rolled his eyes warmly and walked into his arms, feeling safe and at home immediately.

"Hey Skittles."

"How'd you sleep? I'm a pretty comfy pillow."

"Good, thanks for asking," Mitch smiled into the flannel that Scott had over a shirt, listening to his heartbeat for a moment before pulling away. Mitch let out a breath through his teeth, calming himself down so he could tell his story.

Wow, that makes it sound like he was giving a testimony. In a way he was, Mitch supposed.

"I guess...we have a lot to talk about," he said, looking up at Scott, a serious look on his face. Scott frowned, but Mitch could see the spark of interest in his eyes. "Are you sure?" the blonde asked, biting his lip. "We don't have to do it right off the bat." Mitch shook his head, clenching his fist.

Breathe. 5, 2, 5.

"I want to get it over with."

5, 2, 5.

"Positive?"

5, 2-

"Yeah."

Mitch sat across from Scott, his legs crossed and hands in his lap, sitting up straight, trying to get a hold of his shaking hands. Scott had his elbows on his knees and his hands over his mouth, leaned over to look at Mitch with his undivided attention. The brunette cleared his throat, closed his eyes, and started talking.

Scott's eyes grew bigger and bigger at each word.

"Before my dad retired from his work, I told you he worked in law. He did, in a sense, but not as a lawyer like I know you thought. My dad was actually part of a secret organization called TRACK: Teens Reconstructed As Chaos Killers. The scientists in TRACK would take people starting at around fifteen or sixteen to train to be the ultimate crime fighters and stop underground crime when they were adults. It's only about 6 or so per team. My dad volunteered me to be in the A team.