The Collection: Short Stories, Misfits, and One-shots

Your Choice

"You have two choices, John." He didn't need to elaborate on that as he slid his gun from his hidden holster and placed it on the table, eyes never leaving John's.

"And what is the other?" Frank raised an eyebrow, and leaned back in his chair, the picture of relaxation to anyone but John.

"Walk out that door and be arrested where eventually the same will happen, only it will not be by your own hand."

"I see, and why does it have to be me?" There was a twitch in the relaxed posture, a chip in the expressionless facade of the other agent.

"You messed up. They no longer want you on the team."

"And there's no leaving the team."

"Don't make me pull the trigger, John. Don't make me your killer."

He wanted to let Frank off, not turn him into one of them, but somehow the image of an innocent Frank in any of this was unfathomable now. "I guess we brought this on each other."

This was the only time John had ever seen his partner flinch, and it didn't make him feel as good as he'd imagined it. "I guess we did." It was the tone of understanding that had John tensed, his hands tightening in their hold of one another as the gun was lifted off the table and pointed at him. Suprisingly, the gun did not shake, nor did Frank's eyes leave his. "You should have just followed orders, John. Now, we have to find a replacement." His word's were cold and callous, but the eyes were the one thing that said everything his mouth could not. The sound of the gun being fired was like a cannon in the room, and then there was pain and eventually darkness. You didn't leave the team, the team left you. He had known that going in, but the dreams had hidden the body bags, and the following had taken his choice.