A Bullet Through A Flock Of Doves

Two - Will They Give Me The Chair?

Gerard went without a fight.

It was a rare thing for him to do, but every second that his instincts screamed for him to fight back, for him to just throw that burly cop a few punches, take his gun, get him to the ground, and shoot his brains out, his own brain kept up a steady whispering chant of Mikey, Mikey, Mikey.

He was hustled into the back of a black Hummer, a car so hard to miss, so large, that it gave him the smug sense of being too important for your run-of-the-mill police car. Of course, he was. He was a mass murderer, among other things- he bet these 'smart' FBI agents hadn't the slightest idea as to the real number of lives he'd destroyed. All with good reason- most of them.

He was right- at the court hearing, which passed in a blur (he didn't know why they bothered with it, really, legal niceties or some other nonsense), he was accused of killing ten people. He couldn't help the manic little smile at that- ten, really? Only ten? It was almost shameful.

Even so, the FBI agents on the prosecution were vying for giving him a spot in the electric chair. Gerard was fairly sure they were in Washington D.C. at the moment, and in Virginia such execution was perfectly legal. Not that it mattered, he thought with a strange sort of excitement- if he were executed illegally, it would make his death all the more ironic.

He loved irony.

His poor, poor defense lawyers did a sorry job. They couldn't help him, he didn't mind. He knew they all thought he was not entirely sane, and they tried to use that in their defense- one silly little blonde woman tried to convince the jury he was a schizophrenic who believed that everyone was out to kill him, and so he did the natural thing- he fought back. Of the prosecution, they called his psychotic and a man who killed for sport.

None of them guessed the truth. Not even close.

And so it was a sense of barely contained glee that he was driven away in the wonderfully obnoxious Hummer, handcuffs tight around his wrists. He just kept smiling, looking out the window and staring at his escort with interest. The blonde, burly man in the seat next to him shifted and squirmed, his eyes nervous under dark sunglasses. The smaller man in front of him was, as much as he hated to admit it, intimidating.

He wasn't at all strong-looking... a bit lean, the man supposed, and he could see the muscles under his pale skin whenever his arm shifted, exposed to the air by his black t-shirt. His hair hung down far, almost to his shoulders, brushing them in fringes of shiny, messy raven. He had a small nose, thing lips, a rather feminine face, all in all. He wasn't a masculine, testosterone filled type of criminal.

It was his eyes that made you do a double take, the eyes that had the big scary FBI agent inwardly crying for his mommy. They were amber and green, and they were fixed on him with an uncanny intelligence. They were like cat eyes, without the slitted pupils, of course, but the feral understanding and the animal need to kill, the acknowledgment that this- that he- was prey, remained. The man hardly seemed to blink, so that the full power of his terrifying eyes rested upon the other man's.

And Gerard knew it. He knew just how to make everyone his victim, even his allies. He had this way of persuasion that made people flinch and try to wriggle free, only to be pinned down again by another emerald glance.

The drive was a long one. Gerard didn't feel at all sorry for his escort, though, who was probably almost in tears under his fancy-shmancy Armani shades.

He was hustled out of the car and onto the concrete, the light nearly blinding him after being behind tinted glass for so long. His escort, as well as several other officials, guided him along the gray path to the ominous building before him.