Project X

Apologies And Necessities

The next day, McKagan didn't struggle.

He was sitting cross-legged on his bed, practically meditating, cigarette burning away between his teeth. His eyes followed us when we walked in, and they were the only part of him that moved. The rest of his body was perfectly motionless. Even the respiratory rise and fall of his chest seemed to be understated, if it was there at all.

I approached him cautiously, my eyes determinedly downcast, and started setting up my equipment. No one spoke a word. The intrusive clacking and clanging of the machine against the desk disturbed the soundlessness that sat heavily in the room, and I found myself making sure to move slowly and softly as I set pieces of plastic and metal around the desk. It makes me laugh to recall this now, but I actually came pretty close to apologising for the racket. I may have been contributing to grievous human rights violations, but dammit, I'd mind my P's and Q's.

"How's your throat?" McKagan said conversationally.

I let the comment go, my hand still coming up to hold my neck protectively. At the last second, I forced my wrist to change track and straightened my collar instead.

"How's your leg?" Isbell said suddenly. I glanced at him, surprised, but he was engaged in a stare-off with McKagan. I could read neither of their expressions; I assumed it was some kind of alpha-male dick-measuring contest that didn't involve me, thank God for small mercies. I suddenly felt very tired. I scratched my cheek and gestured limply to the finished equipment on the table.

"All ready," I said robotically.

Isbell nodded once, and strode over to McKagan and started strapping him in, beginning with his wrists, pausing for a moment when he was met with no resistance.

"Docile today, aren't we?"

McKagan flashed his teeth. "Conserving energy."

I smeared the gel onto his temples, waiting for him to lash out. He didn't. Instead he flexed his fingers, cleared his throat, wet his lips. He was watching me the whole time, alert and knowing, with a hint of pitying scorn.

Yeah, you keep right on laughing, you smug sonofabitch. I'll shock it out of you soon enough.

The thought scuttled away as quickly as it came, chuckling madly as it did, and I was left blinking, holding the electrodes limply in my hands.

"Saul."

I flinched. "Yes!"

Isbell raised a bored eyebrow, arms folded across his chest. "Feel like joining us again?"

"I..." Blinking and looking down, I saw McKagan peering at me with a distasteful frown burrowing between his brows. "Yeah, I'm...I'm all right. Sorry."

McKagan looked towards Isbell and smirked. "You know, the runt of the litter doesn't make for a good accessory."

I clamped the electrodes onto McKagan's temples, grinding my teeth. He just chuckled and wriggled a little, letting out a soft grunt before continuing.

"Went out since last season, with, uh, things like pillbox hats, cardigan sweaters - oh! And Lugers." McKagan cocked his fingers and licked his teeth. "Low magazine capacity. Not lethal enough." His pit-viper gaze met mine, slit-like and deadly.

I wrenched the ECT machine to life. 150 volts. McKagan's body snapped into brittle paralysis, and his teeth clacked violently against each other when he started to shake because I'd forgotten to put the mouthguard in. I fumbled for it, stuffing the rubbery plastic between his cracked lips, but it was too late; he'd bitten his tongue. Blood dribbled from his mouth and tickled my palms and streaked his chin, and he carried on bucking and jerking for too long and I only realised he was choking on his blood when Isbell undid the straps holding McKagan's right arm down and shoved my hands away from McKagan's mouth and McKagan tore the mouthguard out as he sat up, twisted his torso towards the left side of the bed and coughed, spitting out great globs of bloody phlegm. He stayed that way for a few seconds, upper body half-hanging over the side of the bed, his breathing ragged and slow.