Look Into My Eyes... Now Die For Me

Chapter 2

Chapter 2

He lands safely on the floor at least forty stories below, taking his equipment off calmly, shedding off the backpack that had helped him survive death yet again. Eyes land on him strangely, but none stopped him.

This was New York. A nutcase on the street was as common as anything. Nobody cares about the weirdoes on the streets, except the police. And those who did are the policemen who wanted to be shot or fired.

Still, he isn't a nutcase, and he is confident of the fact himself. In fact, he left his equipment hanging at the side of the building so casually that no one even gives him a single second look now. You sigh to yourself, wondering why you even know that man at all. He is just crazy. But then, so are you. So are every single one of you.

"Go pick up the nutcase, man. The FBI are upstairs, and knowing they're close by freaks me out. I need to bathe ten times later to wash off the idea of them almost in contact with the same air as me." The guy at shotgun urges, and you give him a sideways glance. He doesn't look impressive at all, with a pair of obnoxious black square spectacles hiding his grey eyes. In fact, he is shorter than all of you, and he is sometimes the weirdest. It doesn't help that he was sometimes a hoarder and an OCD freak.

You turn your eyes on the road in front of you again, watching as he stands patiently by the side-walk, just perfectly calm. Without preamble, he smoothly slips a fedora from a passing stranger, and silently snatches the scarf poking out from a woman's passing bag. The victims notices none of it, even as he place the hat over his head, wrapping the scarf around him and hiding part of his face, pretending as if he is hiding from the cold.

"Let's go, man. You're an ass to leave him shivering in the cold. I thought we had each other's back?" The only guy at the backseat speaks up after a long moment, flipping his switch blade open and close continuously in a movement that was aimed to scare, not that it has any effect on any one of you.

You refuse to put the car in drive, but only continue to watch him.

"He isn't shivering from just the cold." You say silently, not realising that your voice had vocalised your thoughts before you could catch them.

"Then?" The guy in shotgun asks impatiently back in reply, still fidgeting. The idea of FBI never sat well with Jake, but neither does it sit well with you. You have had your own fair share of playing FBI, and the past days made you wary about them.

"He's mourning the loss of his kittens." You reply cryptically. Only you understand the man standing out there in the cold, shivering. Only you see the painful horror in his eyes. Only you see the sorrowful air he exuded. You hate yourself for putting a man like him through such a situation. But he had done it. You're not sure if you should feel proud or terribly sorry.

You watch further as someone wearing a work-suit slowly turn attention on him. It is obvious as hell that the suited guy is with the team of FBI agents that had swarmed the building forty floors up. You know that guy. That guy used to be in your profession, your industry. But that guy jumped ships and was now a Confidential Informant.

CI-Suit walks up to him, and starts chatting him up, even as you finally put the car into drive. You ignore the honks made at you and speed towards where the two men are, chatting by the sidewalk.

"FBI! FBI! FBI! FBI!" Jake, riding shotgun, exclaims under his breath at your sudden reckless driving and braking, as if trying to convince himself that taking this car ride was worth it –that it was because the FBI were on your tail that you were driving so crazily. The guy in backseat says nothing at all.