New Game

He's right!

Agent Harold rushed through security at the National Prison for the second time in two days, ignoring the terrified looks of the security as he demanded to see the Countertenor. When they hesitated, he forcibly marched the frazzled guards towards the entrance of the cell-block that housed Michael Jackson, making the woman open the locks for him.

Harold flew past the bewildered guards and down the dark corridor at top speed. He practically crashed into the massive metal door at the end of the hall. Harold threw his badge at the men safeguarding the entrance and waited expectantly. The stoic men barely blinked at the erratic man, swinging the door open. He marched past them with purpose, into the giant cage that housed Michael.

The moment he saw Quinn, Michael's brows went up slowly. He walked over to the microphone. The man stood in place until the other reached the speakers and flipped them on. "Quinn," he said, "You came to see me again," he said.

Harold said nothing, forcing his face to stay blank.

"I think I figured it out, but I want you to tell me if I'm right." the agent said matter-of-factly, seating himself in the straight-backed chair and placing his hands on the metal table. Michael hmmed, cocking his head to the side, some of his curls falling onto his face.

"What's your worst memory?" Michael asked. Harold frowned at the man sitting across from him. Agent Quinn scratched the size of his chin awkwardly and thought about his reply.

"Huh?" the agent asked, stupidly. He knew he sounded much dimmer than he was and despite him thinking up a witty response in his head, it always seemed to be lost somewhere between his brain and his mouth. Harold truly hated the way that Michael could simply change the entire flow of a conversation with a few well-placed words, using as little effort to throw the agent off as it took to tuck a stray piece of his hair behind his ears.

"I want to know your worst memory." Michael repeated, "Then I will tell you if your hunch is right." the man said, as he arranged himself in his armchair, drawing his legs up to his face and sitting his chin on them, awaiting Quinn's tale like a boy listening to a bedtime story.

"Okay," Harold whispered. The memory flashed vividly before his eyes as he told his story to Michael, each word-painting the setting in more detail inside the walls of his brain, taking him back to that terrible day.

When he finished his story he realized that he had been crying. Harold hastily wiped the tears from his eyes and looked up into the face of the Countertenor to find the convicted murderer crying, his eyes glistening with tears. Harold was taken aback, to say the least.

"That is sad, Quinn," Michael said quietly. He dabbed his face with the clean, red sleeve of his shirt.

"Can you tell me if I am right, now?" Harold prodded, hoping to steer the ever-distracted murderer back onto the task at hand.

Michael glanced up at him and smiled, "What do you think it is Quinn?" he inquired.

"Their jobs, right?" Harold asked, "Their jobs have something in common." the agent gnawed the inside of his cheek and prayed to God that he was correct. Suddenly, Michael hopped up and stood on the seat of his chair, clapping his hands together in delight.

"He's right!" Michael said, joyfully. He flopped back into his armchair and grinned at Harold.

"Erm... yay?" Harold said, hoping that the inflection at the end of his sentence didn't show how utterly confused he was by this entire situation.

"I have a lot of confidence in your ability. Go back to the station and tell everybody what you've learned. I think you've got a big break coming in your case." he confessed.