Made In Basalt

Gone With The Wind

Mick Mars was turning into a real pain in Nikki's ass.

He'd heard him that morning on the radio, the one he'd spent the days glaring at from his hospital bed, both anticipating and dreading when the chirpy voices would announce that stupid fucking name. The pit of anxiety in his stomach snarled and boiled acidly when they did, and cooled temporarily when they didn't. But he could feel it in there still, bubbling away, dormant in his intestines, practically burning a hole though the soft flesh. God, all he needed was an ulcer.

Mars had finally appeared on some half-assed political commentary show, talking about the months he'd spent in Russia back when he was an agent, explaining how - to the host's audible horror - his senior officer had sent him to the gulags to learn torture techniques, a tongue-in-cheek imitation of work experience.

He used what he'd seen there to support his detailed, four-point argument as to why using torture to glean intelligence does not work, despite the government's continued use of it. Nikki listened attentively, considering each point his ex-partner made. The first two - giving the country a bad name and endangering the troops- he disregarded, because they were asinine and feeble. The third reason, that it lengthened the recruiting lines of terrorists, did make a little more sense, although he thought it was simplistic in that many, many factors were involved in the recruitment of terrorists and any anger at the cruelty of potential captors was pretty low down on the list. The final argument, though, that empirical evidence stated that it simply didn't work, was the one that stuck, because truthfully, Nikki had been wondering about that very point for a long time. If it was indeed true that harsh interrogation techniques simply didn't yield good information, then what was the point?

He was still mulling the thought over, now questioning the integrity of the alleged empirical evidence Mars cited, when the presenter asked a question that made Nikki sit up, groaning when a several sharp stabs of pain in his torso reminded him of the state of his ribs.

"You've said that you have colleagues still with the agency today, who have been involved with one or more incidents of malpractice. What constitutes as malpractice, and why don't you publicly name them, so they can be held accountable?"

Mars had paused. Nikki couldn't breathe.

"I have no interest in holding struggle sessions for my ex-colleagues," he said shortly. "Publicly humiliating individuals will not bring about the change I'd like to make. My battle is bigger than that."

That had elicited a hollow little laugh as Nikki found his breath once more.

"You smarmy sanctimonious shithead, Mars," he told the radio, and thumped it off.

Axl had dropped by, bringing newspapers and cigarettes and some much-needed goddamn cheer to the miserable place, whirl-winding into the cosy little room and promptly announcing that it smelled like piss and old people, and that if Nikki needed help drafting a letter of retirement he'd be happy to proof-read, for a fee.

"You know, Sixx," he said now, tapping an unlit match against his teeth, as he lounged in the chair beside the bed, "Your fuckability score has dropped faster than a hooker's panties since the fourth time I watched you use that bedpan."

Nikki scratched at the bandage on his chest as gently as he could, trying not to disturb the too-neat wrap job the nurse had painstakingly given him. He used the arm that hadn't been hit by the bullets, as that one burned like a motherfucker on fire whenever he tried to move it. Moving his head on the slightly flat pillow, he gave the redhead a sour look.

"Morbid curiosity covers you for the first time, but watching me take a shit on three further occasions sounds like a personal choice, Rose."

Axl laughed, shifting in his chair so one elbow leaned over the armrest. Nikki raised one hand.