The beam of light played over the room. The wind whistled through the missing windows, letting the sounds of the city far below mix with the roar of the helicopter. This had gone on for far too long.
“You’re the one giving commands. You have the gun,” Merrik said. He’d come up in the elevator, alone, in exchange for the poor schmuck who’s job it was to guard the building at night and who had taken a round to his stomach for the trouble. “I’m unarmed and I don’t doubt you’ll blow my head off without hesitation.”
John paced nervously along the line of hostages. He didn’t want this. They made him. They **made** him! Sally was a good person. His wife, his everything and they killed her, day after day, letter after letter. He smiled, her lips touching his own the first time they met in high school.
The helicopter buzzed the room again.
“You seem to hold all the power,” Merrik was saying, moving deeper into the office. “But are you really the one in control here? Are you of that?”
John reached down and plucked a suit-clad figure from the ground. The man tried to shrug him off, seemingly more indignant his tailored suit was being manhandled than his own future wellbeing. He was just like all the others, telling him sorry sir, but years of payments don’t mean squat compared to the cost of treating your wife. Oh but don’t worry sir; your payments will go down when she’s gone. The fucking nerve.
John dragged the suit to the window, for the world to see. His chest lit up with a thousand tiny red dots, but they wouldn’t shoot. Not with the world watching.
“John, don’t.” Merrik was approaching, like one weary predator approaching another’s kill. He didn’t look at the gun, or the suit or the helicopter, he just kept his gaze fixed on John’s own. “It’s not what she would have wanted.”
“You don’t get to tell me what she would have wanted!”
John kicked the prick at his feet, sending him slamming into the frame of the window, but not so he would tumble out.
“This isn’t you.”
“I spent twenty-seven years married to Sally,” he said, running the muzzle of the Colt against his temple. “And thirty-one years in the marines. So don’t you tell me I’m not a murderer.”
John grabbed the suit and pulled him up to his face. Even in his old age his muscles were still like bands of steel. He looked into the face of the man who had denied his wife her last few years and together they fell.
Prompt originally posted by Demtbud on reddit and received 1 upvotes.