Billy didn't move. Didn't notice Mike was even there or that the door had opened against his back. The only sign that he was aware that anything had changed was that he curled up tighter, pulling his head closer to his knees.
The strange thing was he wasn't shaking. His breath was unsteady, but his hands weren't. He was completely still, huddled on the floor. All of his effort going into salvaging that wall. So he could process everything. But he was trying to save a sandcastle from the tide and it was slipping away from his fingers. Only it wasn't just any tide. It was a rip-current that threatened to drag him under. The very ground under his feet shifting and sliding away.
But that arm around his shoulders seemed to break that final thread that held him up. That was keeping his last pieces together. His entire body shuddered. An involuntary reaction that fell just short of a sob.
Why had he gone with it? Why hadn't he tried to stop it? It wasn't saving any lives. It wouldn't stop Whistler from being dead. For all they knew, that thug was innocent in this. How would he explain his actions to his team? He'd helped torture a man for no other reason than he was told to. He was just following orders. Oh god, he was as bad and broken as the soldiers of the governments they fought. Just a mindless minion doing as he was told. A pawn. Carrying out orders regardless of who it hurt. Is this what he was becoming? Just for one mission? What else would he have gone further if he'd been told to? And overlaying it all was that blood. Blood everywhere. On his hands. On his clothes. He swore he could see it on the floor even now. He could still smell it. Blood on Mike's hands. On his clothes. He was covered in it. So much blood.
Slowly that shudder grew. And it seemed he might just shake apart at the seams. Why wouldn't it stop?
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The strange thing was he wasn't shaking. His breath was unsteady, but his hands weren't. He was completely still, huddled on the floor. All of his effort going into salvaging that wall. So he could process everything. But he was trying to save a sandcastle from the tide and it was slipping away from his fingers. Only it wasn't just any tide. It was a rip-current that threatened to drag him under. The very ground under his feet shifting and sliding away.
But that arm around his shoulders seemed to break that final thread that held him up. That was keeping his last pieces together. His entire body shuddered. An involuntary reaction that fell just short of a sob.
Why had he gone with it? Why hadn't he tried to stop it? It wasn't saving any lives. It wouldn't stop Whistler from being dead. For all they knew, that thug was innocent in this. How would he explain his actions to his team? He'd helped torture a man for no other reason than he was told to. He was just following orders. Oh god, he was as bad and broken as the soldiers of the governments they fought. Just a mindless minion doing as he was told. A pawn. Carrying out orders regardless of who it hurt. Is this what he was becoming? Just for one mission? What else would he have gone further if he'd been told to? And overlaying it all was that blood. Blood everywhere. On his hands. On his clothes. He swore he could see it on the floor even now. He could still smell it. Blood on Mike's hands. On his clothes. He was covered in it. So much blood.
Slowly that shudder grew. And it seemed he might just shake apart at the seams. Why wouldn't it stop?