“Your key is useless,” Connor says. The words come out sharp, and Mason’s complete lack of a reaction only irritates him further.
“What do you mean?”
“It did not fit the lock,” Connor forces out between slightly gritted teeth. Mason’s interest still seems more focused on his book than the man in front of him.
“It’s not meant to,” says Mason, as though Connor is the idiot here.
“You forged a key that does not work?”
Connor is a patient man. He’s always been good at waiting out his targets, regardless of whether they’re people or prey. (Or both. Occasionally, it feels as though the line blurs.)
He is rapidly losing patience for this man.
“Well, that all depends on what you mean by work. It’ll get us out of here, just not the way you expected.”
“Then how?” Connor asks. He does not ask, however, “Why didn’t you tell me that the key wasn’t actually made to fit the lock before you gave it to me?” even though he feels that he would be well within his rights to do so.
Perhaps it was a test. People seem to have so many for him.
“Well, you’re in luck,” Mason says, and Connor raises his eyebrows. He has not felt especially lucky since coming here. “Normally the only person with the real key is the Warden, and you’d have to get yourself thrown in the pit to get to him. The thing is, the Warden’s off sick at the moment, so the key’s been passed on to his second in command. Just distract him long enough to swap the fake key for the real one, and he’ll be none the wiser.”
“And his second in command is…?”
Mason points, and for a second everything seems muted – the yells and groans of the prisoners seem distant, what little colour there is draining into so many shades of grey. Grey. Grey eyes, but not looking at him, thank goodness, just looking over at the prisoners with his lips curled and holding his baton in an almost loving grip.
Connor is dimly aware of Mason saying something, and interrupts him anyway. “And how am I meant to distract him?”
Mason looks faintly put out. “I don’t know. Surely you can improvise something.”
Connor’s chest feels tight, like a weight pressing down hard against his ribs. “You are sure this will work?” Mason gives a short nod, eyeing him curiously. “Positive. Are you all right? You’re looking… well, not pale, but…” He lets out an uneasy laugh.
“I am fine,” Connor says, fixing his eyes on Jameson once more. This time the guard notices him, and Connor raises his head defiantly. “I will not let harm come to Washington.”
FILL [4/?]
“What do you mean?”
“It did not fit the lock,” Connor forces out between slightly gritted teeth. Mason’s interest still seems more focused on his book than the man in front of him.
“It’s not meant to,” says Mason, as though Connor is the idiot here.
“You forged a key that does not work?”
Connor is a patient man. He’s always been good at waiting out his targets, regardless of whether they’re people or prey. (Or both. Occasionally, it feels as though the line blurs.)
He is rapidly losing patience for this man.
“Well, that all depends on what you mean by work. It’ll get us out of here, just not the way you expected.”
“Then how?” Connor asks. He does not ask, however, “Why didn’t you tell me that the key wasn’t actually made to fit the lock before you gave it to me?” even though he feels that he would be well within his rights to do so.
Perhaps it was a test. People seem to have so many for him.
“Well, you’re in luck,” Mason says, and Connor raises his eyebrows. He has not felt especially lucky since coming here. “Normally the only person with the real key is the Warden, and you’d have to get yourself thrown in the pit to get to him. The thing is, the Warden’s off sick at the moment, so the key’s been passed on to his second in command. Just distract him long enough to swap the fake key for the real one, and he’ll be none the wiser.”
“And his second in command is…?”
Mason points, and for a second everything seems muted – the yells and groans of the prisoners seem distant, what little colour there is draining into so many shades of grey. Grey. Grey eyes, but not looking at him, thank goodness, just looking over at the prisoners with his lips curled and holding his baton in an almost loving grip.
Connor is dimly aware of Mason saying something, and interrupts him anyway. “And how am I meant to distract him?”
Mason looks faintly put out. “I don’t know. Surely you can improvise something.”
Connor’s chest feels tight, like a weight pressing down hard against his ribs. “You are sure this will work?”
Mason gives a short nod, eyeing him curiously. “Positive. Are you all right? You’re looking… well, not pale, but…” He lets out an uneasy laugh.
“I am fine,” Connor says, fixing his eyes on Jameson once more. This time the guard notices him, and Connor raises his head defiantly. “I will not let harm come to Washington.”