Who: je ne regrette rien What: Delayed reveal. When: Recently Warnings/Rating: Some language, mentions of murders.
It had been a few days since he staggered out the door, back into his room, feeling out of breath and with someone else's searing soreness in his shoulders. A few days since he'd stood in the darkness of his little motel room and thought about nothing except the few hours his ego and confidence had surged to near-godlike levels, impenetrable and unstoppable. Again. A few days since he'd felt like something he'd never been but that apparently he wanted to be despite years of evidence otherwise.
A few days since he killed two people with his own two hands and thought nothing of it.
Since then he'd stayed inside and tried to rationalize everything to himself, with only a little help from his mental other half, who was too embittered over the whole affair to offer any kind of sympathy. A murderer and a monster. No guilt. No second thoughts. No regrets. This was his secret? It was a pretty good one, he supposed. It was a secret from him. And here he'd thought all those decades of work had left him with something resembling regret, or at least a regretful feeling. That even if he was bad, he wasn't the worst.
Apparently not. Apparently he was as bad as the monster that took him in all those years ago. The idea of it pissed him off so much he wanted to lash out at the world, but what was the point of that? It wouldn't do anything except make him feel a little better, and even then only for the night. So what to do instead?
The heat of the day was wearing off by the time he came to a conclusion. It was half-assed and unfinished and probably stupid as hell, but he was good at improvising, and he'd learned enough lessons lately to hopefully fix the stupid he'd been hit with since leaving the coast.
He reached for the phone that was his half the time and thought for a minute.