Bullseye

   Annoyingly enough, the towering detective had once again surprised the hitman. Even when trapped- that skeleton of a human still manages to wiggle and writhe his way out in the most ungraceful manner, the nature of the fool was that of a flailing muppet: holding not a single hint of elegance, and yet? Survives. At the moment, he was a few paces away from the white haired agent, the Inspector heaved as If he had just ran a marathon, his slender nose- crooked with a break in the bridge and blood dancing down his face, it hurt to breath- especially with how his nervous heartbeat was ricocheting off his broken ribs like a stray arrow bouncing off of metal pipes. He was gasping, aching for air, reaching for just an ounce of painful oxygen to keep himself conscious. For such a rangy man who had just gotten a few warning hits from a trained assassin who hasn't even a single hair moved out of place, he stood back. All for one reason: incredulity. 

   In a fashionably late manner, just as the agent turned the corner to attempt to finish the job- Inspector Grift greeted him with a gun in hand. It was small, with Grift wielding it- it was like a toy. Terribly tiny, and yet he could just barely fit a finger to the pulley where the latch was that could send a pop any moment, by the state of his trembling hands- he could easily fire by accident. The spontaneity of the detective was the thing that Agent Blanche hated about his inspector, he knew full well that the green haired one hated to fight, hated bloodshed, hated having to resort to this, he knew he was careful enough, maybe enough to press and pull apart... he kept his distance, the twitch of the trigger finger making Blanche's own gloved hand twitchy for his own revolver but- he knows damn well that the gun that Grift has was his. 

    The gun he had holstered on the hitman's thigh had been swiped. 

"Pl-Please don't make m-me shhhhoot."

   Gods above, that disgusting shake in his voice made Blanche want to wring his gloved hands around Grift's thin, veiny neck, and squeeze- to make that pathetic whining cease, that mocking whimper of a cry, he was holding the gun- why the hell should he be crying? The trench coat dawning one wasn't bursting into tears just yet- but the wet drip of exasperation in that stammer told pages of how Grift was about to crumble.

"You wouldn't."

   The Inspector, with hands that trembled like a jenga tower threatening to topple over, pulled the trigger.

   And it makes the agent wonder: did he mean to pull the trigger? Or was that intentional, and the next three rounds accidental? The utter horror on Grift's pale face makes it hard to tell, maybe- he was the one trapping the executioner the whole time in that goose chase. 

---

   The plink of a wet bullet meeting a metal pan is very much akin to dropping pearls into a tin cup, their little clicks and rolling hums reverberating off the metal and off its cold shell, however- the bullets were very, very warm. Grossly warm. 

“You don’t usually end up here.” 

“Was there a need to state the obvious, doctor.” 

   That sounded less like a question and more like a something bordering on a threat. The doctor stiffened, snapping silent with his prongs in hand and the other awkwardly holding… holding the hitman open. He’d gotten shot a few times- and that was greatly unusual, there was an actual infirmary- a medical wing of the agency however- Agent Blanch made himself home in the office of Dr. Strom. The man wasn’t exactly a medically licensed doctor, hell- he was engineer! He used to teach at a university! He was a professor! One that- ended up rewriting his own atomic makeup and became a literal walking disaster, a crime against the laws of nature. Some days are worst than others, how much he dematerializes and phases through items- disappearing for days at a time and then returning like it was nothing. He could liquify a mug, much less, if he had the pleasure of trying to drink his morning coffee. It isn’t always by choice- the experimental scientist is getting the hang of it, much better now as he has some gadgets to keep him in one piece rather than- phasing out, quite literally. Right now those were one of those moments, and thank goodness too. From time to time- his blue gloves would almost try leaping from his 'flesh' but- ultimately clipped put. He was trying very, very hard to focus on extracting the bullets, not losing his gloves, not accidentally phasing through the floor, not turning the prongs into molten metal.

   The only reason why snow blessed agent decided to trouble the inventor was because he didn’t want to crawl into a medical cot and be teased any more than he would be- for getting shot by some sub-par detective that cries if you raise your voice at him, at some mess of a man that lives on the brink of homelessness and yet has somehow survived for 28 years. By some nobody that lives in the middle of nowhere that doesn't have a cent to his name and nobody knows him... an absolute nobody that has no-one. The Inspector is a smart man, not the most courageous; he was scrawny, skeletal, pitiful. Blanche was already going to get scolded for being so careless- he wasn’t... he usually isn't. He was so sure, he was so sure that the living-walking pool noodle wouldn't have done that, of course- the gun situation wouldn't have happened if he didn't let the detective absentmindedly take it, but that's what he gets for trying to enjoy wringing out another life, inch by inch, little by little, squeezing and squelching that minuscule hope that they're gripping onto along with the life lesson of curiosity being more lethal than belladonna. Information is power, knowledge is everything, and its disgusting- its terribly disgusting when you've just fooled yourself into believing that you understand someone- playing things by your own hand- only to have them shoot you.

   If he weren't gritting his teeth over the reddened stains of his pristine white attire, the gunman would've been impressed, hell- he had a hint of admiration for the tactical taste of this utter clown- but it doesn't help in him holding every once of frustration and bleary eyed distaste towards someone weak that had bested him. No, no, it wasn't that. There was a low mutter- and Dr. Strom stiffened for a moment. Each time the agent jumped slightly or hissed when having a pair of petal pincers dig into him- he froze and held his breath, fearing he'd take the brunt of whatever gift the high ranking hitman had in store, but this time- agent Blanche was just... speaking. That was worse, as he had to chose his words wisely now. Under fluorescent lights and between messy blueprints that spilled off his covered desk, the decor bore witness to the trial of whether Strom would speak smartly. 

"What was that?"

"...he didn't miss."

   It was the fact that Grift shot him and didn't aim to kill, he aimed to let him live. The Inspector pitied him. The professor didn't want to fight that nonsensical query, he'd like his hands very much attached to his wrists, thank you very much.

"Maybe it's for a good reason, maybe he likes y-"

   Emmett turned to grasp the tweezers that the doctor had in his gloved grasp- a light smack as he snagged it with his good hand- as his other arm was rendered sore from the bullet just hitting the muscle that made his arm mobile- and gripped it point down. Like a fist pounding against great mahogany, with malice and contempt- Dr. Strom shrieked when he was stabbed, mid thigh, with a pair of bloody tweezers.

   Still not the right answer, maybe even worse.