The apartment was black, a gun rested on the table as its owner lay on the sofa, whiskey in his hands, sloshing it all over the place as he tried to gulp it all down in one swallow. The dark brown eyes were slightly glazed over and blurry, they stared dully up at the ceiling, trying to make it crash down on him and kill him. It wasn't the first time he had crashed on the couch, gun only inches away, and drank himself into a stupor; each time darker than the last, each time his hand got closer to the gun. He knew what would happen when he reached it, but it didn't matter he had already fell on his sword only hours before, when everything wasn't so dark. It had been a long day, one he would never forget; not because he had turned in his badge, his ID and his gun, along with his letter of resignation--no, it was the reason for leaving the agency that he would never forget. He shuttered his eyes, trying to block out the images that played in his mind, like a broken record the same scene kept repeating. If only he could forget, even for a few seconds, everything would be ok again, everything would be fine, normalcy would return, and he'd be grounded once more. Heck, he might even call Roper back up and beg for his job back.
But he wouldn't, because the nightmare was never over, one would and by that time, another would replace it. He couldn't escape the blood, gore and darkness, the pleas and begs for mercy, the look they got in their eyes when they knew that he was about to end their lives. They haunted him, everyday, every morning he woke up one of his victims was staring lifelessly at him from the opposite side of the bed; they watched him as he went to work, ate with him. They surrounded him when he was murdering others. The person died, they would scream, every time he swore his head would explode. Their screams would echo in his head until he got home and drowned them in whiskey. He killed them, murdered them. Stole their lives, took away their chances to be happy, to smile once more, to have kids and do all the things they wanted to do. He stopped their hearts from pumping, he caused their muscles to relax, their lungs to stop functioning and caused their brains to shut down. He pulled the trigger, he pumped that piece of lead into them, he murdered them. He took them out of the world. Who the fuck was he to do that, when he didn't even bring them in? What gave him the power to do that? He killed their soul, ripped it from the earth, leaving relatives and loved ones to mourn for them and ask why.
He was trained to feel emotionless but after all these years, he finally understood the value and sanctity of life. He didn't create it so what gave him the right to destroy it? The sheer number of people that he killed was overwhelming, more names than he could recall, their blood on his hands, his arms, his chest, all over him. He was drenched in blame and guilt; it was his fault, job or not, he had still killed them. He could never forget, would never forget, his first kill. Nor could he ever forget the murder he had committed earlier that day. He had killed a child. An innocent six-year-old little girl. He put the gun to her small head with blonde pigtails, and pulled the trigger, her whole body jerked back, blood flying from her head; she had fallen on the ground, her eyes glazed over. Dead. A little blue eyed princess, dead. She had trusted him; he had lied to her saying he was going to save her, when really it was his job to kill her. He had spent days with her, she sat on his lap eating, he had told her stories at night to get her to go to sleep. He had played daddy to her before he had murdered her. He could never forget the thin arms that encircled his waist, the small, warm head that lay on his stomach, the smile that shone brighter than anything else in his life as her wide blue eyes bored into his black ones. Her laugh had made him smile, her insistence that he was a good man made his resolve waver, he knew he had to kill her, but she looked up at him with such trust. She worshipped the ground he walked on, she told him one night that he was the only person to ever love her and care for her. Just before he killed her, before he had even gone for his gun she told him that she loved him. His throat had constricted, cutting off his air supply.
His eyes burned the guilt and shame already raging in him, his body wasn't cooperating with what he knew he had to do, it felt like lead. He cursed himself for getting attached, for even letting the idea of adopting the child and running in his mind. He stood and called her back, she ran back without hesitating, he took out his gun and pressed the cool tip to her forehead, her eyes widened and she yelled his name. He'll never forget the tears in her eyes or the plea in her voice; he pulled the trigger and watched her fall. He had always dreamt of having a child of his own one day, but when he joined the CIA, all those hopes were dashed and shattered. Even if he did have a kid he'd never see her for more than a couple days at a time, it wasn't worth the heartache it would cause both him and his kid, to have one. He snorted bitterly, who would have thought that the CIA rotten bastard, Trent Kort, would want a kid? Who would think he felt guilt and shame for blowing away so many people? Who knew he even felt at all? Nobody. He hid it well, because if he showed it his own life would end, they'd pick up on his weakness and they'd use it, exploit it to their own advantage. His boss would kill the weakness; he'd send him on assassination missions until he no longer felt anything when he killed, the bad guys would walk right over him and turn him if they found out. There was no where to turn where he could just be himself, let the barriers down. He could have nobody but himself, his one and only friend. The voice inside the only one to understand.
Why hadn't he left sooner?
When he could actually recall all their names? He had known it wouldn't get better, but he thought it would get easier. And it did, it wasn't so hard to pull the trigger after a while, especially if it was a bad guy he had to blow away or a civilian that he had to kill to keep his cover. A one time he had enjoyed the thrill killing offered, he was one step away from being a certifiable Sociopath, the only thing stopping him was Roper, the one person he had to report back to. Perhaps he would have been his first kill, he didn't know, he hadn't let himself think about a different career. He just continued with the CIA doing what they said no matter how much it hurt, he was on autopilot, he was just going along with it, emotionless, cold, still reeling from his first few kills. He liked his job as an undercover agent, not many were suit to be a spy but he was perfect, he just wasn't one to be a killing machine, he could easily be made into one--actually he would be one right now if he had let himself be led in that direction but he had resisted. Thankfully. He had seen where the route leads, cruel games and a tally board. A group of his co-workers had let themselves go and hung a tally board of their kills on the wall in the office, every time they'd kill they'd write the name down and stand back to admire their work. His name was the only one missing from the wall; he refused to take place in that game--it wasn't a game and to see the vast amount of names hanging on that wall sickened him.
Looking at it was nearly as bad as remembering the joy it brought the others to be able to put a name up there. Granted they were very good at their jobs, they just weren't human any more. He was though and he hid it well; at least they won't forget the names of those they killed, he wouldn't forget their faces. Ever. Every night he had to kill he went through this ritual hoping either to get alcohol poisoning or to wipe that day out of his memory forever, but neither ever happened. It was different this time around though, because he killed a child. No one had ever had to kill a six year old, his co-workers patted him on the back as he walked into report to Roper, and all he wanted to do was rip them to pieces then throw himself off the nearest sky scraper. He had nearly let his walls down as he gave his report, he somehow managed to pull himself back together until he could get home. He had loved that child, she represented everything he couldn't have but wanted so badly, she was precious and she was free for the taking, no one had wanted her, the family was willing to give up their parental rights to him. He would have taken her and raised her right. Raised her to become something other than a monster like all the rest of them. That little girl, Jayden, had broken through his barriers easily and nudged her way into his heart, so much that he rather have taken the bullet that killed her. But he had a job, and maybe, just maybe after this case, he'd go numb. So he killed her and felt nothing. Nothing until he looked into her eyes and realized he killed his child. Because she was his. She had called him Dad the night before, he had murdered his baby.
He cried out, a fierce wave of anger crashing down on him, he yelled, roared as he overturned his coffee table, his heart breaking into a bazillion shards. Fucking Roper. Fucking CIA. Fucking Mission. Fucking job. Fucking life. He knew he couldn't blame anybody but himself for the condition he was in However that didn't stop him from trying, he just wanted the pain gone, the agony to stop. He deserved it, he deserved all the pain and torture in the world, he deserved to die. He raised the whiskey bottle once more, taking a large gulp he got off the couch and swaying he stumbled to the wall. He stared at the awards and commendations he received for 'protecting the United States of America.' He laughed bitterly, Roper was full of shit. Giving out commendations for killing the scum of the world, obviously he never looked in the mirror. He had almost killed Roper earlier when he had told him he was getting a commendation for killing the child. He had said it was bravery and persistence in the face of evil and hardship. The only evil thing in the whole mission was him. He ripped all the awards and commendations off the wall, taking the hooks with them, leaving ugly holes in the wall and torn paint. He punched the wall, he turned around and made his way back to the sofa, only to stumble. He looked down, trying to find what got in his way, it was his gun, he slowly kneeled down, all his weight seeming to go to his head, making him tip forward slightly as he grabbed it, he launched himself at the sofa in an attempt not to land on the floor. He stared at the gun in his hands, he had killed so many people with it, he had taken a little girls life with it. He had taken his soul with it, his Jayden, his little girl. He deserved to die.
"You deserve to die for all of us!"
He looked up, they surrounded him again, they stood glaring at him accusingly, egging him on.
He could feel the animosity pouring off them, it choked him up, made him nauseas, their faces swam in his eyes, he could smell all their scents blending together. It was the smell of rotting flesh and decaying bone.
He pressed his hands into his eyes, groaning softly, he opened them but they were still there, the room was suddenly cold, his muscles tightened, his breath visible as he stared into the face of Jayden, she stared at him, her beautiful sky blue eyes cold, a stream of blood making it's way down her face from a hole in her forehead where his bullet had pierced her. She said nothing while the others seemed to be screaming; for some reason this hurt so much more, she wouldn't give him the gift of her voice, to blame or to forgive.
He just wanted her to say something, anything, but she stood frozen, like a rock. He fell on his knees, trying to reach out to her but when he did she was too hot to touch.
"You killed us all! You took our lives!"
"I was a mother! I had three kids waiting for me! They were killed because I wasn't there to protect them. You killed my kids!"
"You buried me alive! Left me to suffer! To call for help as the bugs crawled and slithered over me!"
He couldn't move, he was mesmerized by them all, unable to take his eyes off Jayden, he raised his gun and began shooting them all, closing his eyes he screamed, suddenly his door slammed open, he looked over and stopped firing. There, with his gun drawn looking around the room for bad guys, was Anthony DiNozzo. He watched as the NCIS Special Agent lowered his weapon and looked at him, he could only imagine what DiNozzo saw, he was sitting on the floor firing his gun senselessly, with a whiskey bottle in his other hand.
Tony's eyes narrowed as he closed the door a little more forcefully than he had to, DiNozzo walked over silently, standing five feet to his side. He glared at him before snarling, "What do you want DiNozzo? What are you doing here?" He didn't want anyone to see him like this let alone DiNozzo of all people. The man had recently been promoted to Lead Agent in Charge, and he was getting cockier by the second. He didn't need someone around who was going to make obscene comments and quote movies. Especially when it was DiNozzo, whom he shared at mutual hatred with. He just wanted to be alone.
"I heard you quit." DiNozzo said snidely.
"Come here to gloat? Celebrate perhaps?" He snapped wanting him to leave as soon as possible.
"Well at least you aren't giving me any of that bullshit about retiring." DiNozzo quipped.
""Is there a reason you're here?" He spat angrily, he glared at DiNozzo resentfully as he looked him over.
"And you always thought I was a waste of space. You know you're useless, worthless. Just a piece of shit Trent. Killing people just because you are told to, like a pawn in some sick game. When are you going to grow up?"
"Ah. I see, now that you're team leader you know everything huh? I forgot. DiNozzo's are never wrong. Well you would know everything wouldn't you? You have it all, the perfect, easy, career, that pays well, a nice apartment, the girls, the promotion. You just get everything don't you. You get all the good and I get all the bad. Figures." He said snidely.
"I'm not here to play whose life is worse Kort. But you quit. You had no reason to quit. You were the Agency's best agent and you just gave up. What's the matter Kort? Didn't get to kill anyone on your last mission is that it?" DiNozzo mocked coldly.
"You have no clue what my reasons for quitting were, and it's going to stay like that. Don't you dare come to my house and pretend that you know me and everything else. You don't know anything, you don't know shit! You're still stuck in High School. You don't know what it's like to stick a gun in someone's face, knowing they have three kids at home that will be murdered if that person doesn't come home. You have four lives in your hands, and you have to kill them all or you're dead. You don't know what it's like being all alone in the world, with no way out. You know don't know shit!" He yelled, his eyes were tearing up for some reason, he blinked them back as he took another gulp of his whiskey.
"You chose that life Kort. It's your own fault. I don't feel a bit sad for you." DiNozzo said coldly, not batting a lash at his outburst.
"THEN WHY ARE YOU?" He screamed.
"You quit. You don't quit unless you can no longer do any good." DiNozzo spoke quietly.
"Roper put this up to you huh? Now who's hiding. Trying to act like the good guy? The pawn. How pathetic. I quit because I have done too much evil DiNozzo." He spoke just as quietly.
:Then reverse it." The man replied.
"I can't. Nothing can reverse what I did today." He said calmly, letting some of his pain seep through into his voice, he nearly smirked as he saw the look on DiNozzo's face. Another one who thought he was heartless.
"Than pay your dues. Do what you can to make amends." DiNozzo said softly, but with a sharp edge to it.
"I deserve to die." He said tonelessly, his shoulders sagging as grief swept over him, there was nothing left but darkness and sorrow for him. And it was all his own fault.
"Yes you do. But you don't get off that easy." DiNozzo said sharply.
"I don't….I want to see her again. I just want to die." He spoke past the lump in his throat. Nothing was said for a while, until a hand landed on his shoulder gently. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." His throat burned as it constricted, he looked down and then up again. "Shoot me. Please just kill me."
"No." Tony whispered.
"Please." He pleaded trying to hand the gun to DiNozzo, but he refused.
"Do it yourself Trent, I'm leaving. If you choose to live give me a call. I need a Senior Field Agent." He heard the man call from across the room, seconds later the door closed and Kort let the tears fall, sobbing as he apologized repeatedly to thin air. His heart was ripping in two, what had he done? He couldn't repair the damage, couldn't reverse, couldn't ever pay for it. There was no amount of respect he could give to her that would make up for her death, and even then she'd be dead and he would be alone.
He raised his gun.
Sobs wracked his thin, lithe form. He deserved this, he deserved to die. He deserved to die and go to hell to suffer for all eternity.
He pressed the cool barrel of the gun onto his temple.
He closed his eyes.
He saw her face.
Suddenly his ears and head were shaking with the sound of her voice saying, "Daddy, Daddy, Daddy." Over and over again.
He wanted it to stop.
He needed it to stop.
His head was going to explode.
He wanted to shut her up.
She needed to die.
He couldn't take it anymore.
He pulled the trigger and knew no more.
Author's Chapter Notes:
He had gone too far. He had gone to a place where he couldn't come back from. And he didn't want to either. Death of a minor character In the show, main character in Story