The detective rested against the bullet riddled back wall of the custodian's closet while watching the janitor work with a multitool to keep the door bolted shut.
"How long have you known how to do this kind of thing?" the detective asked.
The janitor pretended not to hear him, and kept working with his shaking, gloved hands.
Jett grunted, and pressed into a wire, hearing the bolts extend into the door itself, sealing them off from the outside world for now. He turned to face the detective, glaring some. "What?" he responded coldly.
The detective stood up straight, and motioned to the gun haphazardly holstered in Jett's jacket. "You have exceptional aim and composure for a janitor, of all things, not to mention knowing how to hack pretty much everything." He took a few steps forward. "Now tell me," he asked, his tone rich in skepticism, "how did you learn all of that?"
Jett rolled his eyes, turned his head to the side, and stayed silent for a while.
"I'm waiting," pressed the detective.
Jett scuffed his right shoe along the floor, then looked up at the detective. "I'll tell you, but only because we're about to die." He opened his mouth to speak, but the detective cut him off first.
"And if we don't?" he asked with a sly smile.
Jett grunted. "Then you keep your trap shut."
The detective raised his hands. "With your aim, I wouldn't dare tell a soul. 'Fraid you might kill me outright if I do!" He cracked a short laugh.
Jett gritted his teeth for a moment, failing to see how someone could be so carefree after almost being killed by a Syndicate agent, but he sighed regardless. "You remember that scar on my back?"
The detective jogged his memory, and remembered a rough square of scar tissue on the back of the mothling's shoulder. "Yeah," he answered.
Jett fumbled around his pockets for a cigarette and lighter. "That used to be a Syndie tattoo," he coldly stated, finally producing both aforementioned objects, lighting the cigarette, placing the butt in his mouth, and sharply inhaling.
The detective looked shocked, then angry. "What!?" he shouted.
Jett glared at him. "You asked, and I answered. It was a long time ago, alright?"
He stomped towards the mothling and gripped his shoulders angrily, before reeling him around and pinning him against a wall. "You worked for the enemy this entire fucking time!?"
Jett grips the detective's left forearm with his right hand, prosthetics clicking in place to make the grip all that much tighter. "Not now; a long time ago," he said sharply. "I wouldn't of save your skin earlier if I still worked for 'em," he added, then turned his head to exhale a large cloud of smoke.
The detective stared coldly into Jett's glaring eyes, then he shut his own and lets out a disgruntled sigh, letting go of the mothling, who let go of said forearm.
"I did a lot of shit I ain't proud of." He took another long drag from his cigarette, then exhaled another soupy cloud. "That's the fourth person I've ever...." He choked up, and both his hands (especially his prosthetic right hand) visibly shook.
"I get it, I get it," the detective grunted. "I have one more question: why?"
Jett shrugged. "I was young, stupid, and rebellious," he answered honestly. "Fuckin' hated NT, and thought the grass was greener on the other side." He clears his throat. "None a' that matters now----any idea how we get the hell off this dump now that the Syndie's taken it over?"
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