vol·a·tile
ˈvälədl/
adjective
liable to change rapidly and unpredictably, especially for the worse; (of a person) liable to display rapid changes of emotion

One shot.

Two shots.

Three.

Four.

My ears were ringing, the blinding sunlight seeping into the room from more than just the window waking Brendon up first and then myself a couple seconds after the fifth shot echoed.

Instinctively, my hand went to the side of my stomach, the usual spot where I always kept a small firearm or something of that nature. Instead, my fingers brushed against nothing but the fabric of my pants and dress shirt still tucked in from the quick ordeal only hours before.

The sixth shot rang out just as I rolled off my bed to the floor and Brendon did the same, metal carving a hole in the wall dangerously close to where he'd been sitting seconds before. The click of a gun mere feet behind me sounded, followed by three warm bullet shells thumping to the carpet. Four were reciprocated, the ceramic lamp blown to bits and the wall punctured again, shards from the furniture digging their way down my cheek and across my hand.

"Dallon, please tell me you're not firing for a good reason-"

"If I could I would, believe me Urie-" another shot fired, drilling its way through the mattress directly in front of me.

Two more shots. "Well why aren't you!"

"Do you see my hands," I held them up over my head, pulling them back down just as another bullet grazed the side of my thumb, "if I had a gun, I would be firing!"

Both of us froze as the door rattled, the entire frame quaking for only a few seconds, then the doorknob turning agonizingly slow before shaking violently like someone was about to rip it out entirely.

"U-Urie if I die, I need you to tell Ross that I have a couple of his CDs under my bed also that I didn't mean to not give them back, but the Katy Perry album was good and-"

"Police," the person I assumed had just been trying to break in knocked twice, and my heart resumed beating, "who's in there?"

The person outside shooting at us could fire at will, for all I cared. I got up and went to the door, unlocking it just as Brendon hissed at me not to. His hand holding the gun was uncontrollably shaking, the other trying its best to obscure his face.

"C'mon, don't tell me you're afraid of a couple police officers-" the door swung open, crashing inwards and smacking against my nose head-on, more than one officer tackling me to the ground. The shattered lamp had scattered further than I'd thought, my lip paying the price as well as another cut down my cheek. I just hoped the blood wouldn't stain too badly.

Brendon yelped too, the sound of the gun in his hands firing five times before it was kicked to the ground. Three bodies fell to the ground, one of them being him. Out of the corner of my eye not pressed to the rough carpet, I watched only two officers pull Brendon to his feet before I was lifted up too, dragged out of the room with blood that wasn't my own trailing from my socks and across the patio outside the room. Their whole 'you have the right to remain silent' speech was drowned out by Brendon scrambling to his weapon and firing one last shot before he was down for good. Another body fell - that made four total, not including him.

I glanced over the railing only to be met with news vans and police cars, fire trucks, a helicopter buzzing overhead. A group of people in suits were reaching in through the windows of a white Prius they must've assumed was ours, everyone turning for a look the second Brendon was shoved out of the room a couple seconds later, kicking and hollering obscenities at the top of his lungs.

He kept going all the way down the stairs and to the street where a couple vehicles were revved with nobody in the passenger seats, labeling all two officers holding him back with at least six different curses in each name.

The back door slammed shut, and I watched through the window over the trunk as Brendon elbowed one of the guys in the neck before stumbling backwards into the seats.

And I swear to god, just as the door swung closed, he yelled, "I am not Animosity!"

⋘⋙

"I'm not Virulent."

"And my last name isn't Hudson," the officer sitting across from me hissed, slamming his open palms on the table "just give up the act - your partner in crime is bound to confess any minute."

"I'm not Virulent."

Hudson - if that was even his real last name (he was too stupid for a cool name like that) - was furious. His cheeks flushed red and his large hands balled into fists, the only thing restraining him from strangling me right then and there being the fact he was convinced I was one half of the famed Mercenary Lovers. Obviously, I was not. "The gig is up! Admit it!"

"I'm not Virulent."

The door behind me creaked open, screeching from rust and hinges in need of desperate oil. Hudson got to his feet, scowling at whoever it was.

"Hudson, they need you with... Animosity. Whoever that kid is. He's consistently denying it as well." A feminine voice spoke up, and he nodded once before swiftly exiting the room.

That idiot was my one chance at getting out, so it seemed. He was easily angered, provoked to aggression, and had no tolerance for anything I'd pulled in the last hour while he tried to convince me to spill the beans about a lie they'd been led on to. If I wasn't handcuffed to the table I would've been out of there already, Brendon or not.

And the girl that carefully slid into the seat across from me would definitely prevent that from ever happening. Her dark hair had been slicked back to a bun, a few loose strands curled at her ears. Long red fingernails tapped against the table, matching the rectangular glasses too large for her face.

She smiled without flashing her teeth, a forced one. "Deanna Lucas. I take it you're Dallon J. Weekes?"

Very few people knew my full full name - or as much as was included in my records. She must've come from the agency; word traveled fast once Prince found out someone was in danger. That someone just happened to be me this time around. I was so happy I put my head in my hands and wiped away tears with my palms. "God, you're from Clandestine, thank the-"

The click of a gun was a sound all too familiar. The cold metal pressed against my forehead, however, was new.

"Try again, agent."

"Oh, you're from the FBI, aren't you? I know, you guys hate us, and I'm sorry but-"

The barrel of the weapon shifted aim for a second, a single shot blasting through the room along with a sharp throbbing pain in my hand before I was held at gun point again. It felt like I'd gotten struck by lightning, but I kept the sensation to myself and pressed my other hand to the bullet hole instead, as if it would stop the blood gushing to the floor.

"I came here to do my job," Deanna growled and slid her hand off the table away from the blood pooling on the table, "you're going to cooperate. We're going to pick up your friend, and we're going to leave. I'll get paid, promoted, whatever."

She wasn't from Clandestine or the FBI. I didn't know of any other agencies around that would even bother to get involved with our business, the last time any agent from another corporation interjected was when the Mercenary Lovers were around.

Then it hit me. "You work with them. Animosity and Virulent."

A smirk spread across her deep pink lips, an out of place shade. "I work for them. You die, I get paid. Your friend dies too, the pay doubles. Either way, neither of you are making it back home with a beating heart and your organs intact."

I'd learned my lesson from before; never be caught off guard. And I'd been caught off guard, I honestly hadn't expected her to come straight from Animosity and Virulent. "So what's the plan then? I don't think it'll work out very well if you waltz out of here with some of the two most wanted criminals in the country-"

Deanna shrugged, firing one simple shot and blasting the lock on the table to pieces. If she'd aimed a little to the left, the link on the handcuffs would've shattered. "It's simple," she said "I have my tricks. We get your friend, and we leave."

I doubted her - if everyone still believed we were Animosity and Virulent, we'd never be allowed to leave. Which was a bad thing, but also a good thing. It just meant I would have to find my own means of escaping.

But the second she shoved me out into the hall with the gun pressed against my back, I realized the hallway was dead silent. Cameras bolted to the corners of the room were dangling by wires, walls spotted with blood and bullet holes near their shells on the tile floor. The hanging lights flickered like I'd just walked into a horror flick.

"See," Deanna chirped and bared her perfect teeth, spare a chip in one of the incisors, "I have my methods."

I stayed a couple steps behind her and waited to count the number of shots she fired. She'd spent one on the table, and I hadn't seen what type of handgun  she possessed, so on the average there were only thirteen bullets remaining to do some damage if that was the first one.

Four were wasted on Hudson, another two on Brendon's handcuffs, and one more to intimidate him into standing up and following alongside me through the vacant station.

The further we walked, the more fear and worry resonated deep in my chest. Blood dripped from the walls, hot shells still spread across the floor in pools of dark crimson. So not only was what I assumed to be the entire station dead, but she hadn't even bothered to hide the fact she shot them all.

"Hey," Brendon nudged my side while Deanna's back was turned, searching for the bullet shell he'd kicked down the hall as a distraction, "wanna blow this popsicle stand?"

"With a gun pressed to our back by someone working for Animosity and Virulent? We have to wait until the time is right - if it's ever." I hissed just as she turned around. It didn't seem like she cared, just as long as we continued to walk to who knows where.

He glanced over his shoulder and shrugged, biting his cheek and fiddling with the handcuffs. "Well, I mean right now would work."

Before I could tell him not to and scold him over acting before thinking, he'd already taken a couple large steps and brought the side of his heel up to Deanna's jaw, knocking the gun from her hand to spin across the linoleum to my feet.

She stumbled back a foot or two, and as soon as she'd realized what he'd done, she reached down to her thigh and slipped a pocketknife into her grip.

I only had time to fire three times before the blade ended up buried in Brendon's shoulder.

It took two more to aim right, and the final shots attributed to snapping the chains on both of our handcuffs before booking it for the exit and hopping into the first vacant car we spotted to get out of there.