Score

Score
March 2018
Sydney, Australia
Logan, Jackson, and Vulcan's Chief walk along her collarbone.
"And the gauntlets'll need patching—Jackson Jones, are you even listening to me?" demands the chief.
"What's Waller doing?"
The chief peers down the scaffolding. "Putting a kill marker on the lady, I reckon."
"Not on my watch," Jackson growls, shoves his way over to Vulcan's shoulder.
"Don't you dare—,"
Jackson runs down Vulcan's bicep, leaps from a plate, and lands hard on the grating. "Don't you fuckin' dare."
"'s tradition. Triton and Lucky—"
"Like I give a fuck about what they do." He snatches the stencil. "We're," he snaps it in half, "not."
"'fraid it'll mess up yer pretty paint job?"
"You think this is a game?"
"It's in honor of yer win last week."
"Think there's 'honour' in keeping score?"
Waller swallows.
"You wanna kill mark? How about this: we take this piece of shit, slap a grid on it, and fill in a square fer every, I dunno ... How many people you think died before we made that kill? A hundred? A thousand? Maybe a million?" Jackson forces the stencil pieces into Waller's hands. "That number means something." An extra push. "You even think about touching the paint and I will find you. I'll shove that spraycan so far up your ass you'll be puking turpentine for weeks. Got it?"
Waller nods.
"Good." Jackson turns on his heel, saunters to the elevator.
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