An extrapolation on this scene, set within the Work Text:
He’s abandoned us, you know.
“Mr. Bradley! Is it true that Kevin Flynn was actually planning to leave Encom to pursue his own interests?”
He’s abandoned you.
“Have there been any further developments in the missing persons case that the police haven’t revealed? What about the sightings in Mexico?”
“I have no comment.”
You still believe he’s coming back, don’t you? You think he cares enough to come back. But he never did, and he never will. Not for me, and certainly not for you.
“What about Encom? What’s the next step, now that Kevin Flynn’s gone?”
“Mr. Bradley—”
“I said, I have no—”
“—pardon my saying, but as interim CEO of Encom, you’ve been left holding the bag. How are you coping?”
Why are you still fighting? For him? Can’t you see how much easier it’ll be when you realize how pointless it is? Don't you get it? He doesn't care.
“Uncle Alan, please, come on, let’s just go home now…”
Alan tries to shield Sam, to get him back in the car, but the reporter sees the opening and worms in before he can get them both inside and the car door closed
“Sam! Sam, can you tell us about the last time you saw your—!!”
Before the reporter can utter so much as another syllable he’s been hauled forward by the front of his windbreaker, microphone clattering to the pavement and rolling beneath Bradley’s car. The tips of his toes are barely even touching the ground and Christ who’d have believed this fortysomething nerd in the coke-bottle glasses could be so goddamn fast…
“No more questions,” Bradley hisses, his voice low and flat and barely more than a growl, “No more talking. Do you understand me?”
The reporter just nods mutely. He wants to talk back—he’s interviewed drug dealers, for Christ’s sake, and this pencilneck thinks he can get away with assaulting him in a public parking lot on camera—but he can see Bradley’s eyes behind those ridiculous glasses, and what he sees in them is flat murder.
Alan holds the reporter for a few more seconds, then slowly lets go of his lapels, seeming satisfied. He can see other cameras still rolling, recording the exchange, but he can't find it in himself to care. "Good. Now get the hell out of my sight."
Within seconds, he's back in the car. The reporter is absurdly glad. Later on he'll be kicking himself for it, not to mention probably laughed at by his cowowrkers, but for now he's just relieved he doesn't have to look at that expression anymore, that expression that was disgust and anger and contempt but also something else, something alien. Scary as hell.
-------
Back in the limo, Alan sits with his eyes closed, Sam huddled against his side. He should be comforting the boy, he knows, but the thought seems to be coming through water, from a thousand miles away. He thinks of how badly he needs to sleep. He thinks of how much he doesn't want to.
So stubborn. So dogged. You really don't ever give up, do you?
Well, we'll see about that, won't we?
We'll see.