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{for red-peril}
Mar. 5th, 2016 09:57 pm Sebastian Moran is good at maybe four things: card games, drinking, whoring and murder.
It's not necessarily the most appealing CV for a man trying to get a steady job. Oh sure, he's got his life as a decorated veteran of the War on Terror, where he'd got himself properly mauled in the godforsaken desert and got a few shiny bits of brass and a medical discharge for his trouble. But that's never gotten him anywhere, it's all paperwork and late-arriving benefits and pension checks that get lost in the mail. So, he'd fallen back on card games and murder to pay his bills (the bills, of course, mostly concerned with the drinking and whoring).
He'd had a good gig for almost a decade. He was comfortable and safe and doing what he loved (what he loved, of course, being picking off targets from half a mile away, or being up to his elbows in red, hot blood). Boss was a complete loony, of course, but Jim Moriarty had his spidery little fingers in a whole lot of pies and as a result Moran was paid well and on the regular. And they shared a mutual sadism that had blossomed into an intense and all-consuming fire in the course of Moran's employment. Jim Moriarty became the drug that got Moran higher than anything else in this world.
And then Jim died. Shot himself in the face to prove a point. Moran was still a little deaf in his left ear, where the gun had gone off in his earpiece. And he was unemployed, homeless and bored (which was possibly the worst of it, the being bored). In and out of the drunk tank, in and out of consciousness on the bathroom floor. In and out of pocket depending on what he could gamble or pawn or scrounge up one way or another.
So he was going odd jobs, short-term contracts for the worst kind of people. Which was how he came to be on this particular rooftop at this particularly indecent hour, freezing his balls off in the cold. Thankfully though the cold night is also clear as a bell and he's got excellent line of sight from his position to a swanky apartment building a few blocks over. He's meant to be popping some sort of Mafioso fatcat. Just one shot and he can collect his fat paycheck and go home. But he's got some time yet before the target gets home, so he's presently loitering against a bit of statuary and smoking.
It's not necessarily the most appealing CV for a man trying to get a steady job. Oh sure, he's got his life as a decorated veteran of the War on Terror, where he'd got himself properly mauled in the godforsaken desert and got a few shiny bits of brass and a medical discharge for his trouble. But that's never gotten him anywhere, it's all paperwork and late-arriving benefits and pension checks that get lost in the mail. So, he'd fallen back on card games and murder to pay his bills (the bills, of course, mostly concerned with the drinking and whoring).
He'd had a good gig for almost a decade. He was comfortable and safe and doing what he loved (what he loved, of course, being picking off targets from half a mile away, or being up to his elbows in red, hot blood). Boss was a complete loony, of course, but Jim Moriarty had his spidery little fingers in a whole lot of pies and as a result Moran was paid well and on the regular. And they shared a mutual sadism that had blossomed into an intense and all-consuming fire in the course of Moran's employment. Jim Moriarty became the drug that got Moran higher than anything else in this world.
And then Jim died. Shot himself in the face to prove a point. Moran was still a little deaf in his left ear, where the gun had gone off in his earpiece. And he was unemployed, homeless and bored (which was possibly the worst of it, the being bored). In and out of the drunk tank, in and out of consciousness on the bathroom floor. In and out of pocket depending on what he could gamble or pawn or scrounge up one way or another.
So he was going odd jobs, short-term contracts for the worst kind of people. Which was how he came to be on this particular rooftop at this particularly indecent hour, freezing his balls off in the cold. Thankfully though the cold night is also clear as a bell and he's got excellent line of sight from his position to a swanky apartment building a few blocks over. He's meant to be popping some sort of Mafioso fatcat. Just one shot and he can collect his fat paycheck and go home. But he's got some time yet before the target gets home, so he's presently loitering against a bit of statuary and smoking.
