❝ an infallible method of conciliating a tiger is to allow oneself to be devoured ❞

[playthings]

[ Colonel Sebastian Moran.

The warehouse Jim had arranged for the evening's work is danker than he would have hoped; the docks aren't a particularly fabulous place when it came to atmosphere. Some deeper part of him enjoys it as it lends an ideal locale to torment a man before getting into the nitty gritty of it. Theatrics and build up aren't usually his area, but this is a special circumstance. An interview, of sorts.

Just two rooms away, surrounded by thick concrete walls in a small room sits a mark, a request to be fulfilled, a job to collect on. Typically it would be done without Moriarty's interference; he usually hated being anything less than three degrees away from this sort of thing. What's the point of controlling so much power if you're expected to get blood on your hands? No, he's never been fond of directly killing anyone since the thrill of his first one. Tonight isn't about this particularly insignificant job but one Colonel Moran who will be executing the job for him.

A plain envelope was placed in Moran's mailbox some time ago, containing nothing more than a magpie seal and a short note on a plain sheet of paper with an address, a date and the name James Moriarty. This wasn't the first communication they have had, albeit it was the first direct one. Sebastian was an unrivaled marksman Jim had caught wind of through the grapevine and he had been trickling jobs to him here and there for months. Each was executed perfectly, more than perfectly, and Jim thought that warranted a bit of an upgrade. It's hard to find talent like that and even harder to let it slip from his grasp.

So he's waiting, patiently mind, to see if this Colonel will work out. ]

Comments

[the_urban_tiger]

Moriarty is a name you don't get in this business without hearing. Sebastian's done jobs for him before; quick, clean, nothing much out of the ordinary but always detached. When someone as well known as Jim Moriarty wants to meet? You ran equal risk of walking away with a commendation and a bonus as you do of walking into a room full of people with loaded guns.

Little wonder that set ups like this always made him a bit uneasy, but when your account is starting to run low and rent's due, you don't get picky with jobs. The money from his last hit had gone well to rent, groceries, and a new suit for interviewing but the rest disappeared all too quickly into gun maintenance and replacement; they took priority as his main source of income while he tried to locate a "proper" job to pad out his military pension. Funny how long he'd been looking for a "proper" job with no success, but like hell he'd ask his father for help. He'd happily starve to death on the streets first and in any case, he had been making a survivable income off what had started as necessity. Kill a man, or get kicked out of your shit flat. Not a hard choice. There really was no surprise that for all the lifeless discontent the colonel had dredged through after being discharged with civilian life alien, unappealing, and outright unbearably dull, getting behind that scope again had been coming home. He was doing something that he not only enjoyed, but that he was bloody well good at. Even though he kept much to himself, it earned him a nice reputation underground and slowly the jobs had started creeping in.

Money. That's why, he'll tell himself, that he was at the warehouse a few hours early for a questionable job, scoping out the place and observing the people going in and out from a location nearby. Content that he's seen nothing out of the ordinary, he checks his watch, puts out his cigarette (taking care to take the butt with him), and dismantles his riffle to tuck into a gym bag before he makes his way over. He's dressed conservatively, in a black polo-neck under a windbreaker, tactical pants, combat boots, and standard issue full-finger sniper gloves. The effect gives him a rather biker look than hitman, especially accompanied by a pair of cheap-but-effective sunglasses as he shoulders the bag and heads inside the warehouse.

It definitely wasn't the fact he was dying for a new hit. Or the intrigue, or the excitement, or the potential danger. Really.

switching to prose as well

[playthings]

Jim is half sitting, half leaning on a lone card table placed in the center of the warehouse. The place had once been a repair shop of sorts, which was evident from the random tools, chains, and parts strewn about the darker corners of the massive room. It's long since been abandoned, caked in a thick layer of dust, dirt and rainwater where the roof has failed, but no one could really tell in all the bustle about the waterfront. The perfect place for this sort of thing.

"Colonel Sebastian Moran," he begins upon the sniper's entrance, not bothering to tear his gaze away from the contents of the stuffed manila folder in his hands. "Son of Sir Augustus Moran, discharged from service for interesting reasons, smoker, called an exceptional marksmen by his peers 'despite his personality'," Jim make the air quotes and everything, not bothering to hide his utter amusement before going on.

"Quite fond of poker—though let's be honest you probably fancy yourself a rounder—hunter...oh ho. Tigers, how novel. Need I go?"

Knowing everything about a man was easy when you had access to it. Sure, he probably could have surmised a large chunk of it by giving Sebastian the once over, but where was the fun in deduction when facts could be acquired by other avenues? Being delivered a folder chock full of every persons darkest secrets lent a much more powerful feeling.

He sent the sniper's manila folder flying to the table top and stood up from his spot and buttoned the jacket of his suit. The black, hand tailored suit was pinstriped and accented with a bright crimson tie and pocket square and impeccably accessorized with no detail overlooked. He shoots Sebastian a disappointed, albeit momentary, look when he gets a good once over of him. They never dress for the occasion.

[the_urban_tiger]

His pace progressively slows as Jim lists of more and more about him, eventually ending in a dead stop near the table as he calmly pulls the sunglasses off and folds them with a brief, tight smile that's gone almost as soon as it appears. "Well you certainly have me at a disadvantage, haven't you?"

The tone is deceptively pleasant although maybe with a touch deadpan irritation flirting at the edges there. Tucking the glasses away, Sebastian takes a quick visual sweep of the building, eyes seeking out any possible locations of additional men, locations of the windows and what sort of shots the outside buildings might be able to get through them. This sounds a bit like a blackmail setup, but he would have expected more people if that were the case.

He takes the look with the slightest raise of eyebrows, giving the shorter man a quick glance himself. Expensive, exceptionally expensive and he wears it like a natural. This man reminds him a bit of the tigers he used to hunt, actually, giving him the impression of attractive but unspeakably dangerous. Certainly this wasn't the Moriarty, was it? There's really no one else who could fit the look like this but in that case, where was all the hired help, the body guards?

"I hardly image you show such interest in all your temps. To what do I owe the privilege, ah" he pauses slightly, "Mister Moriarty, I presume?" In a show of good enough faith, he closes the distance between them to extend a hand to shake.

[playthings]

"I have everyone at a disadvantage," he says, not at all bolstering a false sense of confidence. No, Jim believe this to be a fact and he'll relay it as casually as one would say the sky is blue. Even now, he is well prepared with men posted all throughout the docks, ready to help intervene should this setup go awry.

Ah. Jim lips quick upward into a smirk though his eyes remain unchanged. He's impressed; most lesser men have failed to pick up on that so quickly. Their own feeble minds doubt themselves so much that they can't even surmise a simple deduction from their environment. Being impeccably dressed should be context clue enough hat he isn't the usual bottom dweller passing parcels to them on the daily. Were this a contest Moran would already be the winner. Too bad this interview process would be so much more complicated.

"Indeed Colonel," he drops his gaze momentarily to the outstretched hand before pressing his lips together in a bit of a frown. Handshakes were such intimate things exchanged between peers, and Sebastian is just a bum off the street as far as he's concerned; he'd have to earn that right. Jim opts instead to slip his hands into his trouser pockets. "You aren't here to exchange pleasantries."

[the_urban_tiger]

He gives a brief chuckle at that.

Sebastian had a knack for reading people that had been refined by his time in the military. Not exactly deducing them because there's no real conscious thought process picking apart their clothing or the fur or soil on the pant legs or under their nails. There's some contextual clues, of course. How comfortable a person looks in the suit they're wearing will tell you if they're used to wearing them, but a lot of it was behavior, posture, intuition-based things he can process without thinking. You can tell officers among soldiers the same way you can tell if a man is armed without looking at their clothes but simply by the way they act, carry themselves. Jim Moriarty didn't act like a man who worked under someone else.

He doesn't seem particularly offended, electing to pull his hand back to produce a toothpick from a pocket that he slides between his lips. Just had a cigarette, already craving another but upsetting possible non-smokers who might be giving you a job you very much need was decidedly a bad way to start, so he'll feed the oral fixation before the nicotine craving. "Then with all due respect, Mr. Moriarty, why the sudden desire to deliver job requests in person?"

[playthings]

To the point. He's enjoying this one already.

"There's a job opening, but you could not believe the nightmare I've had attempting to fill it," his voice was low and sing-songy, emphasizing the rise and fall of his slight Irish accent. His commentary is too nonchalant, too honest and matter-of-fact; funny how the simple truth said delicately can be so frightening. Jim begins to slowly walk a circle around Sebastian with his deep eyes ever fixed on the man, watching intently for the slightest reaction. "So, so unfortunate, you know. Couldn't let those failing to prove themselves just walk away with their lives intact. Messy business, this."

Jim relishes in these little hunts for adequate personnel. Over the years he had collected trustworthies, associates, an extensive list of clientele and more favor-owing acquaintances than anyone would ever know what to do with. But those people were liabilities he couldn't delegate to and trust to execute his orders without letting their own agendas get in the way. He needed, for lack of a better term, a henchman who would cut out their own heart with a shiv if he asked it of them. And he needed them to understand, above all else, that he wasn't ever above asking them to do just that.

But the hunt itself was a treat indeed. For all the time he spent being a shadow, keeping the blood from directly hitting his hands on each of his kills, Moriarty let himself tear the lives from those who failed the test within this warehouse himself. Excellent shot or no, he was looking forward to killing Moran after all was said and done. But, this was hardly the time for that. No, these things had their proper order.

"Feel free to tuck tail and slink back into the slums if the game is too much for you." Last chance.

[the_urban_tiger]

Sebastian's head turns to keep Jim in his line of sight though his hands slide into the pockets of his wind breaker like he's not concerned. As if his muscles are strung tight in preparation to defend him as he rolls the toothpick to the other side of his mouth, chewing on it as he listens to him talk. You don't underestimate what you don't know, but you also don't react preemptively when it could potentially set a predator off. You observe, and you gauge.

The expression that particular remark earns is almost amusing; both annoyed and bemused- skeptical, like he can't entirely believe this man would even have the audacity to doubt his resolve and he'd be offended if he could be arsed to care just a little more. He folds his arms, trying his best to keep the dry snark out of his tone and managing dead pan instead. "I'd sooner put my gun to my head and pull the trigger than run, and I don't say that to be fucking cute. You said yourself, I hunted tigers. You can't play Russian roulette without a bullet, Mister Moriarty, and you don't chase five-hundred pound killer beasts if you're afraid of a little death and dismemberment."

It's not a show to keep his calm, wearing a level of ambivalence that suggests he's not exactly ready to drop to he knees and kiss boot for this opportunity but he's intrigued. "That being said, what sort of job opening?" Full-time assassin? Not necessarily unheard of. The alternative to having to kill a particularly extraordinary assassin, which could be a pain in and of itself, was keep them as a pet to avoid their services being employed against you. "And what made me part of your interviewing cut?"

[playthings]

Very good, Jim thinks to himself as he watches Sebastians demeanor. You can tell a great deal about a man when the pressure is on. Most other candidates at this point would be shivering under his gaze, begging for mercy, and letting their nerves take over. He could smell their fear, and while it was invigorating it wasn't something he wanted as a constant. He craved cleverness, aptitude, skill and obedience, not a groveling mess who could barely keep himself together in his company. What would they do in the company of a target?

Moriarty reaches into his coat and produces a silver Sig handgun, holding it out to Moran in a flattened palm with the barrel faced away from each of them. "By all means. I'm not opposed to a little extra cleanup," He gets that it isn't intended to be taken literally, but his expression is a tone convey a level of seriousness mixed in with his idea of a joke. It's a dark humor the Colonel will just have to get used to being exposed to, though if Jim's assessment is any good thus far then he might already be just as morbid.

"In due time, Colonel. I have a need to fill a role, a very important one, and you have the skills and background that might make this fit," Jim says, all business now. "But you have to finish the interview before you get the offer."

He gestures now over to the back wall of the warehouse where there is a single door. "So go, Sebastian, wouldn't want to keep your good friend waiting. Shame you haven't seen one another much since discharge and acclimation. Funny thing, life outside of service."

[the_urban_tiger]

The gun only earns a slight incline of his jaw as he watches him warily, refusing to let the man have the satisfaction of riling him and eyeing the SIG curiously. P226 X-Five, Allround model. Not bad. Actually a pretty nice hand gun, no drag, high speed and accuracy. His expression shifts only subtly, a little sort of cautious intrigue as he reaches out to take it, checking the magazine. "Are you sure it's wise to hand a man you just threatened a gun? A lot of men would pay good money to see you dead."

But it's not about the money, he'd do the jobs for free if he could live off the adrenaline highs, the thrill of the hunt and that so very extraordinary feeling of a kill. He needed danger, though, a challenge. Not these easy shots that the local crime circles liked to fit him up with that a damn five year old with his first gun could make. He needed the sort of kills that gave him the sort of high only a proper good fuck could compare to, and right now he's getting the impression this just might be it. So no, he wouldn't shoot him, and his behavior is far from threatening or implying otherwise.

"Nice of you to arrange me a play date." The magazine slides back in as Sebastian does a quick once-over of the gun to check for anything nonstandard before giving Moriarty a slight mock of a salute with the gun, turning to stride towards the door. The vague remark is a bit unsettling, but it's true enough that he hadn't kept in contact with very many people from the military. There's few he'd want to, even fewer that would want him to given his well-earned reputation but he did have one or two men he'd call friend. It's pure habit when he takes the safety off of the gun when he reaches the door, angling himself to be mostly protected by the wall as he opens it, glancing in quickly to make sure he's safe.

It's a empty room, nothing but the man bound to a chair. There's nothing he can use to recognize him yet, not with the cloth bag over his head but there's no doubt he'd get poor marks dispatching the poor sod from a distance. Each step is punctuated by the sound of those heavy combat boots on the concrete as he closes the distance between them, and it's interesting to see that military training in practice, how the man stiffens and stills, head turning towards the approaching throat even if he can't see it. He stops in front of him, observing for a moment before grabbing the sack and pulling it off quickly, watching his fellow soldier wince and recoil a bit in the light, blinking and squinting up at him. His jaw sets with immediate recognition.

Well.
Shit.

[playthings]

Jim shrugs in response to the question, a silly and over exaggerated sort of shrug with an expression to match.

"Don't strain yourself attempting to be clever. That envelope is full of facts and they reveal more about you than you could ever fathom. You know just how many men are posted outside these walls, what they're armed with, and how quickly you will meet your end if you tried," Jim smooths his hand down his tie as he speaks, not an ounce of concern in his tone. Carefree.

He follows him into the room, closing the door silently behind them. There's the beginning of an amused grin forming on his face, like a child trying to contain their excitement when presenting their parents with a present on Christmas morning. Sebastian's silence and the groans of attempted speech leaving the bound man make that grin come full force.

"I got you a treat and you don't even have the decency to thank me? No matter, I already have what I want from this one. The less than ordinary ones always crack quickly," he says approaching the mark. He reaches out and yanks the gag from the man's mouth, paying little mind to any additional damage done. The yelp of pain only makes Jim looks that much amused. He takes a step back to the other end of the room and leans against the wall, crossing his arms and half paying attention to the precious reunion.

"Basher?! What in the hell are you doing here?" The man, Will, squirms against the nylon ropes binding him to the chair, looking up at his friend with a wild desperation in his eyes. "They'll kill you too. They ask you to work for them and then they sell you out. Don't listen to them and get the hell out of here while you still can!"

A great deal of training goes into preparing a soldier for torture situations; A certain strength of will and mind are required in case of capture and torture by an enemy. Secrets are as sacred for a country as they are for private interests, and it has led to a number of soldiers being picked up for this sort of work. Jim Moriarty's techniques, though often chemically assisted, have shaken the strongest of minds. A point of pride, to be certain.

[the_urban_tiger]

Oh, don't do that. Don't- goddamn it. This would have gone much quicker and much smoother if the gag stayed on but, no, that'd be too easy, wouldn't it? It wouldn't be hard to end the game right now, just a shot to the medulla oblongata and the man's out of his misery and Seb's good to go. Now he's going to be expected to perform, to see how he handles killing people he knows while they talk to him. Plead. Beg. Is Sebastian Moran a man with sentiments, easy to break? Will he falter with a shot if it's a familiar face? Does he pride his job or his friends most? A dozen interview questions packed into a single scenario, and his actions will answer every one of them.

Well, at least this was the sort of interview he could do.

"Shut up, Gray." The words are militaristic sharp, commanding, needing half a second to think this out, running a hand over his hair to the back of his neck. Breathing techniques were the saving grace of him so he takes a single measured, slow breath. It's like taking aim, holding his breath with his lungs empty, measuring his heart beat for a second, and- it's a kill shot, leaves Moran cool, detached, and thinking clear. He spares a glance back at Jim, almost bored before looking back at Will, shoving him back down in the chair and holding him there. "Did you talk? No, shut the fuck up, did. you. talk?"

He had accepted no weakness in the military. A weak link in the chain would become a problem in the future. Could cause fatalities if left in the circuit when it finally breaks. No, better to compromise a potential problem before it has the ability to prove it could become a deadly one. Not exactly a condoned method of handling his own people, but there were several reason he no longer held position in the military. To think an old army friend has become a liability is incredibly disappointing, but he's not going to compromise his own standards for one man, not when it came to something as critical as keeping information. Although Sebastian had picked up some tricks of his own on making people talk, he kept one simple rule. You. NEVER. break.

[playthings]

"Tick, tock," Jim says, somewhat occupied with the contents of his phone for the moment. This bit required so little of his attention that reading a few emails should occupy the time sufficiently. There was a chance it would all be emotional prattle anyway and he was far from interested in it. "Don't have all day."

"Y-y-yes, I had to!" Will Gray may not have been known for having nerves of steel, but anything that resembled composure was gone. His breaths come shallow and panicked and he's looking up at Sebastian with pleading eyes. The eyes of a dead man. "I'll go to the US, I'll be across the pond before the traffickers realize, I wont say a word about Jim Moriarty, PLEASE."

Jim takes this opportunity to chime in, though his comment is directed at Sebastian: "Saying names, telling stories of big bad wolves. Can't have legendary names in the minds of the living, can we? I do prefer being a fairy tale." Perhaps it's more information than he should divulge given the man hadn't even passed the test yet, but it's never too soon to learn the first lesson. There are so many to cover and with how boring this begging for your life bit always is it's a welcome change of pace to use this as an opportunity. No man can escape Jim Moriarty while working against him and live to see the light of day. The only exception to this rule hadn't fallen into his good graces just yet.

[the_urban_tiger]

Emotional prattle? If there's a man who's incapable of emotional bullshit, nearly seven degrees removed from an ability to give any sort of fuck about another person, it would be Basher Moran. Maybe he just hasn't met someone who impresses him enough yet. He stares impassively down at Will, meeting that gaze with nothing but the faintest traces of disdain, taking a step back and raising the gun.

Eyes never leaving Gray, his head turns just slightly to listen to Jim as he speaks- he can stare down that desperation the way a tiger would regard a begging meal. Fairy tale? Better a boogeyman, a ghost, than a monster to hunt. Respectable. The idea earns a slight chuckle of amusement, lips curling into a brief smirk before that deadpan, steely look seeps back in like ice water. "No. You didn't."

The gun shot is overly loud in the small room, echoing on the concrete walls but Sebastian doesn't so much as flinch. It's a bit of a mess, but a flawless shot (as well it fucking should be from near point blank). Why waste time on the worthless? He doesn't even give him a second look before turning away to approach Jim, holding to gun out with the hand grip facing towards him, still looking almost bored. "Any others you need taken care of, sir?"

[playthings]

Yes, Jim is beginning to understand why Sebastian Moran was succeeding at this interview. Despite what looked like hesitance earlier on, the composure and ruthlessness displayed when he finally pulled the trigger. A shame, considering how much time Jim took to select the perfect treat to make the sniper squirm the most. Even if he had just a little more, Moriarty wouldn't have been swayed on his final decision. No matter, there will be plenty of time to systematically toy with the man in the future.

After the deafening echo of the gunshot fades he claps his hands together three times in a complimentary slow clap. "Congratulations are in order, as you have won the prize. No living in slums, all the hunting you could ever ask for... under one condition." Jim walks slowly over to Sebastian and takes the gun from his hand. After flipping the safety back on and slipping it into its holster at his side, he extends his right hand out to Sebastian. "You can be the right hand of the greatest criminal this world has ever seen. Untouchable. All it requires is a bit of doing what you're told, nothing more."

There's a shift in Jim Moriarty's demeanor as he offers this once in a lifetime chance up. To him, this is the greatest honor he could bestow on anyone, and he truly believes it would improve this disheveled, disinherited and disgraced ex-military man's life a thousand fold, but he would have to accept him as his new driving force. His new father. His new country. The orphaned souls who signed their life over to his service were richly rewarded, so long as they were unwaveringly obedient.

[the_urban_tiger]

There might be a little regret somewhere that he's dispatched one of the few people from his past that would happily have a drink with him, but in many regards it was wiser to sever all ties. People got used against you. People were expendable, they always were. He was. You performed to your absolute best and failing to do so, or should your best fail to be adequate, you made yourself removable, replaceable.

The first response to the clap is a quiet, uneasy uncertainty that's careful never to reach his expression. Either Sebastian was being mocked or the man was genuinely pleased with his work, but to assume the latter prematurely would be a quick way to a stupid death. Instead, the sniper internally braces himself as the weight of the firearm is lifted from his hand, which is a little slow to withdraw as he observes Jim, determines his next course of action. Regarding the (unexpected) extended hand, a slow smirk spreads across his lips as he lowers his hand to take Jim's without the caution he feels, shaking it firmly.

Is it really this easy? No more shit apartment. Might be able to afford some nice new clothes, too (though he shouldn't be left to buying his own suits, cheap and ill-fitting). No more budgeting the month and skipping meals for entire days, no more rejection notices after tedious interviews. And he could hunt. "I won't disappoint."

This is... the most alive he's felt since the war. There's a spark that's been reignited and is eager to be fed with the promise of purpose. He could devote himself to a worthy cause; if Jim Moriarty were to be his country, then Sebastian Moran would be his entire army. He'd raze the cities of his kingdom's enemies and salt the earth. Show him his leader and he'll pledge obedience.

[playthings]

That shake lingers on much longer than it should, the grin on Jim's face fading slowly. Grip tightening, Jim bridges the grap between them and brings himself a less-than comfortable distance from Sebastian. The height difference between the two is far from off-putting to him, and he tilts his head up slightly to compensate and still keep his eyes fixated on Sebastians. Unblinking, vise grip attempting to crush the life out of his new associate's hand, he gazes up at him with an unchecked malice.

"If you so much as think of crossing me," Moriarty begins, his voice a low and even whisper, practically a serpents his. "I will rip you apart, piece by piece. Don't misunderstand me, Moran, your friend's fate was swift and clean granted by an angel of death. I am no angel. I will flay the very flesh from your limbs, bleed you, shatter every bone in you to a million teensie bits before I give you the satisfaction of dying."

There is a long, drawn out pause as he searches the other man's expression, hovering but an inch from him. Proximity is a tool of great use to any proper predator; sure, the stalking, hunting and running down of prey is wonderful, but luring and enticing them of their own accord, drawing them in, letting them believe they are safe before getting snagged in a web an devoured was much more clever. Much more fun. Fortunately for Sebastian he would be spared the latter part, but Moriarty could not deny his nature.

"Do you understand?"

[the_urban_tiger]

It's not often that he meets someone who can make an eight inch height difference seem insubstantial, and even less often someone who uses invading someone's personal space as a means to intimidate as efficiently as he himself does. It's not an easy feat when you're shorter, but Moriarty well and truly succeeds. Even when the grip on his hand tightens painfully, Sebastian makes no attempt to tighten his own or straighten up, though any discomfort stays stoically out of that impassive expression.

Despite the non-reaction to the ... graphic ... threat, his eyes betray a sharp, wild hunger, combative and amused and completely devoid of fear. There's a sharp comeback on his tongue but Moran doesn't know his limits and figures it better to play the good soldier and earn himself some time to observe first. He has no doubt that this man is every inch as dangerous as he says he is, holding his gaze like he is. It's like being on the battlefield again, knowing you're facing down potential death every second... and Sebastian loves it; he's drawn to it like a moth to an open flame, wings beating against its own potential incineration. It's something he craves, no, needs. The risk.

That fearlessness certainly doesn't seem to be a farce; he's as every inch composed and confident as he was when he first walked in, and that remains unchanged when Sebastian offers a smile that does nothing to change that unaffected, hollow expression he's wearing.

"Completely, sir."

[playthings]

It's a skill he's honed over the years. Even as a young child his parents often feared the very thought of what he could be capable of if he didn't get his way. Of course, when Jim Moriarty is upset it wont be in a burst or a tantrum (that is, unless you've truly frustrated him as only Sherlock Holmes will ever be capable), it will be a drawn out sort of suffering carefully played out. That's the beauty of having true power in any situation, and this is certainly one where Jim has the upper hand.

But Sebastian's reaction, or lack thereof, is refreshing. Could you blame Jim for looking so thoroughly pleased? His stern threatening expression shifts to a pleasantly entertained, possibly even amused, smirk as he relinquishes the mans hand from his grip. "Then fear not, Basher. I'm sure you'll make a wonderful addition."

He brushes past him, taking his leave of the bloodied room and heading for the warehouse exit, expecting Sebastian to follow. Quickly he sends out a text from his phone to send the various men posted about the docks on their way and a driver around to pick them up.

"Come, there's work to be done and I don't have time to hold your hand and tell you you're a good boy for more than a few hours before I put you to work."