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.
no subject
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.