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.
no subject
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.