❝ 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]

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."