To The Highest Bidder

Null Set | Mercenary Meridian Contractor. Merciful. Death is Quick. Character For: whathasrisenrp

[nxllset]

Title: Job Failed - Target Alive For: Preston @sillcge​ Location: Preston’s living quarters 

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The job came delivered to him like every other job - a warning tone and the message displayed in the reader. Thirty seconds to read it. The brief stab of pain as the location was added to the network, and he was to go. A simple job, all things considered. A man had overstepped. Killed his brother. Made some kind of name for himself that was best not put into writing. 

No one would miss him. No one cared about Salus bastards who weren’t good enough or smart enough or had the potential to be scouted for Meridian, to be let into the glorious city that Null called home. 

He was to kill the “mad dog” because Meridian said so and the nagging worry at the back of his mind had him questioning what would happen if he was ever to not be useful. In terms of dogs - he was Meridian’s fangs. The force that was deployed when jobs needed to get done and in return, he was given company clothes, a company apartment, room for his cat and plants -- in lesser terms, he was given a kennel. Hell, even his food was provided for him. 

Null didn’t think about the problem for too long. Questions demanded answers, and he was not a man who dug deep and wanted to know why. Instead, he only asked how long he had and what needed to be done.  Right now - it was kill the man named Preston Hart. 

Unlike other mercenaries who - by definition - would have the ability to turn down a job, Null’s handler never gave him such luxuries. Kill when told. Return home. 

So, to Salus he went, to the location provided. Knife in hand because the job was to be quiet. Hell, he even dressed in clothes made to allow him to blend in to Salus instead of his company-issued suit. It was meant to be an easy job. A simple job. Wait until nightfall, enter the house, kill the man, leave.  Simple. He’d done this job dozens of times.  Be a good dog and listen to your owners -- enter. kill. leave. Don’t think about how the man he was meant to kill seemed like a man like him. 

[nxllset]

hierophcnts​:

The thing about this place is that it’s fucking dangerous. Filthy, primal, and beautiful in it’s waste. Sanne learned early on how to survive the passive way — be gentle, lead with kindness. It’s all fun and games until you’re face to fucking face with people that can and will toss that kindness right back at you with a well-thrown fist. That’s where her secondary education comes in. Self-preservation. A heavy hand lands on her shoulder, and Sanne finds herself coming to a full stop. Can’t wrap her head around why the fuck someone is reaching out, following it up with some words of fucking affirmation. Steady on. As if she’s a drunkard, or some poor fuck eating a skewer of expired meat. “Is this your way of telling me you’re gonna gnaw my fucking foot off?” Call his bluff. Like a fucking bear, act bigger than you are — size matters, in Salus. She hasn’t looked around yet, but fuck if she doesn’t feel that familiar tickle in her nasal cavities. There’s a fucking dog nearby. Fucking great. “Meat’s not much safer than what you got in your fucking hand.”

Holy fucking shit, she can’t handle this. That tickle is about to fucking win. It’s written all over her face, too. A scrunch of the nose, the slight squint of her eyes. There’s a sneeze on the horizon. “Might not be such a bad thing, though.” She gestures toward his meal. “Hallucinations can be fun.”

“Perhaps,” he said easily, taking a bite of the skewer and chewing, gaze fixed until she mentioned the Old Fucker’s food, and he looked down as though he hadn’t considered the safety of what he ordered. “It doesn’t matter. At least the Old Fucker doesn’t mix cooking oil with gasoline to make it go a little bit further.” Another bite of the food, and he offers her the second skewer - perhaps in apology for stopping her while she had been walking or perhaps to prove a point. “I’ve known the Old Fucker for longer than I’ve known most people. I don’t ask him questions. I don’t think to engage with him beyond what he’s selling for the day. It might be meat or deep-fried tire, but it’s food, and it’s cheap.” Said the man dressed in a suit that was a salary worker’s monthly pay.  He looked around her quizzically and found the dog that she had been speaking of. “Oh -...” he straightened. “I was talking about the man with the knife about twenty feet back and gaining,” he said, pointing over her shoulder and over the dog who was creeping forward. He crouched down to offer some of the meat skewer to the pathetic creature, though the dog sniffed it, whined and backed away. Everyone was a critic today. “Would you like to go for a walk or handle him yourself?” he asked, offering his hand to her. There was no bounty on her head that he could tell, so there was no need for him to focus on her as an avenue of potential payment. It almost meant that there was no reason for him to get involved other than he liked the way that she spoke -- the sarcasm and general dislike of his company. “If the walk is something you’re interested in - we could go towards the edge of the market and if he’s still following, at least now I have a weapon,” he said, holding up the leftover skewer. “If you want to handle him yourself ...” he held the skewer out to her. “It may be fun.” 

[nxllset]

open to: anyone - preliminary introduction  location: cisterns market; Salus

A rare day off (as though he didn’t pick his hours) meant that the way that he navigated the streets without hyper-focusing on his environment as he searched the crowds for his mark or a sign. Instead, his posture remained relaxed, hands in his pockets, as he passed by a group of street-kids who glowered up at him when he didn’t bother to pass them something shiny. As though it was his responsibility to ensure they didn’t draw the negative attention of whomever they were working with, bonded to, or called family.  Luckily, he had none of that. Only a Meridian handler who gave him his next job, gave him his pay and ensured that he somehow never ran out of food for his cat. The same luxury wasn’t extended to himself, of course. He hunted best when he was lean and hungry, and his handler enjoyed seeing him just shy of throat-ripping ravenous. Though, his flat affect and unassuming nature didn’t say predator -- but why announce himself? 

Instead, he wanted a bloody meat skewer. Heavy on the rare. Hell, he’d eat the stick if that was what it took. The Old Fucker sold the best meat skewers in all of the fucking rundown backwater shitstain that was Salus. “--” he raised his hand to indicate to the man behind the stall that he wanted three of whatever he’d be handed. A clink of dropped coins - something he found from some house located somewhere east of here - was enough for the Old Fucker to grin and pass him something that might be a week past fresh - pretty good for what he gave in return. 

He felt a heavy shoulder hit against him, and it took him a moment in his hunger-daze to remember to roll back and stagger instead of absorbing the blow and bracing against the impact. “Steady on,” he said, reaching to steady the stranger. His eyes flickered over the stranger’s shoulders, and his dark eyes ascertained the threat quickly. “How attached are you to your Achilles tendon? If you don’t move quickly - that ragamuffin is going to attack it,” he said in the same way that he’d discuss the potential for stepping into a deep puddle and ruining the hems of his pants.