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The Squatter [Part 1] (COMPLETE)

ooc: RP with this wonderful person!

Colonel Sebastian Moran had returned to London seven months ago. Former Colonel he reprimanded himself with a scowl. A note of distaste settled on his tongue, and he raised his eighth bottle of beer that morning to his lips to quell it, downing half the bottle in one gulp. “Dishonourable discharge”, they’d told him. What a load of bullocks that was—he was the best fucking sniper that army ever saw. So what if he got a little rowdy with the local women now and again? And if the problem had been Private Froam’s ‘untimely and mysterious shooting’, so what? Froam was a worthless little prick. And besides, one death of a fellow regiment member, in six years of service? In contrast to all the enemy combatants he’d shot down? They should’ve been fucking grateful Froam was the only one. They were probably regretting sending him home now.

In the time he’d been home, he had burned through the vast majority of his army pension. He squandered the money on booze, women, gambling, and occasionally drugs. He’d been evicted from his flat for ‘unruly conduct, destruction of property, and failure to pay rent’. He’d tried to get a job a few times, and even managed to land one, surprisingly enough. But that fell through when he brought a gun to work one day and threatened to shoot his boss.

He’d made no effort to contact his family and let them know he was back. That bridge had burned when he’d dropped out of University to join the army. As far as he was concerned, they never needed to know.

So now he was basically squatting, moving from park bench to park bench and empty house to empty house. He scavenged whatever cash he could, but most of it went to the purchase of alcohol. His beard was growing scraggly, his hair and his clothes were disheveled and greasy. He reeked of alcohol, cigarettes, and dirt. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a shower or bath. Part of him didn’t care.

The house he was currently staying in was one of the nicest he’d found. Spacious and open design, with white paneled walls, plush tan carpet, and high ceilings. He leaned against a wall of the main floor bedroom, sitting up in his standard issue military sleeping bag. He’d probably go to the casino later, but for now he was content to sit in the empty house drinking.

God, he missed shooting. Gambling and alcohol were his only solace now, but they just weren’t the same. Bet they’re fucking missing me now, he comforted himself, not for the first time.

-

James Moriarty walked along the grey streets of London, his eyes focused on the illuminated screen in front of him, fingers tapping quickly at the keys. When he finished, he pocketed the phone and drew his gaze up to look at the buildings surrounding him. London. The City. His City. Darting his eyes between the faces that passed, Jim watched their eyes land on him and then look away, paying him no attention. Oh, if only they knew. If only they knew that with a few phone calls, he could tear the ground they were walking on apart. Bring down the iconic landmarks that so many people flocked to see; taking the mundane pictures that had been taken millions of times previous, sticking them in their worthless scrapbooks as keepsakes. How ordinary. How boring.

Reaching an intersection, he turned left without pausing and carried on walking; eyes now roaming along the buildings that lined either side of the street. They were all fairly standard for this part of the city; multistorey houses with whitewashed stone, replica Greek-style pillars holding up small balconies overlooking the pavement, towering panes of glass for windows. Drawing a small set of keys from out of his pocket, Jim stepped up to the door of one of the building fronts and unlocked it, before pushing it open and stepping inside.

Instantly his nose wrinkled, mouth turning downwards in distaste. The smells that permeated the air weren’t ones he associated with the house, and definitely not himself. Stale cigarettes, alcohol and body odour mixed together into a concoction that made his eyes water slightly. Reaching for the alarm out of habit, it was only then that he noticed the shrill sound that normally pierced the air was strangely absent. Looking over, his eyes narrowed when he saw the mess of wires and mangled plastic that were the remains of his burglar alarm.

Clenching his jaw, Jim reached a hand up and patted one of his suit pockets to check that the knife that was constantly on his person was still there. It wouldn’t do to be unprepared. There was an someone in his house. And Jim didn’t much care for intruders.

Walking forwards, his ears caught the sound of movement in the room to the right. Avoiding the empty bottles scattered about the floor, Jim approached the door and pushed it open, revealing someone who looked like they belonged in the wilderness, not in a house in Knightsbridge. He certainly looked, and smelt, like he hadn’t had any human contact in years.

Taking a step forwards into the room, Jim locked eyes with the squatter that had invaded his house. There was a short pause, in which the only movement Jim made was to blink, once. Then he spoke, “You know, if you’ve taken the effort to break in here and use it as your own personal hostel, you may as well use the shower facilities while you’re at it.”

-

Slumped carelessly against the wall in his sleeping bag, hand still loosely clutching a half-empty bottle, Sebastian dozed. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep, really, he just hadn’t quite mustered the energy to leave the building, to head out into the monotony of a grey city that had forgotten its primal nature. And, to be fair, for all that he’d done little but gamble and drink for the past fortnight, he couldn’t recall the last time he had slept. So he drank, and dreamed of far-flung danger, and dozed. His body slid a little lower down the wall.

But even in his sleep deprived, alcohol addled brain, sharp, finally tuned hunter senses awoke at the sound of the door opening, alerting him to some change in his environment. His eyes shot open and for a moment, he was back in India; bedroom became forest, empty bottles and cigarette butts littering the floor became a maze-like bushel of brambles, and there, standing in the mouth of the sewer drain, was enemy number one, the great man-eating tiger who’d ripped a hole in his chest.

Sod it, hadn’t he already taken care of this vile beast? Well, then, he’d just to take it down again… “Back for more, are you, stupid bitch?” he grinned, heart pounding with a thrill he hadn’t felt in seven months. Oh, god, had he missed this feeling, the hunt which blurred the lines between predator and prey. He hadn’t realized just how much he missed it until that moment. He stood, reaching for the gun tucked into his waist-band; only a pistol, as he’d been forced to leave his preferred sniper rifles in Afghanistan, but it would do.

Only then the tiger was emitting decidedly human sounds—what the hell? When the fuck had it learned English, and why did it have a soft Dublin accent? He gave his head a hard shake, blinking rapidly. The world swayed, turned on its head, and India flew away from him, spitting him back out in dismal London and the trashed house he had temporarily claimed.

And it was definitely a man, not a tiger, in the doorway, but the feeling of being hunted remained. And that was odd (glorious, but odd just the same), because there wasn’t anything particularly remarkable about the man, as far as Sebastian could see. He was short and pale, well-groomed and well-dressed in a suit that was clearly tailor-made, but on all surface accounts, hardly threatening. But blood continued to pound in his ears, and if Sebastian trusted anything, it was his instincts. It was the eyes, he realized, as he met the stranger’s gaze. Something in the man’s eyes, or something not in them, sent a chill up Sebastian’s spine and whispered conspiratorially to the recently re-awakened hunter in him. They were dark, too dark, like a pitiless, bottomless maze with an emptiness that seemed to stretch to the stars.

At last, Sebastian shrugged, and said, thickly, “Didn’t see much point. Wasn’t exactly expecting to run into a ratty, rich little puissant like you.”

If you want to tangle with the queen bee, bat the beehive. That’s precisely what Sebastian intended to do.

-

Jim watched from the doorway as the squatter lurched to his feet, his eyes following the man’s movements with slight curiosity. Aside from the clear signs of heavy drinking and smoking (much to Jim’s disgust; that smell would be a nightmare to get out of the curtains), he also noted that the man was in posession of a standard issue military sleeping bag. He knew a few of the men on his payroll owned one - packs light, and is always handy if you find yourself having to move locations abruptly - or so he’s told. He’s never quite found himself that desperate.

But this man wasn’t a hired gunman, or if he was, he was a rather abysmal one. Jim could see faint pen marks on the sleeping bag representing what he guessed was the man’s rank, regiment and ID number, but as he tried to decipher the lines, his view was blocked by the squatter’s unsteady upwards motion. Jim heard the slurred speech and chose to ignore the casual insult throw his way, registering the choice of words and quickly making connections. He definitely didn’t remember meeting this man before - he remembered almost all of the people he’d threatened - and he also saw that the man’s eyes were unfocused, meaning that the copious amount of alcohol was most likely preventing his brain from registering that he was awake. Therefore, that comment wasn’t meant for Jim.

As he was processing this, Jim stayed silent, observing the man as he started to reach for something hidden in his waistband. If his instincts were right, and the man was indeed an ex-soldier, that object could well be a gun of some kind. Not that Jim was threated by them; he’d lost count how many times he’d stared down the barrel of someone else’s gun, but he’d rather it wasn’t wielded by someone who wasn’t aware of his surroundings. And although it might be rather amusing to see how steady this man’s aim was (Jim almost smiled at the thought), he didn’t think he’d quite live it down if it transpired that he was shot by some drunk squatter taking shelter in a house he owned.

So without waiting to see whether it was indeed a gun he was reaching for, Jim spoke. His words seemed to do the trick, as with a hard shake of his head and a few rapid blinks, the man’s eyes finally focused on Jim’s. They stood, locking gazes for a moment, before surprisingly coherant words tumbled from the man’s mouth. Finding himself more amused than annoyed at the drunk man’s quip, Jim let out a small huff of laughter. Taking a couple more steps into the room, he stopped a short distance away from the man, studying him. Sliding his hands into his trouser pockets with a smile that didn’t quite reach the eyes, he said, “Even whilst inebriated, you still managed to come up with a snub like that. Quite impressive.”

Eyes taking in more details now he was closer, he noticed various scars lining the man’s bare arms and fists, the majority of them unnoticable unless you were looking. Glancing back at the man in front of him, he spoke again, “I would ask about your military career, or lack of, but I think I would much rather know why it is that you think you can break into my property without any repercussions. You’re lucky I have somewhere else to send my clients, or I can guarantee we wouldn’t be having this conversation. Indeed, depending on your next answer, we may not in the very near future.”

-

Sebastian tightened his grip on the pistol still tucked in his waistband as the man stepped closer, because fuck, that smile was creepy as hell. Standing there with his hands in his pockets and his tailor-made suit like some fuckin’ nancy. The sight irritated Sebastian as much as it unnerved him, though he had no intentions of displaying it.

Sebastian surged forward, unsteady feet stomping forward, closing the distance between the two men. “That a threat, mate?” he growled, the slurred words tumbling from his lips in a tangled mess. He towered over the smaller man, but staring down into those obsidian eyes and the smile that didn’t reach them, Sebastian felt the meeker of the two, felt fear. He’d wrestled tigers bare-handed without blinking an eye, and now he was afraid of some spoiled brat? Fuck that. The gun came up then. He wasn’t thinking clearly.

“Don’t give a fuck if this is your house, mate. Needed a place to stay. What can you do, eh? Listen, I know your type. I grew up wif lot like you—rich little fuckin’ weasels who think they own the fuckin’ world. But you’re nothin’. Nothin’. I’m the best fucking sniper this world ever saw, so yer takin’ the piss if you think you can do anythin’ to me.”

-

Jim nearly rolled his eyes at the question, finding the answer all to obvious to verbalise. Instead, he carried on smiling that half-smile, wanting to see what the man’s reaction was. It obviously had an effect, because oh- there it was. The gun he’d suspected the man carried came up, along with a torrent of words all jumbled together into one. A few of those words caught his attention, however, and he actually let out a laugh at the audacity of them. Taking a few steps closer to the man, until the tip of the gun barrel was touching his chest, Jim looked up and smirked, “Dear me… someone is rather deluded, aren’t they? ‘The best sniper this world has ever seen’… I’m not quite sure you would be able to fire a clean shot at this distance, let alone fifty feet.

“As for ‘not being able to do anything to you’, well, I’m afraid your judgement of me is quite under par.” As he’d been talking, Jim had taken the pocket knife from his jacket, careful to draw the man’s attention away from his hands towards his face. He’d used the pad of one thumb to carefully slide one of the knives from their socket, and as he finished speaking, deftly bought the blade up to rest pressing into the man’s exposed neck. “One false move, and I’ll be watching you bleed a slow and painful death.” As if to prove a point, he applied more pressure on the knife; just enough to allow a little blood to well underneath the blade.

“Indeed, you might still think you can still get away with pulling the trigger. And you would be right in thinking I would not be able to avoid any incoming bullet, especially from this distance. But do not presume in that second between the bullet leaving the gun to the impact, I will not hesitate to cut into your catorid artery, which I believe is resting just under the tip of my blade. How badly do you value your life, my dearest sniper?”

-

Deluded? Granted, in his current state he wasn’t at top form, but he had no delusions about his shooting abilities. He glared as the stranger swaggered forth, pressing his chest to the barrel of Sebastian’s gun, “What the fuck do you know, eh?”

Although the well-dressed stranger had managed to slip a knife out and bring it up to Sebastian’s neck without his notice… And that was something new, though whether talent on the man’s part, or further evidence of Seb’s currently addled brain, or both, Sebastian could not be sure. In any case, they seemed to have reached an impasse of sorts.

How much did he value his life?

Oh, that was the rub, wasn’t it?

An adrenaline junkie, robbed, through his discharge, of the war and the hunt that kept his blood pumping, withering away on the streets with vices insufficient to cover the loss of his army days. He was inebriated, and the excessive amount of alcohol in his system was like a poison mist that licked at the corners of his brain, muddling his thoughts. And in such a befuddled state, no, he didn’t much value his life.

It wasn’t that he had a death wish—he wasn’t some smarmy spoiled English brat. But there were things more valuable than life, like the sharp twist in his lungs and the current pounding of his heart, things he hadn’t felt once since his return to London. Until now. He didn’t actively seek death, but if Death found him, he wouldn’t back down. He’d stare him in the face, test the waters, poke him in the ribs, and maybe, just maybe, follow him into eternity.

And here was Death now, all self-assured, silky laughter, smooth talk and sharp dress, skeleton grin and snakelike obsidian eyes, and a switchblade knife pressed firm against Sebastian’s neck, drawing blood. Sebastian shivered, and pushed the barrel deeper into the stranger’s chest, but did not pull the trigger.

So, how much did he value his life?

The answer was simple, and better addressed with a gesture than slurred, drunken speech. Stone faced, staring straight into those dark, unnerving eyes, he spat, unceremoniously, in Death’s face.

-

Jim watched with a modicum of interest as the man actually seemed to ponder the question. As if the sharp edge of a knife wasn’t currently pressed against against the soft flesh of his neck, which would part all too easily should the blade be applied correctly; a threat which Jim had made clear in his previous sentence.

There were only two previous occasions that the criminal had had cause to threaten with a switchblade, his normal methods being the unwavering dots of red that allowed for a far more dramatic coercion. The first had grovelled immediately, much to Jim’s distate, begging for his life. The second, who up until that point had been boasting about how he had bested Jim, had tried to move quickly out of the way in his panic and had inadvertently caused the thing that he had been trying to avoid.

But the man in front of him seemed unlikely to do either. Jim had felt the faint tremor as he had drawn blood; noted the increase in pressure of the gun that was now pressing uncomfortably into his ribs, yet there was no move to pull the trigger. It was as if the ex-soldier was relishing the confrontation, rather than worrying about his own life.

And when the man had chosen his next move by spitting of all things, right into Jim’s face with a cold, unwavering look, he knew his assumption was correct. Of course, that didn’t mean that he was pleased about the situation - anyone who dared pull that move at any other time would be dead within seconds - but the flash of anger that passed over his face and the added pressure to the blade in his hands were only reflex actions. He was too busy connecting the dots, synapses firing at an impossible rate as he came to his conclusions.

And when he did, feeling the saliva trickling down his face, Jim smiled.

Removing the blade from the man’s neck with enough added force to send a warning, he used the other hand to pull out his pocket square and dabbed at his face, before deftly wiping the blade and collapsing the knife, returning it to his pocket. He dropped the soiled hankerchief onto the floor and pushed the barrel away from his chest with a finger, before turning on his heel and striding towards the door. Somehow he knew that a bullet would never make its way to his back.

“Do try and be gone by the time I return. I would hate to have a repeat performance of today.” He paused at the door, turning to meet the man’s gaze once more, “And refrain from spitting. It’s an unslightly habit.” With that, he exited the room, closing the door behind him.

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