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Post by col. sebastian moran on Mar 17, 2013 17:57:44 GMT 1
Two years in prison can change a man. Predictably, Moran had been nearly inrecognisable after only two months. There is something about losing one's only source of virtually all the things in life that mattered (most specifically money and danger), and that little something was the cause for the control he had over his temper to disintegrate.
He had made a name for himself; both before and after. The first was unintentional. When on the job, the ease that came with the name was often overlooked. Moran was feared in the circles his job required him to attend, admired in the ones his father built from the ground, and both where they overlapped. But Moriarty was feared more than anything, and Sebastian's own surname's effect paled in comparison, and so it had never seemed worth paying attention to. That was the before.
The in-between was a dead employer.
The after consisted not so much of rifles and inherited respect as it did of causing organ failure and pissing on broken noses clutched by broken fingers. It was wrongly directed resentment bleeding into fury, open knuckles that were never given enough time to scab, causing meaningless fear, and small marks left by needle coated sedatives.
Pentonville was grim, but Sebastian was a Moran built by Moriarty.
Until Moriarty was always a twenty-four hours dead longer than he had been the day before, and the most dangerous man in London gave up.
Seated on a small wooden chair in his cell, Sebastian contemplated not the utter lack of respect he had for left for the situation he'd been put in or how much he despised a dead man for leaving him without a paycheck, but rather the plot of the beat up copy of A Clockwork Orange he had his thumb wedged between, the spine resting against his index and middle fingers.
Were it not for the army-like bunk bed (that had been the reason for a sarcastic laugh upon arrival), the cell would've resembled a student room; little space and several A4-sized posters of nude women on the wall. A spare change of clothes was slung over a flat piece of surface, his books piled onto another, and a small amount of toiletries on an equally small desk.
Jones was nowhere to be seen, and Sebastian figured the Welshman was off attending his Computer Studies classes, which was just as well for him. Long since lacking both empathy as well as the ability to feel the remotest hint of anger, Sebastian deemed himself incapable of resentment towards his roommate for existing and not granting him a single cell - no such thing in the Ville even if he didn't.
He read and failed to see any deeper meaning in the main character's meaningless gruesome acts of violence.
"What a little cunt," he muttered, and flipped a page.
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Post by victor on Mar 17, 2013 19:11:45 GMT 1
The guard who had approached the cell caught Sebastian's last words, giving a short barking laughter. "Is the book not to your liking, Moran? Maybe you'll be happy to hear you got a visitor. So get your arse off that chair and follow me.” The man in uniform let the keys on his keychain jingle before he unlocked the door, expecting the prisoner to follow his command. Of course Moran would know what sort of visitor he had to expect as he was lead down the hallway, past the other cells and into a different wing of the prison building. It was not the visitor area and while the man awaiting him in the small room was a familiar face he was nobody Sebastian would have been eager to see.
Victor Dupré’s eyes wandered over the sniper’s face and body as he stepped in, face blank for now as he gestured to one of the chairs at the small table. It was one of those visits that were met with the same excitement as Mondays or an appointment at the dentist. Right now the agent had no order for further interrogation but Mycroft wanted to make sure that Moran would not forget that the government still intended to get the information it was seeking by using all means possible. Once the door closed behind the guard and the two men were left alone a pack of cigarettes was tossed on the table as Victor too took a place, cracking his knuckles as he waited for Moran to either accept the gift or let it be.
The first time they had met had been shortly after Moran’s capture and Victor had applied all methods of interrogation he had to his disposable without breaking the man completely. He had halfway expected him not to talk and when he had finished the session he had found a strange sense of respect for the sniper even though he didn’t make his job any easier by being stubborn and clinging to an odd sense of loyalty to a dead man. Or was it because of Holmes?
“If that isn’t the look of a man who missed my presence.” he started then, the blank expression slipping to be replaced by a more amused one. He didn’t dislike Moran, actually he found him to be one of the more interesting people he had to ‘visit’. Of course he was aware of the fact that the sniper wouldn’t tell him what he wanted to hear but that didn’t really deter Victor. His dislike for his current job was not always well concealed and after all these months the sniper had become a strange sort of companion in misery. “Still enjoying your three free meals a day I see? Not interested in joining society again and being a more productive member, Colonel?”
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Post by col. sebastian moran on Mar 17, 2013 20:02:10 GMT 1
Two years ago, Moran might've returned the laugh with a sarcastic bark of his own, and told the guard to piss off. Most of them were used to such behaviour, and Sebastian had been one to humour them. But that was two years ago, and time had left little fight in him.
"I don't get visitors." Sebastian's gaze lifted from the book to the guard at his cell. In two years, he'd received a single letter. It had been one dripping with sympathy and regret, sent by his sister Audrey, promising that she's visit him in a week's time. Seeing as she never showed, Sebastian had asssumed the bitch missed visiting hours by ten minutes, as she did everything else.
The interrogations had only been announced when the guards had felt like it, not to mention that they had been dropped months later. But there were two types of visits; optional, and mandatory. The first allowed the door to stay closed until the inmate gave their input, and the second gave them no choice. Shaking his head at his luck, Sebastian dropped the book on his chair and allowed his wrists to be cuffed before following the guard.
And, though he hadn't expected it, it was easy to tell who was waiting for him by the guard's choice of location. The Ice Man's muppet after all.
"I was told I'd be happy to have a visitor," Sebastian drawled when the door closed behind him, a caricature of a grin tugging uselessly at the corner of his mouth. He supposed he tried.
Another attempt at seeming remotely like he cared followed the pack of cigarettes that was tossed onto the desk. Mycroft was - presumably - still Mycroft, and Sebastian wouldn't have been surprised if the cigarettes had been laced with an easier way of getting rid of a useless prison inmate. They had no use for him, and Sebastian had proven to be anything but helpful. When employed by Moriarty, taking them would've been inexcusable. He reached out to take the pack in his hands, fiddling with it until he'd taken out a single cigarette and placed it between his lips. Stepping closer to Dupré, he waited for a lighter.
"Like a mace up my arse," he sneered, voice lacking the hostility the agent must've gotten used to. He rubbed his eyes, avoiding the cigarette balanced between his lips, and tiredly added, "Are you expecting me to use twigs to light this? Christ, get me a lighter, you slow bastard, and get on with it."
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Post by victor on Mar 17, 2013 20:51:47 GMT 1
„I almost had forgotten how charming you could be, Colonel.“ Victor replied with a grin of his own. He was used to Moran’s way of speaking by now and being cursed at hardly surprised him nor did it draw an angry reaction from him. All in all he had been called a lot less flattering things in his life, most of the times in other languages. So the ‘bastard’ almost felt like a term of endearment as he slipped a hand into his pocket to produce the requested item, watching the small flame flicker up as the other man leaned in to light his cigarette. “Don’t worry, they’re not laced with strychnine this time.” he said, grin deepening as if he had read Moran’s mind, “We’re keeping that for a special occasion. Like the queen’s birthday. Or the anniversary of your former employer’s death. Not sure what would be more appropriate.”
Humming he reached for the pack to get a smoke for himself as well, lighting it quickly before inhaling the smoke deeply. He didn’t smoke as much anymore and instead had developed a nervous habit of picking at his lips. And he’d rather not be caught doing that by a case-hardened criminal like Moran. It irked him enough that he was currently trapped behind a desk and spent most of his day staring at a computer screen. “What’s wrong though, Colonel? You sound a bit more soft-spoken today. Don’t tell me prison is finally getting to you? It’s really a pity you decided it would be better to be stuck in here than outside where you could have a lot more fun. If I were you I’d reconsider everything.”
He looked the other man over again, wishing he could read his mind. What was it that kept him loyal to Moriarty and so eager to kill the detective? After all there was no more paycheck that he could have expected after the man offed himself and no reward in any shape or form. “You know, you really should reward me for visiting you every month like a good boyfriend. Just one tiny little secret.” Victor grinned as he showed with his thumb and index finger how tiny said secret was, “Or just tell me why. I really don’t get you. I myself would have taken any chance I could to get out of here. Instead you’re going to rot away in your cell. What for? It feels pretty useless to me.”
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Post by col. sebastian moran on Mar 17, 2013 21:36:24 GMT 1
Sebastian hardly minded Dupré. There had been a time when he hated the man, loathed him on principle for being a loyal tool on the wrong side. He used to imagine bulletholes in the man's skull to calm himself. These days, anger was no longer the biggest part of his personality, and hating someone seemed like an immense waste of energy. Where he failed to give two fucks about any other of Holmes' employees, Sebastian had learned to appreciate Dupré's sardonicism, and mustered amusement at the blatant hatred towards his own job. "Wouldn't want to let the boss man know, I was under the impression I was something memorable. Ta." Sebastian nodded his head as a thanks and leaned back against the table, sucking the cigarette's smoke into his lungs.
The mentioning of Moriarty was a sharp blow he should've expected, but a man who cared very little about anything didn't need defenses, and so it was that it managed to draw the minimal reaction from him; his jaw twitched, barely noticeably so. Sebastian let out a humourless laugh, exhaled, and his voice was as calm as it had been when he entered the room.
"Haven't been a Colonel in quite some time. Bit rubbish at this investigating thing, yeah?" His back hunched as he leaned forward to place the cigarette between index and middle finger, flicking ashes onto the floor. It was as much as the agent would get from him.
"Rehabilitation," he exhaled with another puff of smoke towards the vents. "Becoming a productive member of," he glanced around, gesturing at their surroundings, "Shitville society." That's what he had told the guards, and it was what he would tell Victor Dupré for as long as the man was told to visit him.
"Pottery classes and SkyTV. Don't get much better than that. Nah, I like it here."
In the end, it wasn't the idea of ratting out old employee - who was very much dead, even though Sebastian was convinced his bones could hold a grudge - that kept him from speaking. If there was something the ex-sniper could gain from telling the investigator about him, he would, but anything of worth died along with Moriarty, thus allowing Sebastian to have all the money in the world and still be bored. He was just numb, these days.
"You come here to get information or to ask me for the meaning of life? I've got nothing to say." With that Sebastian turned to stub the cigarette out on the table, taking a seat in the adjoined chair where he rested his arms on the table, blankly waiting to get it over with.
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Post by victor on Mar 18, 2013 15:47:22 GMT 1
Victor was aware that they had drifted from mutual dislike (hatred on Moran’s side) to some sort of cease fire and these meetings were just to keep up appearances. The agent knew there were cameras but nobody did listen in on their conversations so after he had figured out the sniper wouldn’t tell him a thing he had allowed the mask of the callous interrogator to slip and reveal his true self underneath, the cynical man that couldn’t give as much of a fuck as Moran so in a way there was a mutual sort of…what was it even? Clearly they did not like each other and had no reason to. But under different circumstances, Victor mused at times, he could have ended up as one of the Colonel’s –well ex-Colonel’s- colleagues under the employment of Jim Moriarty. Or Moran could have ended up on his side, maybe even being sent on a mission with him.
Fact was they both did not expect much from life anymore because it simply did not to offer anything of interest. Scrunching his face a bit Victor then rubbed at the bridge of his nose, a bit thoughtful for a moment. The part about him calling Moran Colonel was merely out of the need to egg the man on, although the sniper did not seem to fall for it. “Pottery classes? With these hands? I have seen bear paws that were daintier, Colonel.” he muttered than as he sat down as well, leaning back, arm half draped over the backrest of the chair, cigarette dangling precariously from the corner of his mouth. “And rehabilitation is just a word. It doesn’t mean you have to end up in a boring mind numbing office job or pick up trash cans. I’m certain a man of your abilities could find a better place to be a good citizen.”
He took another drag of his cigarette, watching the smoke curl up in the air. “I suppose you could even join the Mi6 and end up shooting people in the head for our great and fabulous majesty.” He knew that possibility was quite ludicrous and he was certain Mycroft would never even suggest such a thing. If he had ever thought about it. But this was about clearing his brother’s name. Surely setting free the second most dangerous man in London and keeping him under his watch and thumb would be a small sacrifice in exchange for all the information the Colonel had? Dupré was aware that his ideas were running off with him. Maybe it was the fact that he had no choice himself anymore that he wanted the Colonel to have one at least. In the end it was just idle talk though and both men knew that.
“I fear I don’t have many visits left, Colonel. Sooner or later Mycroft Holmes will simply give up on you and you’ll end up as a number on a file in the archives. It would be a pity.” And seeing his expression Victor was actually genuine with his words. As genuine as a man could be that had left the sniper bloodied and beaten and barely conscious two years ago.
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Post by col. sebastian moran on Mar 20, 2013 18:11:39 GMT 1
The cease fire, when Moran exhibited his expert skill in translating anger into sarcasm and cynicism and Victor happily did the same, other than getting his arse handed to him in the name of law, had been the least unfortunate aspect of their meetings. But after a while Sebastian didn't even have that to offer, and when he did, it went hand in hand with all the weariness of a man who had given up - not just on Moriarty, but all the other things that might have carried appeal once, too. He was tired.
"Must've been your own, Vicky," he shot back for the sake of having something to say. He leaned on the table, arms folded as much as the cuffs allowed them to be, and his expression blank. He was close to caring offensively little about a long gone urge to see Dupré agitated. "You're wasting your time."
One of his hands turned as Sebastian inspected it. He should find himself wishing it carried a rifle. The lack of one was like missing a child, and it'd be a lie to say he would've preferred to have one of his weapons.
"Gonna miss me, yeah? I'll write you letters, babe, like a proper boyfriend. Go on, mate, just fuck off."
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Post by victor on Mar 20, 2013 18:57:06 GMT 1
Victor realised there was little sense in keeping up this conversation or the meetings. But he had already realised this a few months ago. Of course it was by Mycroft's orders that he kept bothering the sniper and in a sense he had been looking forward to these meetings. There was something soothing about the presence of a man who didn't give a fuck about anything and was as honest as one could be without letting slip any information wanted from him. But with the anger and hatred gone Moran had slipped into a state of merely existing and it was a great pity to watch the man start to wither away. Killing him would be a greater mercy than keeping him alive., Victor thought as he watched him calmly.
"Yes I am aware of that," the agent finally said with a soft sigh. "Guess this is it for this time. Maybe I'll bring you flowers next time. Or a cake with a metal saw inside. Or a gun." For a moment he tapped two fingers to his chest where his own holster was sitting, right now empty of course. Not even he was allowed to bring in a gun and he was aware that there was always the chance that Moran would have tried to grab it at some point. Either to shoot Dupré or possibly himself even though the sniper didn't seem suicidal. He was just...a shell of a man. Nothing more.
"Keep the cigarettes." he said as he finally got up, idly cracking his knuckles again. "I suppose if you change your mind...you have my number." He smirked slightly as he held his hand to the side of his head as if he was holding a receiver. "Until next time, Colonel. I hope you'll make something nice for me during your pottery course."
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Post by col. sebastian moran on Mar 20, 2013 20:09:03 GMT 1
Truth was, Sebastian hadn't needed Moriarty before he met him. He was perfectly capable of surviving on his own and entertaining himself. But no one was more adept to both put a lead on the criminal as well as provoke his talents than Moran's dead boss. An optimist might've suggested he would've willingly followed him along even without pay. No such thing, but he'd been as close as a money hungry wolf could be. The world merely lacked appeal when one wasn't looking through bloodstain-tinted glasses. Moran could've had a gun in his hand, but the thrill was gone.
Sebastian's mouth opened, beginning to shape another half-assed sarcastic reply before it closed slowly, disinterested gaze drifting to where Victor's gun would've rested. The holsters Jim had allowed him to pick were not only nearly invisible, but hard to notice even by Sebastian. Just the slightest amount of weight. That, and direct order, later just a flick of Jim's wrist, and a look towards the end. A reward in the shape of a thud of a dead body and a random addition of numbers on his paycheck. Well done, Tiger, if it had been a particularly good shot. Cleaning crew on speed dial, a shinier watch on his wrist, Moriarty's inner knees over his shoulders, ankles hooked against his back. Someone ought to put a rifle back in those hands, don't you agree? A rifle, a paycheck, the lives of millions and an offering to toy with the strings attached to a nation. Moriarty's web, his schemes, his messy hair at six in the morning and his eyes and his mouth shutting the fuck up except for a, 'Morning, Basher,' or a none too politely request for him to exit the room and let him sleep. Moran's eyes met Dupré's, and he chuckled. Maybe he'd bring a gun next time. Sebastian got up, and just as easily and aimed a punch hard enough to knock an inexperienced fighter out cold at his temple, body weight thrown in, his other hand already reaching for the man's throat.
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Post by victor on Mar 20, 2013 20:38:22 GMT 1
So there was still some life left in the sniper. Victor knew that in the same moment he came to that rather painful realisation, he would have preferred not to feel the whole weight of this fact. Something he had said must have triggered this reaction. The agent had noticed the lack of a cocky reply and already that should have been a warning sign. But it still did not prepare him for what came afterwards when he felt the blow against the side of his head, the split second it took for Moran to decide on his actions not enough to Victor to avoid it or shield himself. The only thing that saved him from being knocked down was most likely his thick skull and the fact he had been moving forward when Moran sprung his attack.
Stumbling aside he felt his vision grow blurry, hands and arms quickly lifted as he knew there were more attacks to come. He more sensed than felt the man's hand lash out for his throat, blocking it halfway as he took a few more steps backwards until he felt himself bump into the wall. Shaking his head he tried to get rid of the dizzy sensation and regain his focus before Moran could punch his throat in. There was no mistake that the sniper was most likely going for the kill. After all he was not the kind of man who'd left things unfinished and reaching for somebody's throat was usually a sign that this was not a mere fistfight.
By the time Moran would go for another attack the guards had already been alarmed, rushing towards the room to grab the sniper and pull him away from the agent before they would be left with a dead body. But until then Moran still would have yet another chance to try and finish what he had started.
"I told you, your hands are not dainty enough for pottery." Victor felt his leg act up, gritting his teeth, cursing silently at his body. "So you still have some life left inside you. Any chance you'll tell me what got you all riled up before you try to kill me?"
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Post by col. sebastian moran on Mar 20, 2013 21:07:47 GMT 1
There was little to bottle Sebastian's rage, and Victor's attempt to defend himself only seemed to worsen it. He had to feel it. Sebastian registered the numbing pain in his knuckles, forcing his hand to stay balled into a fist, arm shaking. The humourless smile was wiped off his face, expression non-existant, eerily empty as he all but assisted Victor in resting against the wall more forcibly than the other would've appreciated, his arm finding his way up to the agent's throat and knocking his head back into the concrete.
Sebastian didn't speak when he fought, never did. Mostly because Sebastian didn't fight, he was the warning. He was the quiet one looming in the back whilst Jim chattered and cheerfully threatened. He was utterly silent as the guards hastily stepped in, one with 'told you he would', but the other too preoccupied wrenching Moran's arm from Dupré’s throat without getting elbowed in his own in the process. The necessity to remove the threat was gone, though, the ex-sniper no longer posed one, all but inwardly mocking himself for even bothering.
A soft laugh scraped hollowly through Sebastian's throat and shook against the needle buried in his neck. He didn't protest the weight of his limbs, huffing, "Go to hell." A third guard checked up on Dupré whilst the other two worked on dragging Moran out of the room.
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Post by victor on Mar 20, 2013 21:34:55 GMT 1
Victor's eyes widened briefly when Moran's arm pressed against his throat, the back of his head smacking into the concrete and he could feel the dizziness spread again together with a sticky wet sensation as blood started to run down his neck from the laceration he just had received from the blow. Scolding himself in his head for having been so utterly unprepared to this attack he was caught by strong arms before he could fall to the ground as the pressure against his throat was suddenly gone.
Coughing he tried to gather his senses, rubbing his throat slowly as he watched the other guards as they wrestled Moran to the ground and sedated him. "Fucking bastard." the agent spit the words at him, more angry at himself than the other man though. It was necessary to be more careful. This should have never happened and he had nobody to blame but himself. At least it had given him an interesting gaze into the sniper's psyche.
With a sigh he let himself be guided to the table where he sat down heavily on a chair, while the guard who had helped him called for medical attention. Staring at the package of cigarettes he reached over to grab it, crunching it between his fingers. He was usually not one for revenge...but maybe it was time to reconsider starting another interrogation session.
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Post by col. sebastian moran on Mar 23, 2013 21:38:55 GMT 1
The burst of aggression faded with all the abruptness of its appearance, waves of anger rolling into empty laughter. Sebastian's head dropped forward as the sedatives lifted any disliking towards Victor and his unintentionally infuriating words from his mind, settling lethargy their place. He defaulted to uttering, "pesky little fucker," and snorted as he was dragged out of the interrogation room, making half an effort to walk on his own until the world tipped upside down and his balance went with it.
He wasn't there to witness the medic patch up the back of Victor's head, all whilst apologising profusely. Sebastian knew hours had passed when he awoke seconds later with the sedatives still in his system but no longer keeping him unconscious. He reached blindly for the walls, then stumbled until his feet hit a thin mattress and his knees followed shortly. Sleeping it off was the usual routine, but the longer he stayed awake, the longer he would sleep, the shorter it would be until he was taken back to his regular cell. Sebastian rubbed his face. The mattress was dingy against his cheek and smelled equally bad, and it helped him keep from drifting off.
It wasn't long until he rolled around and vomited off the edge of the mattress, as far away from it the arm supporting his weight would allow, nose burning with it, eyes stinging. A curse was snarled before he retched again, back hunched. It had been a bad move to attack Dupré. Drugs never did treat him kindly, and he, ridding his stomach of its contents, had a feeling nor would retribution.
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Post by victor on Mar 23, 2013 22:35:31 GMT 1
Victor brushed the hands away that were trying to help him and check on his pulse once the laceration on the back of his skull was patched up. He felt sharp pain with every movement of his head as well as mildly nauseous but he ignored it in favor of getting out of Pentonville. This was the first time he left in a worse mood than before. The attack should not have happened and he was fully aware that it was his own fault Moran had almost managed to throttle him. Seething he limped out of the main entrance, now with his gun back in his holster and for a brief moment he wished he could have used it on the sniper. Not to kill him but to get him to back off. With his luck today though Moran might have wrestled it from his grip and shot him.
Sighing he held his head, guessing the best thing would do to try and forget about his blunder and maybe not rile the other man up next time as well as try to sleep the terrible headache off that was close to paralyzing him. "Ugh.. Damn bloody wanker.." he murmured, not talking about Sebastian though but Mycroft who kept sending him here for useless, time consuming chats and he hoped this would end soon. Of course even if these visits would be a thing of the past then it would not change anything about the monotony of his life.
In the end nothing really mattered. And for a moment, as short as it was, Victor realised that he almost hoped the sniper could have finished what he had started. Pushing such dreadful ideas aside he hastily stepped towards his car, reaching for the keys. No, he wouldn't allow this incident and the fact he hated his current life and job drag him down this far. He'd find a way out of this hole. Smiling confidently he slipped behind the steering wheel and turned the key before pulling the car out into the main road, leaving the prison behind.
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