sevrin-oconnell

[sevrin-oconnell]

where : the  cistern  market who : closed for Claud @sillcge​

There  was  no  telling  what  it  was  that  the  antiques  dealer  had  done  to  earn  the  rushed  contract  on  his  life,  and  it  honestly  didn't  matter  to  Sevrin  in  the  slightest.  It  was  none  of  his  business,  and  the  credits  would  spend  the  same  no  matter  the  story  behind  them.  What  did  matter  to  Sevrin,  however,  was  the  other  information  the  client  left  out :  specifically  that  the  old  man  was  expecting  the  hit,  and  that  he  could  afford  to  do  something  about  it.

Sevrin  finds  himself  lingering  inside  the  shop,  feigning  interest  in  the  wares  on  display  there  while  he  scopes  out  the  extent  of  the  goddamn  mess  of  things.  What  was  supposed  to  be  a  quick  lights-out  for  the  grizzled  relic  of  a  human  behind  the  counter,  has  instead  has  turned  into  a  real  pain  in  the  ass  with  two  bulldog-looking  giants  standing  at  either  side  of  the  shop's  entrance,  their  fingers  resting  on  the  triggers  of  dust-worn  rifles.  

To  make  matters  worse,  just  as  a  feasible  strategy  comes  together  in  his  head,  his  hand  shifting  towards  the  piece  hidden  underneath  his  jacket  at  his  hip  to  get  the  job  over  with,  another  patron  decides  to  casually  mosey  their  way  inside.  (  Because  why  the  fuck  not,  right?  )  While  collateral  damage  happened  in  his  line  of  work,  if  the  potential  irritation  of  witnesses  could  be  reduced,  it  was  worth  a  few  minutes  of  patience  for  them  to  go  about  their  business  and  leave. 

His  hand  returns  to  inspecting  the  barrel  of  an  old  six-shooter  to  buy  the  time,  just  as  the  wandering  patron  finds  himself  at  Sevrin's  side,  seemingly  minding  his  own  business.  Sevrin  sighs,  far  more  annoyed  over  the  entire  situation  than  he  should  be.  He  looks  upwards  toward  them,  a  'fuck  off'  locked  and  loaded  at  the  tip  of his  tongue  before  sudden  recollection  blindsides  him  the  moment  he  gets  a  good  look  at  his  face. 

 "No  fucking  way...  Claud?"

[sevrin-oconnell]

hommcfatalc​:

a job, a job– it was always a job.

he’d just finished sending the audio recording to the wife– she wanted to know what her husband had been getting up to when he said he was working late at the office. a simple job, really but they couldn’t all be wild adventures, could they? and petty housewives tended to be loose with their currency. especially when their husbands had track records of infidelity. ( geez, lady, maybe it’s time to take a hint. )

leaving the cheating husband to what was beginning to sound like multiple partners, ripley had his sights set on the door. that was until a pretty young thing came walking out of a small alcove, her plump bottom lip pushed out in a pout and the sound of her heels muffled in the sounds around. he watched he walk for a moment, contemplating more on what had led to that sort of a face ( skipped out on the tip, did he, sweetheart? ) when someone spoke.

a familiar voice reached his ear from the small alcove the dejected woman had just staggered out of. the corner of his mouth curled in a smirk, slipping into where sevrin sat. the red glow of the lantern cast harsh shadows across the other man’s face but it was him alright and that smirk curved all the more, blue eyes glinting with something like interest ( though maybe more like mischief– like he had a joke sitting on the tip of his tongue ). 

“you? unfriendly?” the incredulity in his voice was teasing, edging on mocking but in a lighter manner, “who could accuse you of being unfriendly, o’connell?” for a moment, the smirk turned into a smile, flashing white teeth at the other before continuing bemused, “maybe you should’ve smiled more–  were you not enjoying yourself?” 

taking a closer look at the man in his seat, that smirk curled the corner of his mouth again, “huh. no, i don’t think you were.” that was a face of a man who was definitely not enjoying himself. ripley moved slowly but purposefully closer towards the other, advancing with an almost teasing challenge ( what are you going to do about it? ) before standing so close that one more step would’ve ended up with ripley in his lap. he stood there for a moment before asking in a voice smooth as whiskey tumbling over ice, “this seat taken?” 

his hand gestured to the empty seat beside sevrin, that perpetual nearly-smug smirk on his face ( he knew the joke but he wasn’t sharing– not yet ), “i’ve never minded your company. and i’m friendly enough for the both of us.”

Sevrin's  eyes  track  the  approaching  silhouette  as  it  moves  with  a  near-liquid  grace  (  that  the  knock-kneed  woman  could  only  hope  to  one  day  possess  )  past  the  flimsy,  ornate  screens  that  pose  as  some  modicum  of  implied  privacy,  to  the  couch  where  he  sat.  The  lantern  light  flickers,  casting  a  warm  glow  to  the  contours  of  his  face;  gleaming  across  the  sharp  angles  of  his  glasses,  to  the  curve  of  his  jaw  as  it  draws  shadows  downward to  the  line  of  his  throat  (  exposed,  just  enough,  by  a  single  undone  button.  )  It  was  the  smirk,  though,  that  gives  him  away.  Sevrin  would  know  the  shape  of  it  anywhere;  that  incessant,  mischievous  curve,  soundlessly  humming,  'I  know  something  you  don't  know.'

"Hello,  Ripley,"  he  greets,  his  own  voice  tempered  with  an  amusement  that  teetered  at  the  boundary  of  what  he'd  ever  consider  affection.

He  doesn't  bother  to  interrupt  Ripley's  questions  with  answers,  enjoying  the  turn  of  his  words  as  he  plays  with  his  tone,  knowingly  drawing  his  own  conclusions  to  them  anyway.  Of  course,  Sevrin  was  not  unfriendly;  not  when  there  was  something  he wanted.  And,  of  course  he  hadn't  been  enjoying  himself  —  because  she  didn't  possess  what  he  did.  She  never  could.

It  was  something  undefinable.  Something  they  shared.  It  was  that  thing  that  causes  skin  to  prickle  into  goosebumps,  the  fine  hairs  at  the  nape  of  your  neck  to  stand  on  end.  That  visceral  coil  in  your  stomach  that  made  a  person  squirm  in  the  presence  of  something  dangerous.  The  prompt  to  fight,  or  flee.  

Sevrin  chose  neither.  Instead,  he  relaxed  back  into  the  couch,  his  shoulders  melting  into  the  cushion  behind  him  as  Ripley  closes  the  distance,  stopping  just  short  of  the  contact  Sevrin  was  anticipating.  He  shifts,  the  slightest  of  motions,  to  dismiss  the  tension  the  denial  causes.  Always  teasing.  

"It's  yours,"  he  says  passively  about  the  seat  next  to  him,  though  it  was  unnecessary;  Ripley  would  already  know  it  was.  "Friendly,  I'll believe,  but  charitable?"  There's  a  brief  shrug,  Sev's  face  tilting  to  one  side  curiously,  his  tongue  clicking  as  he  says,  "nahhh,  I  don't  buy  that.  Your  time  isn't  cheap.  So  what's  the  line?  Nothing  better  to  do  tonight,  perhaps?  Or  maybe  you’ll  convince  me  that  you've  missed  me?  It  has  been  awhile."

[sevrin-oconnell]

tiitaniium​:

Status :|: Open ! Locale :|: Salus .

“ Oh lost are you ? I see. Unfortunately, you are going to have to leave the premise anyway. Wouldn’t want you stumbling into anything dangerous. Or anyone… ” Having been hired to guard this area, he wasn’t new to having to escort people out of places they shouldn’t be but no one had bold faced lied about being lost before. It’s not like it was easy to access. “ If you’ll please follow me ? ” he poised the sentence as a question though the other had no choice in the matter. 

Sevrin  grins,  a  crooked  little  thing  as  the  voice  behind  him  confirms  the  security's  identity.  He  wouldn't  have  bothered  approaching  this  closely  had  he  not  not  wanted  to  know  for  sure.  His  target  would  have  to  leave  the premises  eventually,  it  would  have  been  easy  enough  to  stay  on  top  of  the  building  across  the  way,  looking  through  the  scope  of  his  sniper  rifle  to  satisfy  the  contract  with  a  bit  of  patience  and  a  single  squeeze  of  the  trigger  —  nice,  and  neat.  But  it  was  through  that  same  scope  that  he  caught  sight  of  him,  or  at  least  the  blurry  flicker  that  was  just  enough  for  the  professional  to  wonder,  'could  it  be?'

Sev  raises  his  arms  in  mock  surrender,  before  turning  to  find  there  the  face  he  hadn't  seen  in close  to  a  decade.  "Still  as  serious  as  ever,  I  see,"  he  observes  aloud,  his  tone  warm  with  amusement,  "is  this  really  how  you're  going  to  greet  an  old  friend?"

[sevrin-oconnell]

buryeden​:

The vastness of Soteria was something Huxley constantly took advantage of, never crossing the same path twice whether a scheme kept her warm and fed, or simply burned. She had avoided the higher levels of the city as those areas were a little bit harder to reach, and the fall would a bit harder, too. The shallows of Soteria were easier to manage. She had also learned that the parts of Soteria illuminated by neon weren’t as segregated as the rest of the city and the outskirts of it. It just took a closer eye, and in an establishment like this, a little wink. 

It was a passing gig, one for just the last couple of nights until she could get the piece she needed to finally get her vehicle— not to be mistaken for the mundane name car after all the work she put into it— working again without a sputter that announced her arrival everywhere. Huxley may have not stuck around, but she did have a reputation that would eventually catch up to her for being a nuance and mixed opinions on the work she did provide. Just one more night until she had less than an hour’s worth of credits to process, and she’d be back on her way out of the city for now. There was no such thing as a particular welcome from the iridescent gleam of the inner city, but she had certainly grown tired of it by now. 

She had been listening carefully to those who came in and out, plucking words that would be of use to her. She was hoping to find something to keep her entertained for the night until a familiar voice caught her attention from over her shoulder. 

Nevermind.

She leaned back off the chair for the end of the dance, the swig of her arm from a pop of her lips into her hand falling short as she looked for the owner of the complaint. Upside down, he didn’t look how she expected. “You might be out of luck, then. Assholes are just her type. She’ll probably be coming back soon, maybe doing a little costume change. She doesn’t give up easily because no one comes in here with good intentions. Though, almost everyone’s lookin’ for a dance. What’s the difference with you? No one dreads coming in here unless they’re a bachelor or working a double shift.”

Sevrin's  face  tilts  as  the  doll-faced  blonde  leans  backwards  off  the  chair,  her  striking  (  and  distantly  familiar  )  eyes  locking  with  his  own.  He  leans  forward  in  his  seat,  elbows  pressing  into  his  knees,  holding  her  gaze  with  distinct  curiosity.  He  could  care  less  about  the  one  who'd  already  come  and  gone,  shoulder's  lifting  for  a  brief  moment  passively  at  the  mention  of  her.  "I'll be  sure  to  be  more  clear  next  time,  if  she  does.  No  means  no,  right?"  he  says,  the  tone  of  his  promise  coming  off  as  more  sinister  than  he  intends.

He  could  swear  he's  seen  her  before.  Somewhere,  elsewhere.  From  a  time  ago,  maybe;  though  he  couldn't  coax  any  more  useful  details  from  his  memory.  It  definitely  wasn't  from  here,  for  as  frequently  as  he  visited  he  would  have  certainly  noticed  her  before.  Or,  maybe  he  wouldn't  have.  There  were  very  few  people  who  Sevrin  found  worth  remembering,  which  was  why  this  sudden  misplaced  recollection  found  it's  way  under  his  skin.

A  quiet  laugh  from  the  sideways  tilt  of  a  grin  follows  her  question :  what's  the  difference  with  you?  "There's  no  difference  at  all.  I'm  just  another  asshole  with  credits  to  spend  and  time  to  kill.  Is  that  your  type  too?"  His  head  shakes,  answering  the  inquiry  himself,  "Nahh...  I  don't  think  it  is.  I  don't  think  any  of  this,"  his  eyes  lift,  scanning  across  the  debauchery  of  the  venue, "is  your  thing  at  all.”

“My  motivations  are  easy :  I'm  bored,  I've  got  commitment  issues,  and  I  want  to  be  entertained  —  nothing  special.  Yours,  though?  Those  are  vastly  more  interesting.  Is  it  the  credits  you’re  after?  One  more  dance,  one  more  night  and  you're  outta  here,  kinda  deal?  You  don't  seem  like  you're  the  sort  to  stick  around  long."

[sevrin-oconnell]

coralinesharp​:

“Since when did people need a reason to blow things up? Why can’t things be blown up just for the love of it?” And Coraline did love it. When she saw a prime target there was little that could be done to stop her, especially not something as trivial as other people’s inconvenience. If anything it added a little extra fun.

She stayed behind her wall, which was half rubble, sensing something a little more than annoyance coming from the man. “I can’t stop it now. The timer’s set - and I’m not all that accurate. Could go at any second. And I could have let you walk right into it, but because I’m a nice person, I didn’t. You could say thank you.” A dead body usually put a damper on the celebration of the explosion, which is why she checked buildings before she planted anything. Not always as thoroughly as necessary, but enough to soothe her own conscience.

“What’s the shit you have to do here later anyway? There’s nothing around except—”

At that moment a deafening boom sounded from somewhere up ahead, followed by a billowing cloud of orange smoke and ash that spewed pieces of rubble up and outwards. A particularly large piece landed not three feet away from them, and Coraline’s face split into a wide grin. 

“Ruins.”

"Oh,  fuck,  well,  I  don't  know,  maybe  it's  RUDE  to  just  blow  shit  up  assuming  someone  else  doesn't  have  use  for  it?  Ever  think  of  that?"  He'd  spent  the  better  part  of  the  last  two  days  planning  this  hit,  and  some  frivolous  bomb-bug  was  about  to  send  it  all  crumpled  to  hell  in  the  span  of  minutes.  Annoyance  barely  scratches  the  surface  of  the  foul  mood  this  was  putting  him  in. 

His  brows  rise  incredulously  as  she  continues  to  speak.  Sevrin  wasn't  even  honestly  sure  what  to  address  first.  Which  was  more  nonsensical?  The  fact  that  her  fucking  timer  wasn't even  AcCuraTe? Or  that  she  had  some  bizarre  notion  that  she  deserved  gratitude  for  stopping  him?  (  At  least  if  he'd  been  blown  up,  he  wouldn't  have  to  deal  with  the  fucking  mess  this  was  about  to  cause  him.  )

Before  he  could  choose,  the  goddamn  thing  went  off.  (  Two  fucking  minutes  his  ass. )  He  stands  watching  the  destruction  with  a  deep  set  frown  on  his  face  as  the  smoke  pulls  dust  and  debris  upwards  into  billowing  orange  smoke.  The  ground  shudders  beneath  his  feet,  and  mere  moments  later  chunks  of  gravel  and  ruin  trickle  down  from  the  sky.  He  stands,  firmly  in  place,  too  pissed  to  even  move,  not  even  when  a  particularly  ballsy  piece  scrapes  down  the  side  of  his  cheek.  

As  the  air  begins to  settle,  Sev  takes  in  a  very  slow,  very  deliberate  inhale.  They  say  if  you  count  to  ten,  whatever  is  bothering  you  will  get  better;  that  it's  a  calming  technique  for  when  shit's  going  wrong.  In  all  of  his  many  years  in  the  prime  of  his  career,  however,  Sevrin  has  never  made  it  to  ten.

"You've got to be FUCKING KIDDING ME."  He  turns  now  to  where  the  woman  had  taken  cover,  and  long,  purposeful  strides  move  him  towards  her,  quickly  closing  the  distance  between  them,  his  hand  already  reaching  for  the  gun  holstered  at  his  hip.  "Now's  a  GOOD  TIME  for  a  solid  reason  why  I  shouldn't  just  put  a  bullet  between  your  eyes."

[sevrin-oconnell]

vandaals​:

      this is not been the first time that reinier van daal had pissed someone off to the point of perpetual violence. it was something of a talent of his, sticking his fingers into the little grooves of a person and pressing all of the right ( or wrong ) buttons until they snapped and did something regrettable. anyone could pull the records of his time in school —hoity-toity or not, and discover that it had been his specialty in his youth. a shit-eating grin often marred his visage the moments before they curled their fist and impact was made. he’d always enjoyed the tangy copper taste on his tongue … but it was the sting of an answer he enjoyed more and the way it left his knuckles feeling sore and swollen thereafter. what was the world going to do but slap the wrist of the little prince and tell him not to do it again?

      bad habits translated into adulthood —but of course they would to a boy who’d never really been admonished or chastised of anything in his life. he could get away with murder, if it wasn’t too expensive to pay off. but that was far too messy, blood was such a horrible thing to clean up and hide. paint, though? nobody suspected a thing from someone who wandered into an art store and purchased hobby in stock. murder wasn’t quite redd’s speed but painting was, art in general was, and so was quickly learning how to fleece the market of people too stupid to tell a fake from the real deal.

      it was fun for him. he didn’t need the cash and more than half the time he certainly didn’t want the ugly art they were having restored, anyway. but it was bound to catch up to him eventually … someone was bound to notice eventually, and they had before. but there hadn’t been a single thing they could do about it. this time, though? this time they’d actually paid for a hit on him. —redd had laughed, until his well-tailored shadow kept showing up. and kept showing up. and kept showing up.

      there was nothing in the world that redd van daal couldn’t buy. his life included.

      hands were pressed into the pockets of pants that were more expensive than they really were fashionable —the kind of clothing that only someone with that much money and that little to need to spend it on would or could buy. his head cocked to the side as he considered the piece - nearly shoulder-to-shoulder with sevrin, save for the wisp of space that separated them. it wasn’t the nicest looking thing in the world … he’d know, he’d painstakingly restored it. and it was nice to be able to inflate the value, even if he’d rather stare at the inside of his own eyelids than hang it on his living room wall.

      “ you probably can, now. ” amusement tinged his tone, a smirk that turned the corner of his lips up only slightly, but just enough. from the side of cold, earthen eyes he caught the profile of his former-assassin-turned-whatever he was now ( shadow, still ). “ but i wouldn’t recommend it. just visiting? or bored, mr. o’connell? ”

.

Artists  and  murderers  had  more  in  common  than  they  probably  should.  It  was  all  in  the  signature,  you  see;  the  technique  that  made  their  work  uniquely  theirs.  The  way  the  brush  pulls  across  canvas  to  create  the  illusion  of  an  entire  universe  in  pigment  and  oils.  The  tell-tale halo  of  blood  that  spills  an  entire  life  onto  asphalt  from  a  precisely  placed  bullet.  They  were  basically  one  and  the  same.  (  Especially  if  you  squint.  ) There  was  the  pride  to  mention  as  well,  in  the  power  both  wielded.  On  one  hand,  of  creating  something  out  of  nothing;  something  so  beautiful  it  inspired  the  imaginations  of  others  to  open  their  wallets  and  sign  away  hours  of  their  lives  for  it  to  breathe  that  same  life  into  their  own  home.  On  the  other,  taking  it  all  away;  that  same  inspiration  and  breath  of  life,  the  promise  of  more  to  come,  snuffed  like  a  flame  between  calloused  fingers.   They  were  two  sides  of  the  same  coin.

Maybe  that's  why  the  got  along.  If  '  getting  along  '  was  even  what  this  was. Either  way,  Sevrin  could  hear  it  in  his  voice,  that  trace  of  amusement  in  his  words  that  found  it's  way  into  each  of  these  visits.  And  without  turning  to  look,  Sevrin  knew  that  accompanying  the  tone,  Redd  wore  that  trademark  smirk  of  his.  The  one  that  curled  just  to  one  side,  that  seemed  to  wordlessly  whisper  to  all  those  around  him, '  you  can't  touch  me  '.   Honestly,  it  made  him  look  like  a  stuck  up  rich  asshole. But,  that's  what  he  was,  so  no  foul.  

"Curious,"  was  the  best  answer  Sevrin  had  to  Redd's  question,  before  finally turning  his  face  to  look  at  him.  "But  it’s  passed.  I'm  definitely  bored  now.  This,"  he  gestures  vaguely,  indicating  the  entirety  of the  venue,  "isn't  as  interesting  as  I  thought  it'd  be.  Nearly  dying  must  have  been  a  real  thrill for you  if  this  is  how  you  usually  spend  your  time." There  was  a brief  pause,  before  he  was  compelled  to  add, "your  pants  are  ridiculous,  by  the  way."  

[sevrin-oconnell]

where : some  shithole  in  salus ( aka  hal's  place ) who : closed for Hal @scnguinesalus​​

There  was  something  to  be  said  for  the  kind-hearted.  For  the  generous  souls  and  their  helping  hands,  persistent  in  their  goodness  despite  the  circumstances  that  surround  them.  Reaching  out  in  welcome  to  those  in  need,  extending  themselves  for  the  care  of  others,  expecting  nothing  in  return.

Sevrin  couldn't  relate. (  It  honestly  sound  like  way  more  trouble  than  it  was  worth.  )

But  he  was  certainly  grateful  that  Hal  was  someone  that  could.  It  wasn't  often  that  he  found  himself  in  a  bind,  but  that  day  his  job  had  gotten  fucked  up  beyond  all  recognition,  and  Sevrin  found  himself  scrambling  for  cover  against  the  greenhouse.  His  palm  was  pressing  firm  against  his  stomach  to  try  and  slow  the  dribbling  of  his  own  blood  from  between  his  fingers,  and  that  was  precisely  how  Hal  had  found  him.   Sevrin  could  remember  his  face  looking  down  at  him,  just  as  his  own  vision  began  to blur  before  going  black.

Favors  were  a  currency  that  Sevrin  preferred  to  avoid,  but  for  what  Hal  had  done,  patching  him  up  and  giving  him  a  place  of  relative  safety  to  recover,  he  was  willing  to  make  an  exception.

And  so  it  has  become  a  routine of  sorts  for  Sevrin  to  check  in  on  the  man  when  ever  he  found  himself  in  the  area,  awaiting  the  day  he  could  clear  his  debt.  

BANG BANG BANG.  A  closed  fist  strikes  the  front  door,  entirely  oblivious  to  the  possibility  that  Hal  may  actually be  sleeping  at  such  a  late  hour.  Impatiently,  only  a  few  quiet  moments  pass,  before  his  assault  continues :  BANG BANG BANG. “Hal?  HAL!  Don’t  fuck  around,  let  me  in  already.  You’re  not  dead  or  something  in  there,  are  you?”

[sevrin-oconnell]

where : no  doubt  a  very  reputable  establishment  in  Soteria who : open !

Sweat  and  desperation  always  smell  the  same.  From  within  the  neon  cradle  of  Naya  Minor's  red  light  district,  Soteria's  own  desecrated  alter  to  humankind's  most  base  desires,  to  the  patchwork  tent  just  outside  of  Cistern  Market,  whose  single  glowing  red  lantern  acts  as  the  only  indication  of  the  flesh  for  sale  within  —  were  you  to  just  close  your  eyes  a  moment,  there  was  no  telling  them  apart.  

(  Just ask  Sev,  he's  been  to  both  and  can  attest  to  the  truth  of  it.  )

Nonetheless,  the  atmosphere  was  welcoming  after  a  long  day  at  the  "office",  but  not  nearly  as  welcoming  as  the  woman  who  stands  in  front  of him,  illuminated  dimly  by  warm,  flickering  candlelight.  Her  long  caramel  legs  are  firmly  planted  on  the  ground  on  either  side  of  his  lap,  Sevrin's  critical  blue  eyes  watching  her  while  her  hips  roll  in  slow,  sensual  circles  to  try  and  entice  his  patronage  for  the  evening.  

Unfortunately  for  her,  however,  Sevrin  only  finds  himself  growing  more  unamused  with  each  passing  second.

"That's  enough,"  he  finally  drones  in  rejection,  reaching  a  calloused  hand  to  her  hip  to  guide  her  off  of  him  with  a gentle  push.  She  stares  at  him  dumbly,  stumbling  backwards  on  heels  that  make  her  wobble  like  a  newborn  gazelle.  She  knew  better  than  to  argue  though,  and  walks  off  after  a  moment  with a  dejected  pout  and  an  insulted  little  huff.

Ah,  well.  Whatever.  

Sevrin  sighs,  but  just  as  he  begins  to  contemplate  leaving,  his  eyes  happen  upon  the  figure  of  someone  approaching.  Whether  it  was  with  intention,  or  they  were  simply  passing  by,  he  couldn’t  tell.  

Either  way,  it  was  better  than  having  that  awkward  young  thing  grinding  on  him  still. "Shit  night,"  he muses  in  their  direction.  "You're  better  of  hunting  her  down  for  some  company  if  you're  lonely,  though.  Apparently  I'm  not  friendly."

[sevrin-oconnell]

where  :  a  pinky-up  art  gallery  in  soteria who  :  closed  for  Redd  @vandaals​

A  deal  was  a  deal.  

Until  there  was  a  better  deal,  of  course.

For  putting  a  bullet  between  the  blue  eyes  of  the  silver-spoon  trust-fund  art  dealer,  the  deal  was  sweet  indeed.  Sevrin  never  cared  to  know  the  reasoning  behind  his  jobs  —  it  didn't  matter,  and  it  changed  nothing.  Human  nature  was  petty.  It  was  violent.  You  jump  on  the  wrong   nerve,  cross  the  wrong  line,  and  there  was  no  offence  small  enough  that  someone  couldn't  find  a  way  to  justify  calling  in  a  professional  like  Sevrin  O'Connell  to  right  the  perceived  wrong.  And  that  was  precisely  how  he  liked  it.  It  kept  his  wallet  fat,  and  his  appetite  for  watching  that  bright  flicker  of  life  fade  from  someone's  eyes  well  sated. 

It  was   win-win.  Everyone ( still living,  at  least )  was  happy.

Except  in  Redd's  case.  

In  Redd's  case,  the  client  after  his  life  was  far  from  happy  when  he  found  out  the 'good-for-nothing  cheating  son-of-a-bitch'  (  his  words,  not  Sev's  )  managed  to  dump  twice  the  number  of  zeros  into  Sevrin's  bank  account,  effectively  buying  out  his  own  contract.  Right  there  in  the  middle  of  the alley,  on  his  knees  with  the  barrel  of  Sev's  gun  pressing wrinkles  into  the  center  of  his  forehead,  he  paid  for  his  own  life.

It  was  the  curiosity  that  followed  that  had  Sevrin  lingering  around,  wanting  to  see  what  exactly  a  man  with  that  much  money  did  after  purchasing  perhaps  the  most  precious  thing  he  could  :  a  second  chance.

Like  a  shadow.  An  apparition  out  of  thin  air.  A  bad  smell.  Unwanted  and  inescapable,  Sevrin  stands  behind  him,  arms  crossed  peering  over  Redd’s  shoulder  at  the  piece  of  art  hanging  on  the  gallery  wall.  'Reinier Van Dall,'  the  credited  restorer,  was  printed  neatly  beneath  it,  with  no  price  listed.

If  you  had  to  ask,  you  couldn't  afford  it  —  it  was  one  of  those  places.

But  Sevrin  couldn't  resist.  He  had  to  ask.

His  lips  curl  into  a  single-sided  smirk,  “think  I  could  afford  something  like this?”

[sevrin-oconnell]

coralinesharp​:

status: open | location: salus @whrstarters

“Hey! Hey, you!” Coraline emerged from behind the ruined wall of what was once a house, waving her arms frantically at the passing figure who, unknowingly, was walking right into danger’s path. “Not a good idea to go that way! At least, not for another-,” she stopped, looking down at the battered watch on her wrist and giving half a shrug, “-two minutes? Give or take? Unless you want to have your socks blown off, in which case, be my guest.”

.

Measure  twice,  cut once.  It  was  a  good  rule  of  thumb,  and  not  just  for  carpentry,  but  for  any  profession  that  requires  a  keen  eye  and  a  precise  hand  —  his own,  of course,  not  excluded.  It  was  what  drew  Sevrin  from  the  sleek  lines  and  glowing  neon of  Solaris  today  in  the  first  place,  back  into  the  wastes  of  Salus ( home,  sweet,  home ).  He  was  here  to  scope  a  particular  location  that  his  current  target  has  been  known  to  use  for  their  own  dealings,  to  familiarize  himself  with  it's  layout  so  when  it  was  time  to  punch  the  clock  and  get  to work,  there  would  be  no  surprises.  

Very  much  unlike  the  surprise  the  frantically  gesturing  woman  was  now  alerting  him  to.

Fucking  damn  it.  

Sevrin's  approach  slows  as  she  speaks,  gravel  crunching  beneath  polished  black  shoes  as  he  comes  to  a  stop,  turning  to  look  in  her  direction,  with the utter inconvenience  of  her  warning  clear  on  his  face.  This  was  really  going  to  set  him  back,  he'd  be  starting  over  entirely  with  his  planning.   "You've  got  to  be  kidding  me.”

“Why  the  fuck  are  you  blowing  the  place  up,  anyway?  Could  you.. you  know,  not?  I've  got  shit  to  do  here  later."

[sevrin-oconnell]

𝚒𝚝’𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚖𝚞𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚊𝚢 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚢.

#notsorry

𝙲𝙰𝚁𝚁𝙳

𝚂𝙴𝚅𝚁𝙸𝙽  𝙾'𝙲𝙾𝙽𝙽𝙴𝙻𝙻  𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚙 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚕𝚍. 𝙴𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚗𝚘𝚠, 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝙿𝚁𝙾𝙴𝙵𝚂𝚂𝙸𝙾𝙽𝙰𝙻, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚁𝚄𝚃𝙷𝙻𝙴𝚂𝚂 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎. 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝚂𝙾𝚃𝙴𝚁𝙸𝙰 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚂𝙸𝚇 𝚈𝙴𝙰𝚁𝚂. 𝙸𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚐𝚘 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖, 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚞𝚜𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝙾𝙱𝙹𝙴𝙲𝚃 𝚋𝚢 𝚆𝙴𝙴𝙽 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚘𝚛 𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚂𝙲𝙴𝙽𝚃 𝙾𝙵 𝙶𝚄𝙽𝙿𝙾𝚆𝙳𝙴𝚁 & 𝙲𝙸𝙶𝙰𝚁𝙴𝚃𝚃𝙴𝚂 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙰 𝚂𝙸𝙽𝙶𝙻𝙴 𝙳𝚁𝙾𝙿 𝙾𝙵 𝙱𝙻𝙾𝙾𝙳 𝙰𝙶𝙰𝙸𝙽𝚂𝚃 𝙰 𝙲𝚁𝙸𝚂𝙿 𝚆𝙷𝙸𝚃𝙴 𝚂𝙷𝙸𝚁𝚃 𝚝𝚘 𝚗𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚠 𝚒𝚝 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗.

𝙵𝚞𝚕𝚕 𝙽𝚊𝚖𝚎 : 𝚂𝚎𝚟𝚛𝚒𝚗 𝙾'𝙲𝚘𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝙽𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚎 : 𝚂𝚎𝚟 𝙰𝚕𝚒𝚊𝚜 : 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚏𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝙰𝚐𝚎 : 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚛𝚝𝚢-𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝙱𝚒𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚍𝚊𝚝𝚎 : 𝟶𝟺/𝟷𝟹 𝙻𝚘𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 : 𝚂𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚊 𝙶𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝙸𝙳 : 𝚌𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝙿𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚜 : 𝚑𝚎 / 𝚑𝚒𝚖 / 𝚑𝚒𝚜

𝙸. 𝙶𝚁𝙴𝙴𝚃𝙸𝙽𝙶𝚂 𝙵𝚁𝙾𝙼 𝙱𝙴𝙰𝚄𝚃𝙸𝙵𝚄𝙻 𝙻𝙾𝚂 𝙻𝚄𝙽𝙰𝚂

𝚂𝚎𝚟𝚛𝚒𝚗 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚋𝚘𝚛𝚗 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚛𝚝𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚂𝚊𝚕𝚞𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚟𝚒𝚟𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝 𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚞𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚌𝚘-𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛, 𝚊 𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚞𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚙𝚒𝚎𝚌𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊 𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚌𝚘𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚒𝚌. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 `𝙻𝚘𝚜 𝙻𝚞𝚗𝚊𝚜 𝙲𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍` 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚊 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚝 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚟𝚒𝚎𝚠𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚠𝚎𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚘𝚌𝚒𝚎𝚝𝚢 𝚊𝚜 𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚌𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚝 ( 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚌𝚛𝚊𝚣𝚢, 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚒𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 ).

𝚁𝚊𝚒𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚘 𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚠𝚎𝚊𝚙𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚜𝚘𝚗, 𝚂𝚎𝚟𝚛𝚒𝚗’𝚜 𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚕𝚢 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚎𝚡𝚝𝚋𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚘𝚏 𝙿𝚊𝚒𝚗: 𝚂𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚝 𝚞𝚙 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚝 𝙾𝚞𝚝. 𝚂𝚒𝚖𝚞𝚕𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚎𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚕𝚢 𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚒𝚛𝚎’𝚜 𝚙𝚑𝚢𝚜𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕 / 𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚕 / 𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚊𝚋𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚕𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚕 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚏𝚒𝚌𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍-𝚝𝚘-𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚋𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚎𝚊𝚙𝚘𝚗𝚛𝚢. 𝚂𝚎𝚟𝚛𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚝𝚘 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚜, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎.

𝙰𝚜 𝚊 𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚍, 𝚂𝚎𝚟𝚛𝚒𝚗 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚣𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚎𝚕𝚝 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚙𝚎𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚞𝚗𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚕𝚘𝚙 𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚞𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚙𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖. 𝙸𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚍, 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚊𝚍𝚟𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚒𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗, 𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚙𝚞𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚌𝚎𝚙𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚖, 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚜 𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚑��𝚖𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚏𝚒𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚕 𝚜𝚘𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚕 𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚍 ( 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊𝚜 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚏𝚞𝚕, 𝚊𝚝 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚝 ).

𝙸𝙸. 𝚄𝙽𝙲𝙾𝙼𝙼𝙾𝙽 𝚂𝚃𝙰𝙶𝙴𝚂 𝙾𝙵 𝙶𝚁𝙸𝙴𝙵: 𝙼𝚄𝚁𝙳𝙴𝚁 𝚂𝙿𝚁𝙴𝙴

𝙰𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚌𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚕𝚍, 𝚂𝚎𝚟𝚛𝚒𝚗 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚖𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚊’𝚜 𝚋𝚘𝚢. 𝚆𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍, 𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚕 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚎𝚍. 𝙰𝚜 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚒𝚍 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚕𝚍 𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚜, 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚛𝚞𝚍𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚕𝚢 𝚍𝚒𝚊𝚐𝚗𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚛, 𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚊𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚙𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚞𝚎 𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚊𝚍𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚒𝚝. 𝙸𝚝 𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚜𝚒𝚣𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚔𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛.

𝚂𝚎𝚟𝚛𝚒𝚗 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝙻𝙾𝚂𝚃 𝚒𝚝. ( 𝚂𝚎𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚝𝚑𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚜? 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚢’𝚛𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚗𝚊𝚙. )

𝙹𝚞𝚍𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛’𝚜 𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚝 𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑, 𝚂𝚎𝚟𝚛𝚒𝚗 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚐𝚞𝚗 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚕𝚌𝚘𝚑𝚘𝚕 𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚞𝚌𝚎𝚍 𝚍𝚊𝚣𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚎𝚣𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚐𝚎𝚛. 𝙸𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚊𝚐𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚍, 𝚂𝚎𝚟𝚛𝚒𝚗’𝚜 𝚛𝚊𝚖𝚙𝚊𝚐𝚎 𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚒𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚞𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚠𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚎, 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚗 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚖.

𝙸𝙸𝙸. 𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚈 𝚂𝙰𝚈 𝙸𝙵 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙻𝙾𝚅𝙴 𝚆𝙷𝙰𝚃 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙳𝙾, 𝚃𝙷𝙴𝙽 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙽𝙴𝚅𝙴𝚁 𝚆𝙾𝚁𝙺 𝙰 𝙳𝙰𝚈 𝙸𝙽 𝚈𝙾𝚄𝚁 𝙻𝙸𝙵𝙴.

𝚃𝚘 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚑𝚒𝚖𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏, 𝚂𝚎𝚟𝚛𝚒𝚗 𝚏𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚒𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝. 𝚃𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚜 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚊 𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚔𝚎𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚒𝚌𝚎, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚝 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚎𝚡𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚕. 𝙲𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚜 𝚌𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎, 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚂𝚊𝚕𝚞𝚜 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚂𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚊: 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚟𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚠𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚝𝚑𝚢 𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚍𝚞𝚊𝚕, 𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚕-𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚙𝚞𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚌 𝚏𝚒𝚐𝚞𝚛𝚎, 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚝𝚘 𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚎𝚜.

𝙵𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚌𝚞𝚝-𝚊𝚗𝚍-𝚍𝚛𝚢 𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜, 𝚝𝚘 𝚒𝚗𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚗𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚐𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚋𝚘𝚍𝚢 𝚐𝚞𝚊𝚛𝚍, 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜𝚗’𝚝 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚂𝚎𝚟𝚛𝚒𝚗 𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚖𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚞𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚎𝚏𝚏𝚒𝚌𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚏𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕.

𝙽𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚗𝚘 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚘𝚏𝚏 𝚕𝚒𝚖𝚒𝚝𝚜. 𝙶𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛, 𝚜𝚎𝚡𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚢, 𝚊𝚐𝚎, 𝚠𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚝𝚑... 𝚗𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚒𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍. 𝚆𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚊 𝚌𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚍, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚓𝚘𝚋 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚍𝚘𝚗𝚎. 𝙽𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚊𝚜𝚔𝚎𝚍.

[sevrin-oconnell]

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