( another universe, another motherfucker with an axe to grind and piles of money to burn. felix is a razor-beaked vulture in every iteration of every world, universe, or reality, here for the bounty and nothing else. plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose.
his current objective sits pretty in an opulent high-rise on the perimeter of the city. a spoiled prince in an ivory tower left bizarrely unguarded as felix leisurely strolls past a set of glass doors, straight into a dark and empty lobby. ortez, tracking his movement from his windowed post of a building half a klick away from felix's position, immediately voices his concern, like fucking clockwork. this isn't right, he says, into felix's earpiece. you should've rigged up. felix's soft, blithe whistling effectively silences any of his remaining worries.
the bell at the front desk chimes under felix's hand, merrily jingling through the cavernous space. no one answers. not a peep from any shadowy corner, no fluorescent green lasers marking him for an untimely death. quiet. suspicious, lingering quiet.
so, logically, as one does when tasked with discretely butchering a man, felix takes the elevator.
he hikes himself onto the rail, back to rich mahogany panels, and idly picks his nails until the elevator lurches to a stop at his destination. the doors slide open, and gentle jazz and amber light flood into a searing red hall as felix steps from the compartment and finally discovers the source of the quiet: sam, smiling wolfishly, perfectly calm and centered. not a figment of his drunken imagination after all.
"felix," locus says, sharply. "sitrep. who is that? i don't have eyes on you. gates. isaac, goddamnit–"
felix turns off his earpiece with a brush of his thumb. daddy's busy. )
You dress up in your Sunday best for little old me? Sam. ( his name is a vulgar purr out of his mouth, silkily stretched at the vowel. his eyes cut from sam to a door down the long corridor, an equal distance away from the both of them. ten paces. back to sam, knifelike. ) You really shouldn't have.
( a half-second for the silence to drop like a fucking bomb, a harbinger of things to come. he pulls his sidearm, whip-quick, angled for the lightbulb directly above sam's head. sparks and shattered glass spray onto sam's prone form as he fires a single bullet, then bolts down the hall for the door. )
no subject
his current objective sits pretty in an opulent high-rise on the perimeter of the city. a spoiled prince in an ivory tower left bizarrely unguarded as felix leisurely strolls past a set of glass doors, straight into a dark and empty lobby. ortez, tracking his movement from his windowed post of a building half a klick away from felix's position, immediately voices his concern, like fucking clockwork. this isn't right, he says, into felix's earpiece. you should've rigged up. felix's soft, blithe whistling effectively silences any of his remaining worries.
the bell at the front desk chimes under felix's hand, merrily jingling through the cavernous space. no one answers. not a peep from any shadowy corner, no fluorescent green lasers marking him for an untimely death. quiet. suspicious, lingering quiet.
so, logically, as one does when tasked with discretely butchering a man, felix takes the elevator.
he hikes himself onto the rail, back to rich mahogany panels, and idly picks his nails until the elevator lurches to a stop at his destination. the doors slide open, and gentle jazz and amber light flood into a searing red hall as felix steps from the compartment and finally discovers the source of the quiet: sam, smiling wolfishly, perfectly calm and centered. not a figment of his drunken imagination after all.
"felix," locus says, sharply. "sitrep. who is that? i don't have eyes on you. gates. isaac, goddamnit–"
felix turns off his earpiece with a brush of his thumb. daddy's busy. )
You dress up in your Sunday best for little old me? Sam. ( his name is a vulgar purr out of his mouth, silkily stretched at the vowel. his eyes cut from sam to a door down the long corridor, an equal distance away from the both of them. ten paces. back to sam, knifelike. ) You really shouldn't have.
( a half-second for the silence to drop like a fucking bomb, a harbinger of things to come. he pulls his sidearm, whip-quick, angled for the lightbulb directly above sam's head. sparks and shattered glass spray onto sam's prone form as he fires a single bullet, then bolts down the hall for the door. )