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Mormor

Sebastian Moran was walking in the streets of the central market of Budapest. He sucked in a deep breath in the warm summer air that filled the halls. He didn't think he'd like Budapest. Never a big fan of Slavic countries. Too cold, strange language and not the same alphabet. Good point was vodka. They have excellent vodka. But he's been sent here on a mission, so he didn't really have a choice. Luckily, it was the middle of August, so temperatures were high enough to please him.

He let his eyes wandering around on the crowd that was surrounding him. The gun-for-hire both liked and hated crowds. Even if they were good to disapear quickly and hide in plain sight, the fact that he could use them like this meant that others could do so, and that was far from pleasing him. He was still on his guards, just to be sure no one would surprise him.

He looked up to the metal beams that were building an arch up his head, meters above the floor. He'll hide there, on the little balcony against the wall, a wee bit on his left. He turned around and looked at the entry of the market. The angle will be perfect. His target will be dead on the moment. A clean, fast job. And with the noise that was filling the hall, the silenced gunshot could even go unnoticed.

He took a few more minutes to locate places and then went to sit at a table to observe a bit. A waiter approched him and he asked for a beer. When the boy came back, he was staring at his newly found stach. "Are you an art student? A lot of 'em come here for the arch..." Moran smiled coldly at him. "Yes, that's it, I'm an art student. How much for the drink?"

He paid and went back to his hotel. He could barely belive that this morning he was waking up in a dull, dirty, and bad lit room in a random hotel in the center of London. He was forced to keep moving to stay hidden.

His "silent partner" -as he calls himself- was the first person he'd spoken to in the last ten days. He'd been so released to have some contact with someone, anyone, that he listened to the man that came into his room at dawn.

The man, tall, and slender with brown hair, described himself as a "minor employee of the governement". He offered him a big load of money to kill a man named Moriarty, currently hidden in Budapest. It was a simple job. A name, an hour, a place and a picture of the target. An airplane was waiting for him in a tiny airfield a bit to the South of London. Two and a half hour later, Moran was walking to the address the man gave him.

---

The mercenary arrived in front of the door of his hotel room and froze. Everything seemed normal, but Moran's instinct told him that something was highly wrong. Pulling his gun out of the holster hidden under his coat, he pushed the door open after he made sure it was not going to blow up.

He entered the darkened room cautiously and there, sitting in the armchair next to his bed, was the most stunnig man Sebastian has never seen. He had a nice smile on his lips and brown hair. He was wearing a perfectly tailored Westwood suit. But there was a little teeny-tiny problem: the man sitting in the armchair was the same man that the one on the photography his "sleeping partner" gave him.

"Herm, who who are you exactly?" he stuttered. Dang it, he thought. It's been decades since he stuttered last.

"My name's Jim Moriarty, gorgeous. But you can call me boss." the man had a deep and rich irish accent. "Boss? Says who?" The other smirked, twisting his mouth in a psychopathic way. 

"Oh, you will, as soon as I'd finish talking with you."

Moran raised an eyebrow at the man sitting in front of him. "Speak. And be fast." His gun was still pointed on the head of the Irish who opened his arms in a grandiloquent gesture : "Everything you can name, anything you can dream, I can give it to you. You wouldn't be forced to live on the run anymore, I can offer you a safe place to live. And all I want in exchange is some help with my work. Kill one person here and there, torture another one, nothing that would change your everyday life."

A lazy smile crossed Moran's face as he put his gun away. "I want something else."
"And what is it?"

"You."