#the squatter

Auuuuugh. D: That BITES.

By nature, Sebastian was not a sedentary soul. He generally preferred a nomadic lifestyle, never staying in one location long. If he'd been left to his own devices, he probably would have moved on from the luxurious home of Mr. "J.M." relatively quickly.

But he hadn't been. No, instead there had been the alluring encounter with "J.M.", and the lingering promise of a violent end if he did not vacate the premises. He remained, precisely because he had been told by a formidable foe to leave. He wanted another go with this man.

He had tried to gain some information about J.M., showing the handkerchief to a fellow bar patrons and card players, without any real success. Most of his London contacts weren't pleased to see him, usually because he owed them money. But a few had looked at the innocent piece of cloth with its innocuous, delicately embroidered red letters, and terror fell across their faces. They baulked at the handkerchief, tight lipped and pale and shaking their heads furiously. Even threats and demonstrations of violence failed to illicit the answers he sought, as if nothing he could do to them could match the horror of the fate which would befall them if they dared say a word about the apparently diabolic J.M.

All the more reason to remain in the house. And remain he did.

The house was still in a significant state of disarray: the empty beer bottles from previous drunken nights shoved to one corner, piles of empty or half-eaten take-away boxes joining their midst. But Sebastian had cleaned himself up a bit, tried to curb the drinking as best he could. He increased his smoking to compensate for the alcohol withdrawal, and his fingers and teeth were quickly yellowing with tobacco stains. The scraggly beard had been trimmed away, but his chin remained rough with stubble. Dirty blond hair was still long and matted. He wore tattered jeans, and a plaid red shirt, unbuttoned to reveal a white undershirt.

Frankly, his appearance didn't matter. The important thing was to wait, and hope, that J.M. would keep his word of returning, and to be properly in control of his senses when that moment came. He'd gladly die at this man's hands (this man who seemed rich and spoiled and arrogant, just like the brats Sebastian had grown up with, yet was somehow so dangerous), so long as he was sober and went down fighting.

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.