[b]Floyd Conlon - Greater Downtown[/b] - [i]11:37 pm August 24th[/i]

As the bar continued to be filled by an overwhelming crowd, the Scottish immigrant awaited his temporary employee. The man took a sip of his Scotch and tapped on the table with a toothpick provided by a very sexy bartender. Taking his eyes away from her rear, he turned to his watch in anticipation, all with still three minutes before meeting time. It was rumored that the man he had called upon was very time-oriented, never late, never early, merely always on-time. 

Anyhow, the music boomed loudly as the crowd jammed and danced to its tune. Soon enough, it had turned midnight, hitting twelve o'clock on the watch. Without surprise, as the ticker switched, the chair before the Scottish man was filled. A Caucasian male wearing a black long-sleeved shirt and dark-brown Levi pants popped from out of nowhere to join his employer. This was the man who had created a rumor for himself and was known as a very talented and trained hitman. His appearance though, did not match the expectation. He looked a little more rough than how the rumors described him, but at this point, the Scottish man did not care for his appearance, he cared for his particular set of skills. 

"So we finally meet. I've heard meta cultus things about you. You have quite the reputation around th-" he finished as he was abruptly cut off by none other than Floyd Conlon, the gun-for-hire. 

"Let's cut to the chase shall we" Conlon said, not worrying nor cautious about anyone in the large bar. "You contacted me for a reason, so spill" he added, crossing his arms and laying back on his chair casually. 

The Scottish gentlemen was not amused by the way Conlon behaved himself, but feared saying anything about such a notorious criminal. "Alright Mr. Hanes" the man started, knowing Conlon by the name of Richard Hanes. In fact, nobody knew Conlon's true identity. Every district had a different name for him, all to keep him near ghost-like - unidentified. 

"Three nights ago a man by the name of Esteban Kovaleski stole fifteen crates from one of my shipm-" he paused as he was once again cut off by Conlon. "Is he the target?" Floyd asked urgently. "Yea, he is" the Scottish man responded with irritation. "What was in the crates?" Was the follow-up question which was not answered without a little hesitation. The Scottish man feared revealing too much, but knew how all this worked. If he refused to answer any if the questions, Conlon would vanish and never be seen again in the same place. So he decided it'd be best to answer. "Forty-five crates filled with high-yield chemical explosives. If I may, there had been an old rumor that you never asked questions before - is it true?" 

"Hand over the suitcase with the information" was Conlon's only response as he stood from his chair. "In three days I will notify you with a small briefin'. That's when I'll tell you exactly when he will be eliminated. But until then, you wait. Do not attempt to contact me, do not attempt to find me, if you do, I [b][i]will[/i][/b] kill you. Other than that, when the job is dun' I'll find you. You pay me then" Floyd instructed as he disappeared into the crowd and exited the building. 

[b]Greater Downtown[/b] - [i]1:45 am August 25th[/i] 

By this time, the bar was across the downtown area, completely out of sight and reach. But now Floyd found himself against a dangerous path. He stood form on the steps of a home, one that did not belong to him, but one he helped pay for - anonymously. 

It had been a couple of years since he was informed of having a daughter. After losing his wife and unborn child, this little girl he'd never met was all he thought about. Stripped of his first child, Floyd attempts to see joy through his daughter's success. With rage still in his heart from the past, he's taken on the hardest life he could think of, but one that would ensure his daughter's future. Seventy-five percent of his earnings after every kill goes into twenty different bank accounts, all of which have a different account numbers and passwords everyday. These numerals are chosen at random, configuring them to a point of invulnerability. One that does not know the account number generated not the password does not have a chance in hell to track it or open it. In addition, due to its daily change, the money is transferred through seven accounts weekly, until the money is transferred to a set account. In Floyd's instance, the money is transferred to Heather Claire's bank account, the mother of his daughter. 

Anyhow, Floyd just stared at this house, losing his composer. It wasn't because this was his daughter's home, it was because inside, he knew there was a family who slept together in unity, something he would never experience. Wiping his face with his hand, Floyd continued down the path and left Greater Downtown, returning to the Outward slums to sleep for three hours before having to set sail to work at Crater Bay.