[b] War [/b] 

War is the only institution truly as old as time itself, and over the centuries and the years one war or another seemed to always ravage the planet. Whether it was an open, universally seen construct, a battlefield that soon escalated to become the Earth itself, or simply the shadow wars that he’d fought for nearly half his life, before being forced into retirement because some new politicians didn’t approve of his methodology. Hell, from the age of five he’d been fighting his own personal, inner war. The war with the monster inside of him, the monster that demanded he hurt people beyond their limitations. He was a fighter, born and bred. His father, a military man for his entire life, instilled him with the desire to always come out on top. Always win. No matter the cost. 

Now, here he was at the ripe age of 45, forced into retirement and living on the streets like some drug-addled bum. Months ago he’d rated his own private jet, an expense account that made Donald Trump look damn near poverty-stricken, and all the government sanctioned murder he could want. His personal armory included just about every gun on the market, every knife you could think of, and every neat little toy you could lay your hands on. Of course, all of that went with the job – and once the job was gone, he was left with nothing. Not even his own house, which the government seized in some trumped up terrorist accusation. 

It wasn’t his fault the plane blew up, though it was the bomb he planted that caused it…and the number he dialed into his cell phone. Okay, maybe it was his fault, but the bastard aboard that he was after needed to be taken out. A lot more lives were at stake besides those few hundred people aboard that 747, and he was responsible for them. He saved them. Even if the government didn’t believe that, or simply didn’t want to take responsibility for giving him an open-license to do his job however he saw fit. Still, the past was the past and he had to move forward. 

If forward meant living in a cardboard box behind the local MMA training center, eating whatever food he could scrounge from the nearby dumpster of a little Italian place. A few blocks down the road was a good Chinese place, and beyond that a shelter that offered to take him in. He wasn’t one for charity, though, and refused to take anything he didn’t earn. And, since his only method of earning was killing, his thoughts turned toward maybe doing some freelance mercenary work. He’d promised himself he’d never be one of [i]those[/I] guys, but times were getting hard and he was constantly having to try harder and harder to find food in an ever-drowning city. 

He was deep in thought, and munching on half a sandwich with only three bites taken out of it before being discarded in the trash, when the loud-mouth from the gym came outside. His words were spoken with a heavy slur that, if he wasn’t mistaken, deemed him an Irishman. He hated the Irish. Loud-mouthed alcoholics who spent more time trying to compensate for their lack of manhood centuries ago. Always fighting back against the Queen who owned their country, blaming her for their problems. Their problems came from their own inability to handle their lives. It was disgusting. 

Normally, he’d have simply gotten up and walked away. Even the offer of money, which was substantial given his current situation, wouldn’t have moved him a few days ago. But today…today his stomach growled and his mouth watered. Today he was cold and tired of sleeping on the hard ground. He held up his finger as the man finished, indicating for him to wait a moment. He took another large bite of his food, chewed it up a few times and swallowed. Finally, he lowered his hand and pressed against the ground until he stood, his six foot height putting him just a little bit shorter than the other guy. Their weight appeared to be roughly the same, though again he was pretty sure the other had a couple of pounds on him. 

[i]“Hm...your offer sounds tempting. Honestly, I’ve been here a while and I’m hungry. I could definitely use the money.”[/i]

His voice held the same cold indifference he’d come to gain throughout his career, not caring or really feeling anything at all. His hands shifted as he let his over-sized, too big for his body coat slide down his arms and off into a pool on the dirty ground, though in this case the ground only got dirtier for the addition of his clothing. He kept his broken, sole-coming-off sneakers and faded, blood-stained blue jeans on though. His eyes caught the gloves, and he shifted his foot over to kick them. 

[i]“I won’t be using those, though. Tell me, kid, what’s your name? What’s the plan for when you lose? You gonna honor your bet? Can you honor your bet?” [/i]