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[i]earlier that afternoon[/i] 

An agitated Fitz kept himself low and out of sight on a rooftop near a New York City courthouse waiting for just the right moment. Waiting was a boring but necessary part of the job, and as tedious as it was, it sure beat the hell out of a real job. So, Fitz kept himself under control, watching through a hand held scope and waited for his mark to arrive. He took a drag on the Juul e-cig he had with him, although he thought the fake things were for douchey kids, he wasn’t about to get busted from leaving cigarette butts lying around a crime scene, he had watched enough TV to be smarter than that. After enough hits to get a nicotine fix in he slipped the thing back in his jacket pocket and fished out a single bullet from that pocket. His lips formed into a small smirk as he spotted the mark, a would-be rat, headed into the courthouse. 

Now there were some telekinetics who liked showing off, the ‘oh look at me I can move a big bloody boulder’ idiots who wasted all their energy on the big stuff. But Fitz liked to think he was smarter than that. A bullet was designed to a perfect little aerodynamic killing device; lightweight and easy to maneuver, and was, in his opinion, the perfect choice for a telekinetic looking to kill. An added bonus with his ability was there was no ballistics for the cops to trace, no gun he needed to hide or get rid of, just a single bullet paired with his own mind and skill. With his mind focused only on his mark and controlling the bullet he sent it hurtling through the air and curving it towards his victim with more than enough force to pierce through the man’s skull. 

[color=darkorange]”Boom, bloody fucking headshot.”[/color] Fitz whispered to himself before making a dash towards the fire escape and climbing down to the streets below. The curving of the bullet was important, sending cops looking in a different trajectory than where he was giving him enough time to head into a crowd unnoticed. Another kill meant another paycheck, and while Fitz rarely cared about any details surrounding a hit or why he was asked to kill, knowing this man was about to snitch on his employers made it even easier; a man without loyalty deserved no mercy. He had offered to make the whole ordeal a little messier for the rat, but the man paying him wanted it done quick and clean, and all Fitz really wanted was to get paid, so he complied.

Liam Fitzpatrick had never worked an honest day in his life, and he never planned to; mundane jobs were for normal people, and he was more than that, greater than the mundane. His ability meant he could be more and all he had to do was be half way smart about it. Hits were a rare but exhilarating way to earn a good amount of cash, but gaming casinos was equally fun and the rest of his day was spent doing just that. He lost a bit at the blackjack tables, goofed off at the slots for a bit, and had more than a few drinks before winning a few hundred by betting it all on black at the roulette table and using his skill to ensure a win. When he gambled, which was frequently, he kept his winnings at the casinos on the low end, and rotated locations so as not to draw any suspicions. 

By the time he got back to Brooklyn it was after nine that evening. Fitz was standing outside of a dive bar lighting up a real cigarette as a flash of blue lightning lit up the sky. It was strange as the sky was clear and there was no sign of storm, but the inebriated man ignored the portent as he continued to unwind with a smoke. His bar of choice was fairly dirty, had a couple pool tables, and drew in the seedier crowd that he generally liked. The main downside was it was also frequented by another group of people he hated about as much as rats, Yankees fans. Just last weekend he had a good brawl with a few who running their mouths after his Sox had lost. Today was looking up for Fitz, the sting of The Sox’s loss was fading, he had money in his pocket and more on the way, and he still had hours to go before last call.