Repercussions // [Pckpr Helmsby + Aeron]

I look forward, to dying tonight, drinks till I'm myself,
life's harder every day

There were little joys he'd forgotten, in the twelve month sojourn in the Capitol. The joy of picking out what he would eat for breakfast, the joy of laundering his clothes every day if he chose to do so, the joy of pissing without an audience. He'd been back for almost a full month, and the pleasure just kept rolling in. After his shifts, he would allow himself a beer at the local dive bar before heading home for a scalding hot shower. A month of settling into his routine, and he was still finding pleasure around every corner.

Just not in every alley.

He'd been very careful in Six to avoid the drop spots. His duties had been mostly paperwork. The few times he went into the field, he was part of a phalanx. He was unlikely to ever be allowed on solo patrol again. It chaffed, as much as his crisp new uniform, which hugged his emaciated body far too tightly for his liking.

So when the summons came in for a mission in Seven, he accepted without hesitation. He had a scant week to complete the job and get back to his home base. He spent the first day getting acclimated to the District Seven team and doing preliminary research on the target's home address, job location, usual routine. For two days he tailed Citizen Bonher, recording every interaction. He was lucky that his subject had a fairly usual routine.

On the third night, Nightlocke dressed in plainclothes: roughened jeans, a faded striped shirt, a frayed belt. They were borrowed and they smelled like Seven. He left his hair long over his face, his beard slowly filling in the pale gaps. He looked in the mirror and barely recognized himself. If not for the feeling of the armored vest beneath the shirt and another gun tucked against his calf, he would not have been Nightlocke Helmsby at all.

Under the cover of darkness, he waited for Citizen Bonher to take his nightly walk. He followed half a block back, waiting for them to clear the lights of the lumbermill. "Hey," he jogged to close the distance between them. Nightlocke offered his prey a half smile. "Damn, they always work you that hard? Just had my first shift at this mill. You got a light?" From his shirt pocket, just above the butt of his hidden pistol, Nightlocke draws two cigarettes, the only vice he's still allowed.