capitol // harvey lawson [cb;fin.]

He tells a lot of people that they talk shit, it's a mark upon his tainted honour for them to say otherwise. Fists, busted lips and sharpened blades, pressed to pale throats was all he was. The years after his dishnourable (fancy pricks using their stupid words, when in reality it all he had done was give some drugs to a kid, but they hadn't been able to catch him. It'd ended up being their word against his) discharge and he was still pissed. He wasn't yet broke enough to wear anything, but suits and those stupid shoes with the pointy front, that those high society dickwads call professional. He talked shit about it, but he liked picking out that tie to match the vest, tucked beneath the jacket. It looked good. And looking good whilst he knocked some guys teeth out in an alley on the side of some good for nothing building n the Capitol was important, ya know. Bad for business to have a tardy reputation, someone telling people that he was street scum, fuck those Peacekeepers. They'd taken him and made him into a man that'd do anything for money, a mercenary that'd kill his own client if he was getting paid five dollars more.

Yeah, fucking idiots, they'd regret the day they booted his well-muscled ass out of the tactical response unit. They'll know it's him when it's his knife pressed to their throats, his fist in their face. He's smart enough to not get caught, his word against theirs. Yeah right, they won't be able to talk without a tongue.