Post by Deadshot on Jul 23, 2010 20:00:01 GMT
((Just a bit of Character development, or something like that.))
Deadshot sat at the desk in his office, his eyes closed, leaning back in the soft leather chair. The stereo, which played through the entirety of the house, was playing Barber's Adagio for Strings. He often did this after completing a job. It was relaxing, allowing him to come down of the adrenaline high associated with his sort of work.
He opened his eyes as he turned the chair to face the bookshelf behind him. He stood, reaching for the book that released the the door hidden in the shelf. This was another bit of theatrics there were better ways to hide rooms more secure ways to do it. But he wanted something that would at least be interesting if he were ever found dead in this apartment for whatever reason.
He walked into the hidden room and scanned the walls. Here were the tools of his trade. Handguns, rifles, machines guns of various models and calibers. He kept others hidden around the house but this was his sanctuary. In case at the back of the room was his alter. Beneath the glass lid of the case were his relics. Two ivory clad, gold trimmed Ruger Mk II suppressed pistols. These sat on either side of his folded red suit atop which sat his trademark. The finely polished silver helmet shone in the light from the room. The left eye was simply a whole cut wide enough to allow for the use if his peripheral vision. Attached to the top of the right was a flip down computer sight that aided in calculating the superbly brilliant shots he was known for as well as providing infrared night vision if the situation called for it. He opened the case and picked up the helmet. He hadn't always had this. There was a time when he was still Floyd Lawton, a time Deadshot hadn't existed.
It was 1985, Thailand. Floyd was on the roof of an office building looking through the scope of a rifle. In building across the street there was a party going on. High class business officials and what were probably their mistresses were socializing in the open floor. At the back of the room stood a podium. He had been hired by some mob boss to assassinate the CEO of a corporation that wasn't playing the mob's game. He wasn't sure how he had gotten into this business. He had been traveling the world training, mastering the use of firearms. He would often do exhibition shows to make a little money here and there. That's where he had been approached. He wouldn't have accepted, but the pay was more than he had earned in his entire life, and it would finally get him enough to move on with his plans.
He had killed before. But not on purpose. That was an accident. He kept telling himself that it was just like hunting. He did that all the time. The target came into view approaching the podium. Floyd's heart began to thump as the adrenaline kicked in. Was he really going to do this? Was he going to kill a man? The target had begun his speech. The other people in the room were listening intently, completely unaware of anything outside their little world.
Sweat began to run down Floyd's face as he took aim. He looked up to look at some flags hanging from the neighboring building. The wind was blowing to the east. He adjusted his aim. It was only 500 yards. A relatively easy shot. His rifle was zeroed in at 300 yards so he aimed just above the target. His heart was racing as his finger tightened on the trigger. His whole body was tense with anticipation. He held his breath. His finger pulled tighter and tighter until suddenly without warning the gun recoiled hard into his shoulder. He rolled over, panting as if he had just run several miles.
He tried to regain his composure and rolled back over, bringing the gun back to his shoulder and looking through the scope. He found the podium and there was his work. The man he had been hired to kill, lie dead blood rushing from the hole in his forehead. A man with a family, a home, a life, lay there his soul pouring out onto the ground. And with it went the soul of Floyd Lawton.
Deadshot sat at the desk in his office, his eyes closed, leaning back in the soft leather chair. The stereo, which played through the entirety of the house, was playing Barber's Adagio for Strings. He often did this after completing a job. It was relaxing, allowing him to come down of the adrenaline high associated with his sort of work.
He opened his eyes as he turned the chair to face the bookshelf behind him. He stood, reaching for the book that released the the door hidden in the shelf. This was another bit of theatrics there were better ways to hide rooms more secure ways to do it. But he wanted something that would at least be interesting if he were ever found dead in this apartment for whatever reason.
He walked into the hidden room and scanned the walls. Here were the tools of his trade. Handguns, rifles, machines guns of various models and calibers. He kept others hidden around the house but this was his sanctuary. In case at the back of the room was his alter. Beneath the glass lid of the case were his relics. Two ivory clad, gold trimmed Ruger Mk II suppressed pistols. These sat on either side of his folded red suit atop which sat his trademark. The finely polished silver helmet shone in the light from the room. The left eye was simply a whole cut wide enough to allow for the use if his peripheral vision. Attached to the top of the right was a flip down computer sight that aided in calculating the superbly brilliant shots he was known for as well as providing infrared night vision if the situation called for it. He opened the case and picked up the helmet. He hadn't always had this. There was a time when he was still Floyd Lawton, a time Deadshot hadn't existed.
It was 1985, Thailand. Floyd was on the roof of an office building looking through the scope of a rifle. In building across the street there was a party going on. High class business officials and what were probably their mistresses were socializing in the open floor. At the back of the room stood a podium. He had been hired by some mob boss to assassinate the CEO of a corporation that wasn't playing the mob's game. He wasn't sure how he had gotten into this business. He had been traveling the world training, mastering the use of firearms. He would often do exhibition shows to make a little money here and there. That's where he had been approached. He wouldn't have accepted, but the pay was more than he had earned in his entire life, and it would finally get him enough to move on with his plans.
He had killed before. But not on purpose. That was an accident. He kept telling himself that it was just like hunting. He did that all the time. The target came into view approaching the podium. Floyd's heart began to thump as the adrenaline kicked in. Was he really going to do this? Was he going to kill a man? The target had begun his speech. The other people in the room were listening intently, completely unaware of anything outside their little world.
Sweat began to run down Floyd's face as he took aim. He looked up to look at some flags hanging from the neighboring building. The wind was blowing to the east. He adjusted his aim. It was only 500 yards. A relatively easy shot. His rifle was zeroed in at 300 yards so he aimed just above the target. His heart was racing as his finger tightened on the trigger. His whole body was tense with anticipation. He held his breath. His finger pulled tighter and tighter until suddenly without warning the gun recoiled hard into his shoulder. He rolled over, panting as if he had just run several miles.
He tried to regain his composure and rolled back over, bringing the gun back to his shoulder and looking through the scope. He found the podium and there was his work. The man he had been hired to kill, lie dead blood rushing from the hole in his forehead. A man with a family, a home, a life, lay there his soul pouring out onto the ground. And with it went the soul of Floyd Lawton.