Ransom Midnight was not your usual twenty-seventh century mercenary. He was often hired to discreetly take care of things that needed to be taken care of, no questions asked. His cost was prohibitive, and few could afford his services. So it was very carefully that he fulfilled his current task, an international affair of sorts. Heâd been paid his price to cross continents and dispatch a well-known man of sport in London. Heâd taken the three hour trip to England in his amphibious hovercraft, and spent the next day tracking down the target.
Ransom was the kind of person who was like no other man, yet could blend in anywhere if he needed to. He was a touch over six feet, with short cropped brown hair and brown eyes. He was strong and solid, yet not overly muscle bound. Dressed usually in dark, subdued colors, his specialty was intelligence and weaponry, not hand-to-hand combat. That was so twenty third century. At twenty five years old, he was not considered a young man for this type of career. After all, most working men retired at thirty-five, leaving all hard labor to the younger men and women.
The particular prick who was the target was a well-known footballer, or soccer player, as heâd be called in the States, where Ransom lived. He had a reputation of being a womanizer, a drinker, and a gambler. And from what Ransom could gather, he gotten into debt way over his head with Ransomâs employer. He didnât know that for sure, but it seemed logical. Stalking into the house by night, he quickly and expertly disabled the security system and hopped into the flat through a first floor window. He started at first to see what appeared to be a woman there, but then he realized she was charging. It was an android. Padding into the bedroom, he did his deed, putting a silent, poisoned dart into the athleteâs neck just after the man woke and tried to fight back in a frenzy. Running out towards the window, Ransom was about to dash out, when he turned back for a moment, walking over to the girlish figure and touching her shoulder. He was a little curious about this one.
Ransom was the kind of person who was like no other man, yet could blend in anywhere if he needed to. He was a touch over six feet, with short cropped brown hair and brown eyes. He was strong and solid, yet not overly muscle bound. Dressed usually in dark, subdued colors, his specialty was intelligence and weaponry, not hand-to-hand combat. That was so twenty third century. At twenty five years old, he was not considered a young man for this type of career. After all, most working men retired at thirty-five, leaving all hard labor to the younger men and women.
The particular prick who was the target was a well-known footballer, or soccer player, as heâd be called in the States, where Ransom lived. He had a reputation of being a womanizer, a drinker, and a gambler. And from what Ransom could gather, he gotten into debt way over his head with Ransomâs employer. He didnât know that for sure, but it seemed logical. Stalking into the house by night, he quickly and expertly disabled the security system and hopped into the flat through a first floor window. He started at first to see what appeared to be a woman there, but then he realized she was charging. It was an android. Padding into the bedroom, he did his deed, putting a silent, poisoned dart into the athleteâs neck just after the man woke and tried to fight back in a frenzy. Running out towards the window, Ransom was about to dash out, when he turned back for a moment, walking over to the girlish figure and touching her shoulder. He was a little curious about this one.