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In a neat, cursive script, running smoothly around Sebastian's left wrist were the words 'Do you know who I am, Tiger?'
He can't remember the first time he was told what it said, or even who told him, though he suspects it was his mother. She had always loved the idea of soulmates and destiny; Sebastian had never understood how she could feel like that when she had been 'destined' to marry his father - her mark read 'who the fuck do you think you are?' The earliest memory he has of his own mark is from when he was seven, two days after his mother died and his father drank so much he still reeked the next morning. He had grabbed Sebastian's tiny arm, leaving thin red marks sitting over small purple bruises, and just stared at the words - obviously they had reminded him of something because, thirty minutes later, Sebastian was left to drag himself to bed and unable to move without feeling a soul-deep pain radiating from each and evey place his father had struck him. From that day on, he covered his mark with plasters, long sleeves and ratty brown leather bracelets.
As he grew up he decided that he really didn't want to think about what kind of situation would warrant someone asking if he 'knew who he was' but then he started to think that his habit of getting into fights is what would be the exact reason for someone saying that. He had honestly been a well behaved child, and then a snotty prick by the name of Cyril - fucking Cyril - had made a snide comment about his mum and it all sort of went tits up from there on out. Four years and three schools later, he got kicked out of school altogether. And kicked out of his house because he got kicked out of school, and because his dad was a bastard. He didn't cover his mark anymore, not overly bothered by who saw it.
Living on the streets turned out to be a lot harder than sixteen year old Sebastian had expeted so he decided that building a reputation for himself was the best way to survive, and he was still a kid so at the time beating the shit out of people seemed like a good idea. Until he got arrested for assult. He's not sure what happened but somehow he ended up leaving the police station the next morning with no charges against him and a not-quite 'discussion' about the pros of him joining the military.
"Listen, mate, I get you've had it rough but I have to make sure that you get fighting isn't the answer. You got lucky this time but next time you won't. You need to take control of your life and make something of it ,yeah? I got you this leaflet and I want you to read it, alright?" The officer was barely older than him and the idea of actually accepting life advice from him was laughable so he just grunted as he walked out.
Four years later, at aged twenty-one, he was one of the most skilled snipers Her Majesty's Armed Forces had ever seen, and one of the luckiest too. It was sort of a running joke in his unit that he could get away with anything because good god did that man know how to push his luck. His superior officers had never met anyone who could talk back like Sebastian could and they had definitely never met anyone who could go from nought to a hundred with his fists so quickly, either. But, if being an asshole and getting away with it wasn't proof enough of his luck, the story behind Sebastian's soon to be nickname is a true testament to it.
It was mid-afternoon, the sun was hammering down and Sebastian was just trying to do some exercise when he heard a quiet noise above the hum of the heat and when he looked around, he saw a tiger making it's way cautiously into the encampment. It's stripes seemed distorted as they hung off of it - it was too skinny, he didn't need to be a genius to know that, but it was still a big fucking animal that was slowly approaching the sleeping form of Benny. If asked, Sebastian would tell you he had no idea why he did what he did next, because he truly does not know what possessed him. Picking up a hefty rock from beside him, he hurled it towards the tiger and, obviously, the tiger turned to him, moving faster now, gathering speed as it pounced.
When he opened his eyes he saw the tiger, limp-running away and Benny coming to drag him to his feet - all the others who had gathered around him still seemed shocked by the fact he had fought off an actual tiger. He didn't stay standing for long though and slumped back to the floor, wiping blood repeatedly out of his left eye and spitting some into the dirt next to him. He went to wipe his face more but a firm hand gripped his wrist, pulling it away before tugging at the open wounds on his face.
"You're lucky - it just missed your eye but you're going to need a lot of stitches. You will have some nasty scars, too," he said, guiding Sebastian over to the medical tent and getting to work.
Over the next few weeks he started to find his nickname very fucking annoying, particularly when his mates chorused 'tigers don't care about the opinions of sheep' every time one of their superior officers gave him a talking to and singing Eye of the Tiger at every opportunity. And the worst part was that he couldn't even get away because he wasn't allowed to do shit. So, really, if you took into account all of this, it was only logical that he would end up breaking his lieutenant's nose and find himself back on the streets with nothing to his name except a dishonourable discharge and three scars running from his left temple to the right side of his jaw.
---
'Should I give a fuck who you are?'
Jim had always worn his soulmark like a badge. No one ever told him what it said, for obvious reasons but he was a clever child, he could read and articulate way beyond his years so when seven year old Jim walked into the dinning room, looked his mother in the eye and stuttered out, 'should I give a f-fuck who you are?' before grinning at her, no one should have been surprised. That had been an interesting and pointless conversation because despite his mother telling him, 'Good boys shouldn't use such bad words,' he still continued to say this well into his early teens.
He was thirteen when he pulled off his first heist. It was in a corner shop, he lead a team of four and they got away with a new box of ready salted pringles, a case of red bull and, of course, a box of own brand chocolate bars because they're way better than the expensive shit. They so very nearly got caught, a brawl in the pub opposite bringing two police cars screeching to a halt in the road, but they somehow managed to slip away and made a fairly good profit on their goods. His second one was a year later and went a lot better. Him and four others again, this time a small shop in the high street from which they successfully took two cases of cigarettes to sell; two boxes of lighters because he was a good businessman and knew how to make a good sale; three cases of wine carefully stacked in a shopping trolley, and a nice new set of knives for himself.
By sixteen he has heard the phrase 'should I give a fuck who you are?' several times - not surprising when you looked at his life. He had the beginnings of a small network, maybe twenty or so people in place around his neighbourhood and it was slowly growing. Whilst those on the outskirts of his web mainly just roughed people up a little or pulled off the robberies that Jim no longer did himself, those higher up dealt with anyone who tried to take over Jim's patch. They would find themselves face down on the concrete, a muddy black boot on their neck until Jim sauntered over and crouched down, saying in a teasing voice, 'do you know who I am?' He started giggling childishly every time they responded with the words inked on his wrist.
Two days after he turned seventeen, his second in command got arrested for being a stupid prick who deserves everything coming to him - who would leave a gun in the front seat of their stolen astra? And who would steal a fucking astra? He almost grassed but somehow the evidence against him got lost so he walked - Jim has no idea how that happened, and when his second was found bloodied and bruised in an alleyway, well, it certainly couldn't be traced back to Jim.
The first time he killed a man was a week after his mother had died - or been murdered during a break in, to be specific. It had been a rough week to say the least. The police had been poking around, working off a tip some fuckwit had decided to bestow upon them. He's sure that if he spoke to the many councillors he was directed to they would say something about having time to grieve or process or 'work through it'. But he didn't speak to them because he had his own way of 'working through it', which was good for Jim, but wasn't quite as good for the imbecile who had not only come into his town, but had hurt his mother. He got a call late on the Thursday.
"We've got 'im, boss."
"I'll be five minutes. If he has so much one broken bone, I will make you regret it."
"Yes, boss."
When he arrived, two of his men were standing a little too rigidly whilst the third was stood with a foot on the neck of a crying prick.
"Hmm, a broken finger. Too bad. I apologise..." he trailed off, crouching down and looking expectantly into teary eyes.
"David," he choked out.
"David. Do you know who I am, David?" The look of horror, the colour visibly draining from his face and the way he physically gagged caused Jim to laugh sardonically before he continued.
"You might know my mother too - you were acquainted just a few days ago. Do you remember that, David?" he hissed as he used one gloved hand to pull a knife from his inside pocket.
He managed to avoid getting blood on most of his clothes, only a few drops landed on his coat but he would still have to burn it. He threw the knife on the floor and tossed his coat to the man closest to him, the gloves shoved in the pocket.
"Burn this. Do not touch that knife - it's going to get the cretin who snitched arrested. The only reason I'm letting you off today is because you're not worth the trouble it'll take to scrape you off the pavement."
In the following years his business expanded to include blackmail, kidnapping and assassinations. The only problem was there the unfortunately small pool of assassins to choose from - something about not wanting to kill innocent people or kill for money or other equally boring excuses.
And that's when he discovered recently discharged - sorry, dishonoably discarged Sebastian Moran.
---
Sebastian was not having a good week. It was nothing specific, really, it was just that being homeless is fucking shit and all of his stuff was set on fire; now all he wanted was to treat himself to a new pack of fags and maybe a drink. The route was familiar, the shadows, the dripping of the drains, so the two, quiet sets of footsteps he heard on his way back sounded loud and clear as an alert he was being followed, which was not doing anything to elevate his mood. He stopped walking and rolled his shoulders.
"What do you want?"
He spun around, arms raised in defence when he heard them run forwards, blocking the initial attack before launching himself forwards. He managed to knock one bloke on his arse just as he heard two, maybe three more approaching from behind. So, yeah, over all it hadn't been a great week but seeing all five of his attackers unconscious on the ground made it a little better. That was until he heard a sixth person approach, clapping slowly. Sebastian growled and pivoted, grabbing the condescending fuck by his collar and slamming him up against the damp brick work.
"Do you know who I am, Tiger?" the man said, eyeing the scars on his face and the bodies on the floor, and Sebastian very nearly punched him in the jaw because he sounded like he needed it and no one had ever obliged. Sebastian's eyes scanned the body in front of him, taking in his short, almost wiry frame, his vey expensive looking suit, and his shit eating grin. Sebastian put a cigarette between his lips, ignoring the sting of his split lip, and blew the smoke into his face.
"Should I give a fuck who you are?" he said through another exhale.
"The names Moriarty, and you should really show me more respect. You can start by letting go of me." The man - Moriarty - looked pointedly at where Sebastian still had his arm firmly pressed to his chest and Sebastian shrugged, letting go and taking half a step back.
"Much appreciated, I do hate wrinkling my suits. You'd do well to remember that, when you work for me."
"When I work for you?" Sebastian laughed incredulously.
"Naturally. I know all about you, Sebastian Moran. You have a skill set that I can use and, in return, I can offer you the opportunity to not be homeless." Moriarty slid his hands into his pockets and rocked on his heels, which seemed to be his equivalent of twiddling his thumbs in boredom.
Sebastian flicked his fag butt away. "Suppose I don't want this job, what then?"
"Seeing as you do want this job I think it best not to waste my time. You'll soon learn that I'm not a very patient man." He turned on his heel, walking back the way he came, only pausing briefly to call out, "Come along now, Tiger. Work to do."