"Oh, that's bullshit!"

The main London compound was as good a place as any, Johnny found, to kick back and enjoy himself, and his melodious Irish vocabulary was already floating through the main room of the building as his thick, strong hands wrapped around a piece of plastic, furiously mashing buttons here and there as he struggled to save his pixelated friend from oblivion and failed, the cackling face of death claiming the animated sprite.

"Sonofabitch." he muttered with a roll of his eyes and pushed himself to his feet, making his way to the fridge and running a hand over his face. For a man who could probably have walked through the game fine himself, Johnny had remarkably little aptitude for such things, which was actually alright in the long run. Johnny was not a gamer.

Johnny was an assassin, like everyone else who worked here, and he was a damn good one at that.

It seemed as though the London base had been getting cherries of late-nice, easy picking missions that neither taxed nor kept interest. While Johnny had been on enough missions to get over his rookie's sense of achievement ('You're not winning medals, boyo, you're working'), but even he was starting to get bored with the missions he was given. It was one thing to not bitch and whine about a few cherries, but when all you're doing is picking off pigeons (or so it felt)...well, everybody gets a little bit on edge.

The temptation to knock back a cold beer was almost overwhelming, though instead he reached for the Dr. Pepper to try and maintain what little gaming edge he had, and went back to the couch to give it another try. He idly wondered if Balir was thinking about letting the London branch go to the newbies and shipping the old hands out, but he didn't dwell on it. Everything in due time.

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