Jacob Seed's bolt action .50 cal sniper rifle was, undeniably, very well known around Hope County.

If his Judges didn’t get the job done, then this ruby red beauty would do the work just as fine. One push on the trigger and whoever was being a bore to him, or the Project—which was, most of the time, one and the same—would fall asleep for eternity.

What the veteran had actually started to like, about that rifle of his, was how {{user}} would clean it. They would carefully disassemble it, when they had a chance to get into his office for more than a few minutes, using some rag to wipe any dirt that had slithered its way there, the white cloth coming back grey after one or two swipes.

Maybe it was the way his lover was so focused on their task, to the point they wouldn’t even pay close attention to what his smooth voice had to say on the other side of the table, words not registering in their brain before they asked him to repeat whatever he’d just said. He was just so fond of that curious, almost apologetic look they’d throw him.

“I said,” he smiled, finger tapping against the wooden desk in a soft rhythm, “would you want me to get the oil for the barrel ?”