One Shot
The rain fell. It poured down, in droves, obscuring all the small details, painting the world shades of gray. Horrible weather, most would say. At that moment, he would agree with them. He was waiting, and the rain did not help his patience.
As he sat there, water dripping off him, he pondered: why? But then again, why not? He knew that he shouldn’t ask. That it wasn’t expected of him. That asking would only cause trouble. So he merely accepted the fact that this was his fate, and waited.
For hours he sat, waiting for that moment. That one perfect moment when the galaxy aligned just so, and made everything seem like it was brought into focus. He was prepared for when it will happen. He knows he is.
Eventually, the night stirred. Shapes, indistinct, were seen as blurs. Voices, the occasional shout, but most often that low whisper. It didn’t matter. The voices, the movement, were all meaningless in the machine: they are but cogs, turning relentlessly forward.
Gradually, the movement ceased and the voices hushed. To the untrained eye it would appear as though the street was deserted; but he knew better than that. He had been here before, for the past week, learning the schedule. It was like clockwork; the voices, the silence then the stillness. He knew they waited, to see if the coast was clear.
A light broke the darkness; a fast-moving figure, too shadowy to make out features. But he knew. He didn’t need to see. He hefted his sniper, settled in and peered through the scope.
He wondered; who was he? Does he have a family; wife, kids? Is he loved? Does he love? He knew it wouldn’t matter, that that would soon be all in the past tense, but he thought it all the same.
He felt it; the moment. Without further hesitation he squeezed the trigger, spitting red fire into the night. The figure, previously indistinct, was briefly illuminated, showing a face, registering nothing but surprise. The figure fell, the dull thud the only sound in the night beyond the rain.
He left; he didn’t need to see the chaos, see the panicking of the mark’s associates; he didn’t that risk or satisfaction. He felt only a twinge of guilt, which was rapidly pushed aside. He knew that there was no place for emotions in this game. He left; turned on his heel and strode away; leaving nothing but the faint smell of blaster fire.
The rain still fell.
