(no subject)
The town is small, the inhabitants few. The kind of town where everybody knows each other, where businesses are small and people like it that way. The kind of place where space-travel is still spoken of like a myth, superstition and warnings hanging on every damning word. "Ain't right," they say. "Man weren't never meant to travel to th' stars. 'S not natural, 's not right." They're colonists all, born and bred on the planet they inhabit, descended from those that traveled the stars searching for a new home. Not one of them ever wants to see space up close, and not one of them ever has.
Until recently, that is.
Mordecai is perched on the side of the cliff, crouched in one of the many caves that pocket the ancient rock. It provides him with a good vantage point, allowing him to see down into the town with ease. The inhabitants are barely visible to him this high up, their town nestled in the shadow of the towering formation. They're insects to the naked eye from this distance, but when he brings up his rifle and looks through the scope he can practically count the specks of dirt on their faces.
He knows who he's looking for, and he knows where he'll be. His employer (for the moment) had set up a fake exchange, an opportunity the victim couldn't resist. So Mordecai waits, patiently counting the seconds go by as he observes these little people below him leading their little lives. He watches them buy and sell goods, he watches children playing in the streets, he watches women gossip and men drink. He stares down at them for hours, a fly on the wall, watching their tiny, pathetic lives unfolding.
He can't imagine living like that. Working a job every day, the same routine every day and every week? Waking up to the same faces every day, the same partner and the same co-workers and the same people in the streets? Knowing where your life is going, how you're going to get there, everything planned and prepared and nothing to do but play your part and wait?
God, he'd rather kill himself.
A flicker of movement, different from the rest, catches his eye, and he turns to follow it. A young man is hurrying down the street, hood up, hands in his pockets. He's clearly trying to blend in, but it only makes him stand out more. He's not from around here, a fact made obvious by the distrusting looks he gets, by the way people move away from him as he walks past. Mordecai knows it's his target. He follows him slowly, watching the way he moves. There's more impatience than nervousness in his footsteps, as if he wants to get in and out quickly, unwilling to wait more than scared for his life.
When the boy gets to the center of town, crowds bustling all around him, he stops and begins to look around. He's waiting for his contact, for somebody to come forward with the package so he can pay and go. But there's nobody there. Nobody but small-town folk with wary eyes and unwelcoming expressions. The boy begins to become more and more impatient, shifting nervously, waiting but unwilling to remain still. Cross-hairs on his victim's head, Mordecai takes his time. He wants the winds to be right, the crowd to part, the kill to be clean and perfect. He doesn't want this to take more than a single bullet.
Just as he's about to take the shot, something happens. The boy looks up. Maybe he catches the reflection of the scope, maybe he feels somebody watching him, Mordecai doesn't know. What he does know is two things: one, everything lines up perfectly at that exact moment. Winds die, crowds thin, the world around him goes quiet. And second? This is no man. When he sees the boy's face for the first time, Mordecai curses under his breath. A kid. A fucking kid, probably no older than sixteen, that's who they want dead?
It doesn't matter. Whatever moral objections Mordecai had to his job died a long time ago, and even as he's cursing his employer's name his finger is pulling the trigger. The sound is deafening as the bullet explodes from the end of the gun, closing the distance in a fraction of a second. Mordecai watches as the bullet finds its target, exploding out the back of his skull and leaving behind a corpse to topple to the floor. Even from way up high Mordecai can hear the terrified screaming, the horror at seeing something so sudden and violent and random break up their usual habits. He watches them all, some running, some screaming, others looking for the attacker, and eventually he grows bored. He slings his sniper rifle onto his back and begins to climb back up the face of the cliff, his expression as neutral and unreadable as ever. He's happy about the kill, but angry about something else entirely.
He agreed to kill a man, not a boy. He doesn't like being lied to, not even by the people who pay for his services.
It seems he's going to need to have a chat with his employer about the importance of honesty.
Until recently, that is.
Mordecai is perched on the side of the cliff, crouched in one of the many caves that pocket the ancient rock. It provides him with a good vantage point, allowing him to see down into the town with ease. The inhabitants are barely visible to him this high up, their town nestled in the shadow of the towering formation. They're insects to the naked eye from this distance, but when he brings up his rifle and looks through the scope he can practically count the specks of dirt on their faces.
He knows who he's looking for, and he knows where he'll be. His employer (for the moment) had set up a fake exchange, an opportunity the victim couldn't resist. So Mordecai waits, patiently counting the seconds go by as he observes these little people below him leading their little lives. He watches them buy and sell goods, he watches children playing in the streets, he watches women gossip and men drink. He stares down at them for hours, a fly on the wall, watching their tiny, pathetic lives unfolding.
He can't imagine living like that. Working a job every day, the same routine every day and every week? Waking up to the same faces every day, the same partner and the same co-workers and the same people in the streets? Knowing where your life is going, how you're going to get there, everything planned and prepared and nothing to do but play your part and wait?
God, he'd rather kill himself.
A flicker of movement, different from the rest, catches his eye, and he turns to follow it. A young man is hurrying down the street, hood up, hands in his pockets. He's clearly trying to blend in, but it only makes him stand out more. He's not from around here, a fact made obvious by the distrusting looks he gets, by the way people move away from him as he walks past. Mordecai knows it's his target. He follows him slowly, watching the way he moves. There's more impatience than nervousness in his footsteps, as if he wants to get in and out quickly, unwilling to wait more than scared for his life.
When the boy gets to the center of town, crowds bustling all around him, he stops and begins to look around. He's waiting for his contact, for somebody to come forward with the package so he can pay and go. But there's nobody there. Nobody but small-town folk with wary eyes and unwelcoming expressions. The boy begins to become more and more impatient, shifting nervously, waiting but unwilling to remain still. Cross-hairs on his victim's head, Mordecai takes his time. He wants the winds to be right, the crowd to part, the kill to be clean and perfect. He doesn't want this to take more than a single bullet.
Just as he's about to take the shot, something happens. The boy looks up. Maybe he catches the reflection of the scope, maybe he feels somebody watching him, Mordecai doesn't know. What he does know is two things: one, everything lines up perfectly at that exact moment. Winds die, crowds thin, the world around him goes quiet. And second? This is no man. When he sees the boy's face for the first time, Mordecai curses under his breath. A kid. A fucking kid, probably no older than sixteen, that's who they want dead?
It doesn't matter. Whatever moral objections Mordecai had to his job died a long time ago, and even as he's cursing his employer's name his finger is pulling the trigger. The sound is deafening as the bullet explodes from the end of the gun, closing the distance in a fraction of a second. Mordecai watches as the bullet finds its target, exploding out the back of his skull and leaving behind a corpse to topple to the floor. Even from way up high Mordecai can hear the terrified screaming, the horror at seeing something so sudden and violent and random break up their usual habits. He watches them all, some running, some screaming, others looking for the attacker, and eventually he grows bored. He slings his sniper rifle onto his back and begins to climb back up the face of the cliff, his expression as neutral and unreadable as ever. He's happy about the kill, but angry about something else entirely.
He agreed to kill a man, not a boy. He doesn't like being lied to, not even by the people who pay for his services.
It seems he's going to need to have a chat with his employer about the importance of honesty.