Cripes, it's windy up here.

I grimace as I shift and change position, the cold rooftop piercing through my layers of clothing. The vantage point I am afforded by the roof of the hotel building is unparalleled, but the frigid air stinging my face and hand is enough to make me reconsider my strategy.

Two blocks away and a thousand feet below, a crowd begins to gather. I watch the proceedings with a mild interest, most of my attention diverted towards the calibrations scrolling across my bionic eye. Calculations playing the height and distance against the ever-changing wind run over and over, fine-tuning my software for the eventual shot. I munch on a candy bar while I wait, crumpling up the wrapper and disposing of it by blasting it into cinders and shaking the blackened particles out into the wind. Won't be much longer, now.

The president's office building glints silver beneath Krygo's two suns. The great, sweeping lawn is teeming with people, citizens all gathered to hear Phibbius' address. Little do they know that they'll soon bear witness to something much, much bigger. I re-cross my legs and lean out over the roof's ledge, studying the ant-like figures swarming over the grounds and the stage set before the front entrance of the city hall. My gaze moves from the ground up the side of the building, narrowing in on the decorative ledges protruding from the windows. If a chunk of that ledge were to break loose it could cause some real damage.

A hundred conversations rise and swell in the gusting wind, giving way to riotous applause as Phibbius steps up to the podium. The president's smile is blinding even at this distance.

I lower myself down onto my stomach, gasping a little as the cold worms its way through my clothes. I steady my breathing and tap my temple to zoom in closer, keeping myself as still as possible in order to concentrate on the scene below. Phibbius's shadowy security detail is led by Captain Bronte, his hulking figure unmistakable and never more than an arms-reach of his employer. I concentrate on the captain's wide-legged stance and the way his distrusting gaze sweeps across the cheering crowd, pressing myself further into the cold roof as he scans the perimeter. It's impossible, of course, for him to spot me at this distance but it never hurts to take precautions.

My com finally finishes its calculations, beeping and flashing a target across my vision. I extend my arm, clenching my hand into a fist and leveling it at my target. Phibbius' voice is lost to the wind but whatever he is saying seems to spur the crowd into greater and greater fits of rapture. I tap my temple again to tune out the distracting scene and instead focus on the bullseye painted before my bionic eye.

"Come on, come on." I mutter to myself. "Steady."

The wind fights me as I strain to align my arm with the target. I use my human arm to pin my opposite wrist against the roof, gritting my teeth and drawing up my shoulders as the bullseye blinks from red to green.

Don't think. Just shoot.

"Now." I whisper.

A blue blast erupts from my wrist, streaking across the sky towards my target. Light explodes around the window across from me, a second later reverberating from the impact and emitting an ominous crack.

I keep my eyes peeled as the dust clears and a lightning bolt incision reveals itself in the side of the building directly above the president. Time slows as shards of concrete loose themselves from the window ledge, finally giving way to a substantial chunk of free-falling projectile. The piece of debris slips into its deadly trajectory, hurtling on the exact path I intended. I remain stock still, barely breathing as I wait for the end.

Phibbius waves his arms madly, completely oblivious to his impending doom. The instant speeds up, slows down then all but stops just as the rock grazes the tufts of his pillowy white hair.

And then, someone shoves him out of the way.

Blood curdling screams rip through the air. First one, and then dozens as people scramble and surge towards the stage. I rub my dry eyes as I fight to make sense of the chaos, tapping my temple in a vain attempt to distinguish Phibbius' vitals from beneath the crowd. Dozens of shapeless orange-red bodies flit before me, but Phibbius' name doesn't come up.

"Where are you?" I growl, teetering dangerously on the roof's edge while I scan.

I hit him, I must have. My calculations were precise, my hit was clean, there was no way he could have...

There he is. The words VERNON T. PHIBBIUS flash up on my screen, along with an above-normal heart rate.

He's alive.

I release a stream of choice expletives, flinging myself back from the ledge and extending my arm. I flip over to my playback option and spin a dial, glaring angrily at the recorded scene. I scrub the dial forwards and back, feeling my face grow hot as I replay the moment of impact.

A pair of black-gloved hands wrap themselves around Phibbius' upper-arms, pulling him over sideways just as the brick smashes through the podium. The old president tumbles head-over-teakettle and Captain Bronte falls on top of him, shielding Phibbius with his own body.

What. The. Fuck.

How the hell did he see that coming? I squeeze my eyes shut and fight the urge to scream. It seems improbable, no... impossible that he could push the president out of the way in time. That brick was travelling incredibly fast and I struck high enough up the building that no one should have noticed a piece coming loose. So, how...

I crawl to the edge of the roof again, forgetting about the cold as I slowly ease my head over the ledge and peer down. Someone has helped Phibbius to his feet and he is dusting himself off, shaking off the many hands clambering to help him. His security has pressed themselves in around the president and are hurrying him towards a waiting vehicle. Dristan Bronte hangs back, his arms crossed in front of his chest as he scans city hall's exterior. I watch him for a full minute, weighing the pros and cons of blasting him away, right here.

With a frustrated sigh I sink back down and out of sight. My mission is to make Phibbius' death look like accidental; a captain with a hole through his head will look suspicious, no matter which way I spin it. I just have to accept that this wasn't my hit and think of a new plan.

Shake it off, Trig. You've missed shots before, it's no big deal. I underestimated Dristan Bronte, he's proven himself quicker than the other steroid-fueled toadies I've come up against. No matter. I will treat this piece of data like any other and store it away for later analysis.

You may have caught a break today, Phibbius but your luck is running out.

High Priestess Mira will have her planet.

And I never miss twice.

* * * * *

"What do you mean, you missed?"

I cringe as Casper's voice screeches across the line. Even a hundred light years away, he still manages to reverberate from every corner of my posh hotel room. I spin a dial on my arm to lower the volume, sinking down into the chair in front of the desk and flipping open my notebook.

"It wasn't my fault." I grumble. "Phibbius has tighter security than I counted on."

"Does anyone know that you're there? Did anyone see you?" Casper doesn't bother waiting for me to finish speaking before shouting his demands.

"No and no." I lower the volume a bit more, tapping away on the notebook and bringing up the console. Annoyance prickles beneath my skin. "It was a fluke, is all. Some brown-nosing underling got lucky. Trust me, it won't happen again."

"It better not." Casper mutters. My notebook screen flashes, going dark momentarily before flickering back to life. Casper's familiar features swim into focus and I at once recognize the irritated expression crossing his face. His tie is loosened and his jacket has been carefully folded and placed on the chair behind him- the only item out of place in his otherwise pristine hotel room.

"Would you relax?" I sit back in my seat, folding my arms in front of my chest. "Have a drink or something."

Casper reaches forward, grabbing something just out of view of the camera. He holds up a tumbler of scotch and takes a healthy draught, the cubes of ice clinking together. "Way ahead of you."

I dip my chin so he won't see my grin, kicking off my boots and stretching out my legs. "Yet another glamorous night on the road, huh?"

"This planet is a wasteland." Casper pours himself another drink from a nearly-empty bottle. "Every girl has at least three heads, each one uglier than the last."

"You should be so lucky." I say dryly. "The conversation must be three times as stimulating."

He wipes his chin with the back of his wrist. "I get enough conversation from you."

"So sweet."

"I just wish you'd give me some good news." Casper sighs heavily. "The High Priestess has been asking after your progress."

"It's only been a couple of days, give me a break." I roll my eyes. "This isn't something that you want to rush."

"I'm not going to tell you how to conduct your business, Trig." Casper's haughty tone rings clear across the staticy connection. "I'm just warning you that our employer is not a patient woman."

"So? Put her off." I shrug. "This is supposed to be your end of the deal, isn't it? Tell her I'm working on it and that it won't be much longer."

His face colours and he hides it behind his drink. I let the silence drag on between us, flicking a switch on my arm absently. Finally, Casper lowers his glass and runs a hand through his hair, pushing the strands back into place self-consciously.

"So, what's the new plan, then?" He asks. "Let me hear it."

"It's quite simple, actually. I should have done it in the first place." I answer slowly, turning the idea over in my mind as I speak. "Phibbius and his convoy drive through the main square every day at the same time. If I can gain access to his car then I can make some...modifications."

Casper is nodding. "And you can guarantee that a wreck will finish him off?"

"I can't guarantee anything." I say, annoyed. "It's assassination, not math. This isn't an exact science."

"But don't your..." Casper seems stuck on the next word. "...augmentations let you...I don't know, compute the outcome?"

"It doesn't work like that." I snap. "People are unpredictable and I'm not a robot."

"Okay, okay whatever." The edge of Casper's mouth lifts a little at my outburst. "Don't get your bionic panties in a bunch."

"I think we're done here." I reach for the lid of my notebook. "I'll call you after I've had a chance to tamper with the president's car."

"Wait, don't go yet." Casper whines. "I miss you. Are you wearing that little red-"

"Good night, Casper." I cut him off, slamming the notebook shut. At once, the line goes dead and I am left in silence. I rub the back of my neck and roll my head back, stretching out my tense muscles.

The afternoon's events replay over and over in my mind's-eye, memorized after countless viewings of the recording. Captain Bronte shoves Phibbius out of the way an instant before the brick makes impact, running forward and slamming into the president without ever glancing up. His reflexes are uncanny, almost inhuman. I flip open my notebook again, typing his name hurriedly into the console. There are infuriatingly few results, only a list of achievements and a brief family history. I learn that Dristan Bronte's father was a captain also, deceased but posthumourosly decorated with several honours after serving in Krygo's war against the Ulas galaxy. It appears that Dristan served during the same war but was sent home early for undisclosed reasons.

My brow furrows as I click into the Krygo-Ulas conflict. Ulas is a relatively unknown and distant star system; this is the first news I've heard of it since I began working as a bounty hunter. I scan through the articles, soaking up the gist of the history. Nearly ten years ago Ulas threatened to invade Krygo and president Phibbius (rightly) responded with a fleet of starships. The article mentions Krygo's legendary wealth numerous times, as well as a long history of fighting off systems who would seek to pilfer their resources. My eyes glaze over as I read page after page of dry information, only coming back into focus when a familiar name catches my attention.

Mira.

She was born in Ulas and is apparently one of the few success stories to come out of the otherwise barren quasar. I spend a few minutes clicking around, searching for the reason for the High Priestess' bionics. Unsurprisingly, I find nothing but a few poorly-sourced articles and some gossip rags, all of which fail to mention her being a cyborg. It seems odd that this detail about such a high-profile person would be stricken from the public record, but I suppose that Mira is powerful enough to control the flow of information.

I soon lose track of the hour, stopping only when the words before me begin to fade and blur. Leaning back in my chair, I rub my dry eyes with my palms, pushing hard enough to feel the sting. A million new details struggle to align themselves in my mind: Mira's home galaxy having a shady history with Krygo. Dristan Bronte's dead father and his subsequent dismissal from service. The High Priestess' relentless conquering of every known planet this side of the star system.

It doesn't matter. It shouldn't matter. It isn't any concern of mine what these people choose to bicker over; I determined long ago that caring about people and their problems would only ever end in trouble. Since taking up bounty hunting I've made a point of keeping my nose firmly entrenched in nobody's business but my own and ten years on, I'm still breathing.

If only my human memory were as easy to wipe as my hard drive. I stand abruptly, my chair rolling back as I stalk over to the bed and flop down onto it. Squeezing my eyes shut tight, I tap my temple and force myself to focus on the music streaming from some distant satellite. The classical melody intermingles with my thoughts and I eventually slip into that strange place between sleep and consciousness, floating on a plane of reliving the things I cannot change.

==============================

Chapter illustration by Pheberoni on Deviantart