"All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players. They have their exits and their entrances, and one man in his time plays many parts[.]" – William Shakespeare

Ondine squinted into the sight of her rifle. From her perch on the rooftop she had a clear view of everything in the town square, from the shiny new bank at one end to the colonial church at the other. A man was pacing in front of the church, speaking and waving his arms dramatically, sallow-faced townspeople huddled behind him. Hostages.

According to the local police, the man had been considered, until recently, a harmless eccentric. He was a religious fundamentalist with psychological problems that had come to light with the murder of the town priest. They'd disagreed on issues of theology, argued, and the priest had wound up dead in a pew. Unfortunately, no proof could be found to tie the man to the murder, so he'd gone free, and now he held the entire congregation captive, all the while preaching his anomalous word, in front of the church.

Ondine had been placed on the roof of the tallest building in the square, ordered to keep him in her sights, but not to shoot unless instructed. She'd been waiting for the go-ahead for over an hour. Negotiations weren't going well. The lead negotiator had tried everything in the book, and had now simply disintegrated to pleading. The man paid him no notice, pacing and waving his arms like he was performing the lead in a melodrama, just as he had been since he'd taken his captives.

A voice crackled over her ear-monitor. "Agent Gabor; Agent Hotchner," the voice identified itself, "Agents Morgan, Prentiss and I are going to try to disarm the suspect. If he threatens any of the hostages and you have the shot, take it."

"10-4," replied Ondine though the small radio on her wrist. She hunched back into position. She had a clear shot, just as she'd had all day, only now she had permission to shoot. This part always made her nervous. What if she missed, and the suspect was able to harm someone? What if she hit someone else? In this way she felt an odd kind of kinship with the pacing man below; she felt like an actor playing a part. She wasn't a sniper, sniping was just a part she played in the story of her life to be able to pay the bills.

Sweat beaded on her brow, adding to the sweat that was already on her back and in her armpits from the hot midday sun. Through the sight of her stealth recon scout, she could see Hotchner, Morgan and Prentiss, guns cocked and poised to fire, approaching the suspect. They were speaking, but Ondine was too far away to hear any of what they said.

The suspect obviously did, however, for he immediately stopped speaking and waving his arms, and pointed the semi-automatic machine gun he'd had strapped to his back at them. The danger to her fellow agents made her finger twitch involuntarily on the trigger, the familial affection for all agents forged by time in the FBI academy causing instinctual alarms to go off in her consciousness. She was a professional, however, and so resisted the urge to shoot. Her instructions had been to wait until one of the hostages was threatened, and that was what she would do.

The calm, steady gait the agents below kept as they approached the suspect reminded her that they were professionals, too. They would also shoot him if they needed to. It reassured Ondine to know that anyone who didn't have to was unlikely to die that day.

And then it happened. Apparently, Agent Hotchner had finally gotten too close, because the man reached behind himself and grabbed the first hostage he could reach. The small boy quailed as the muzzle of the gun that had been pointing at the agents turned to lean against his temple. Ondine could see the suspect speaking, and she didn't need to hear him to know what he was saying.

A voice crackled franticly over the monitor, but Ondine didn't hear it. Her finger pulled the trigger. A soft zapping noise escaped the silencer that gagged the mouth of her rifle as the bullet rushed towards the suspect. It made perfect contact, exploding through the man's frontal cortex, exiting his occipital lobe and finally burying itself in the dirt behind him. The lifeless body crumpled around the gore-spattered boy.

A wave of relief washed over Ondine, but it was quickly followed by repugnance at what she had done. Another person had died by her hand.

Far below, the little boy began to wail under the bright, hot Nevada sun.