Chapter 1

The parade offered both cover and an incentive for his target to move to the window, where he could take a shot.

Some asked Yawn why he did it. They were usually idiots, so he saw no foul in killing the curious little twits. But if they were his employer, he was expected to answer questions no matter how remarkably stupid they may be. In such a situation, he always responded with: "Its what I'm good at."

Born on the war torn planet of Kalee, Yawn learned to be good from a young age. By his fifth summer, he was expected know how to assemble, load, shoot, clean, and disassemble a slug rifle. By his seventh summer, he could kill an enemy from five hundred meters away. The warring tribes of Kalee were a threat to his family, and so they had to be dealt with.

Yawn climbed the winding stairwell, but stopped when he reached a door bordered by sunlight that lead to the building's roof. He thoughtfully drew the blaster from its resting place on his belt, gripping it tightly in his four fingered claw before carefully pushing the door open.

Then in his fifteenth summer, the Huk began their invasion. The Huk, soulless bugs that they were, came to Kalee with the intent of pillaging the planet for all it was worth. Upon finding only the native people may turn a profit, the Huk began a swift act of shackling them into slavery. Yawn had been born into a war. And though that war had ended, though the Huk had long fled Kalee, Yawn never stopped fighting. It was what he was good at.

The roof was vacant, so Yawn pushed his blaster back into its holster. He set his briefcase down and clicked the locks open with a careful snap of his claws. The disassembled pieces of his rifle were held in place by squishy foam, the weapon nestled securely in the indentations. He assembled his rifle with familiar ease, barrel to grip, grip to shoulder stock, and the scope nestled on top.

His target was a Twi'lek by the name of Otha Ryniel, and was located approximately half a mile away. Information on her was provided by his employer. It wouldn't necessarily help kill her, but information was power, and Yawn liked to be safe.

A spoiled little princess who'd inherited a business empire when her father died of "mysterious causes". The contract had not been activated by a rival group, but from with in her own organization. She had taken the successful business and driven it into the ground. "Legitimate" businessmen were often his best customers, there was always a vice president who set his sights higher, or a disgruntled employee who felt he'd been unjustly passed over for a promotion. With Ryniel dead, someone would take her place. And if that someone had enemies who could afford the Kaleesh's services, a contract would be activated.

Laying down onto his belly, Yawn's eye found the rifle's scope. Far off Ryniel stood sipping wine before her apartment suite's window, which stretched from floor to ceiling. She was attractive. As tall and slender as any of her kind had a right to be. Her god had seen it fit to endow her healthily, but not to an obnoxious extent. She was the color of the sea, not quite green or blue, but a pigment of mixture. Attractive, as far as he could tell. A pity.

Intelligence stated the glass of her window was of a special production that would neutralize lasers and stop slugs from small or medium caliber rifles. For such a contract, Yawn was utilizing a specially made high powered rifle. He'd need to fire three shots. One would splinter and strain the glass. The second would shatter it. And the third was meant for Ryniel herself.

Breath in, breath out. Line the crosshairs. Compensate for wind, momentum loss, spin, velocity, even the planet's gravitational pull could obscure the shot. This was far from Yawn's first job, but he still calculated all variables. When ready, his forefinger found the rifle's trigger and gave it a gentle squeeze. The rifle roared and bucked into his shoulder. Yawn ejected the spent shell, took aim, and squeezed the trigger, before again ejecting. The shell clinked gently against the ground.

The third slug found its way into the Twi'lek's breast, exiting out of her back in a spray of blood, leaving a gaping hole where her heart should have been.

Not bad, Yawn decided. Perhaps a tad messy, he could hear the local authorities already buzzing through the streets. He disassembled his rifle and returned it to its nondescript carrying case, before gathering the spent shells and dropping them into his pocket. He climbed down the stairwell and disappeared into the bustling crowd. Their attention was completely on the parade. They didn't even notice him.