Breathe in.
Breathe out.
Block out all the outside sounds, all the screaming, all the gunfire. Your world is through the scope of the lens, sighting down the barrel at your target. You can't afford to miss.
One last breath to steady yourself. You see eyes turn to look at you through the magnified lens of the scope, see them narrow in suspicion. The mouth starts to open.
Your finger presses back on the trigger like it's done a hundred times before. Just enough pressure to trigger the firing mechanism, not enough to throw off your aim.
There's a crimson mist that explodes from the back of the target's head before they drop. Your world expands to include the feeling of the concrete pressing into your abdomen, the weight of the gun pressed into your shoulder like it was saving you from drowning, the knowledge that there is one less life in the world, thanks to you.
"Nice shot." A muffled voice on the radio, barely audible above the expletives being shouted at the street level. They'll be looking for you soon. You won't be there. You never are. Just a ghost in the city like you've always been since you were a kid. Overlooked. Ignored. Dirty.
You dismantle the gun with practiced hands, placing the pieces into their compact case before sliding it into your backpack. The rough canvas bag is as dirty as you are, and has survived just as much.
They're sending people to check out the buildings nearby. You can hear footsteps heading up the stairs. They'll check floor by floor, ripping apart any hiding place they can find. The fire escape isn't an option, but it's never been.
You check the alley to make sure no one's watching, then you take that leap of faith. You practiced it before the hit. You know the distance you have to go.
The case digs into your back as you roll on impact, absorbing the momentum. You ignore the pain; it's a distraction, meant to get you killed. The minute you get your feet under you, you're off towards the next rooftop, breath coming in small concentrated puffs like a steam engine. Three buildings over. That's where your exit is. That's where the roof leads into a blind alley maze that you know like the back of your hand.
Another leap, another roll. The gravel bites into your arm as if it knows what you've done, knows what you're running from, knows that you've taken another life for no reason other than his words. It's not important right now. Nothing is besides escape.
They've just reached the roof where you took the shot when you hit the edge of the last rooftop. Their howls of rage are music to your ears, but you don't look back until your feet hit the muddy ground, splashing a foul liquid on your pants.
He meets you at the agreed-upon place, grinning from ear to ear. "One helluva shot you took there." Of course he's happy. You've just lessened the competition by one. It was your suggestion to prevent losses that had you up there on that roof, your idea to get your hands dirty to spare some of the younger members. It had been a reckless call, one that could have gotten you killed, but he was willing to go along with it.
You try to mimic his smile. It doesn't quite reach your eyes, but he doesn't seem to notice or care. "The bastards won't be messing with our turf again!" He crows, clapping you on the shoulder, leading you away from the anger of the rival gang. You understand why it had to be done, but part of you is starting to wonder if you will ever be more than just a tool.
Life wasn't always like this. You remember having parents once upon a time. There was laughter and joy and kind words. But there is no kindness on the streets, no room for mercy in the world you live in. Their faces have been lost to you over the years, replaced by survival knowledge. How to clean a pistol. How to steady yourself against the recoil of the shot. How to navigate the streets and disappear into the crowds.
Your once brilliant red hair is covered in a layer of grime and dirt, turning it a dingy brown. You prefer it that way; it's less likely to catch light and give you away. It also makes you blend into the rest of the gang.
Blending in is how you survive in the streets. There's ambition in the gang leaders, but you know better than to challenge that. It's best to go along with them and save the questioning for important matters. You learned these things early on, when they found you huddled near a dumpster looking for food.
You were tested first. No weapons. Just spying. Information gathering. When you were older, they gave you an old pistol. You were a distraction, expendable. But you were a damn good shot. You practiced every chance you had.
They weren't stupid. They noticed that you rarely ever missed. You were sent out on more missions, not as a distraction, not as muscle, but as backup. You hid in the shadows, watching, waiting, and if things went south, you calmly took out the enemy while the more important members escaped.
When they started expanding, they found military supplies in a raid on another gang. Assault rifles. Medigel. Food. When they found the sniper rifle, there was a discussion on whether or not to use it. Some in the gang said they should sell it. Others said that the Reds should use it against their enemies. But who had sniper rifle training in a street gang?
They ended up giving you the rifle. Told you to find out more information about it, how to take care of it, what kind of ammunition it took. You researched it with all the free time you had, learned how to shoot with it. The first time you fired it, the kick nearly took your shoulder off because you weren't bracing it properly.
A number of the older people in the gang didn't like that you had the rifle. They saw it as a power play on your part, a way to move up the lines. After someone tried to slit your throat and managed to leave a 6-inch gash from eyebrow to cheek on your face, you started sleeping up on the rooftop with a knife. The gang leader told them that violence against you would not be tolerated, but it wasn't until your first few missions that people started leaving you alone. You supposed seeing someone's head reduced to bits in seconds in front of their eyes made them reconsider trying to kill you.
This last kill had been a former Red that had decided he didn't like the leadership and defected to another gang. He should have seen it coming, but he thought he could leave and survive. No one ever left the Reds and survived. It's why you're still here, following orders, trying to keep your head down.
Still, they keep you in reserve. You're their secret weapon, their ace in the hole, their last resort when all else fails. Any tool that is used too often loses its edge. That's why you're not called to service again until a few months later. You're given the location, told where to go, who to look for, when to shoot. Not many specifics - clothing, height, eye color. Less than normal.
You do your normal scouting ahead of time. Never fire from a location that you've never seen before. Know the ins and outs. All possible routes. Traffic patterns. Alternate escapes. It's kept you alive between being able to escape from retribution and keeping the gang leader happy. You're useful, an asset, but you keep your head down and never try to stir the pot. Politics get people killed - you are a tool. You're not kept around to think, you're kept around because you're the best shot.
And yet, you can't help but note where the Alliance recruiting station is. It's not useful information to you to do your job, but it's been catching your attention more and more. You find yourself pausing on the other side of the street to study the poster outside. See the stars. Join the Alliance military. The more practical part of you says to keep your head down and keep moving. But there's another part of you, the part that still wonders who your parents were. That part wants to know if life could be different. It asks that after every mission, and it's been getting louder.
You come to the leader of the Reds a day before the mission, ask for your gun and an extra sidearm. He looks at you quizzically: you've only ever needed the rifle before. He's never had reason to doubt you, though, and you're given a pistol 'just in case'.