A/N: Chapter 4 comes with a completely new first section, as the original description of the hit just didn't do it for me. This should be a bit more of an insight.

oOo

The view over the city from the top of the Terminus Apartment building was spectacular. Nestled proudly between Sector Fives' railway station and hectic business district, its mass of quicksilver windows and shining steel bore testament to the growing prosperity of Midgar. Those fortunate enough to live in the upper floors were able to look out over the sprawling metropolis, with its built-up areas bisected by lush green parks, all leading to the towering hub that was the headquarters of Shinra Electric Power Company. It was getting on for early evening, and people were beginning to stream out onto the streets after a hard days' work, talking, laughing, living.

Vincent didn't see any of it.

He'd been lying prone on the roof for hours, just waiting. Hard concrete wasn't exactly the most luxurious surface on which to pass an afternoon, but for a Turk sharpshooter, comfort didn't enter into the equation. So he simply ignored any protests his body had made until they slunk off in defeat, though these days they didn't put up much of a fight – he'd done enough of these assignments now that it was almost second nature.

Instead, all his attention was focused on a point over half a mile away. Through the targeting reticule of his rifle, he could see with perfect clarity the street in front of one of the business district buildings. Already a throng of employees were bustling in and out of the main doors, some changing shifts, others eager to get home to family. Stock resting on a sandbag for stability, he kept his gaze fixed on the entrance, unwavering. Next to him, a black briefcase lay opened but empty, holes inside a foam shell being the only clue as to what it had contained.

From this height, the excited buzzing of a packed city was muted down to a background hum. Otherwise, all was quiet. Occasionally Vincent used one of the other Turks as a spotter, but only for the kind of shots that were pushing the very limits of his range and ability. None of them really had the temperament for the extended periods of inactivity these jobs entailed. Linden in particular, whilst having an excellent eye for calculating distance and lead times for moving targets, unfortunately came with an extremely low boredom threshold. The one and only time he'd been called upon to perform spotting duty, Vincent had wanted to throttle him after half an hour. After two, he was considering using the rifle on his colleague, and by three he would have happily turned it on himself had he been able.

This was a comparatively simple job for him, though sitting at a range of around 1000 yards there weren't very many men in the world who'd call it that. Vincent had therefore opted to go it alone; the solitude wasn't something that bothered him, and patience was something he possessed in spades.

The bolt-action rifle only contained a single bullet. He disliked using more than one per target – he subscribed to the theorem "one shot, one kill". Not to mention multiple shots increased the likelihood of someone locating his position and returning fire, and on these occasions he had no desire to be found. To this end, the gun was custom made by Shinra's Weapons Department and calibrated for his own personal use. Combined with the extensive training he'd received upon joining the elite group, he couldn't recall a time when he'd ever needed a second bullet. Each Turk tended to have an area of expertise that they excelled in; there was a very good reason why assassination was Vincent's forte.

Somewhere nearby, a clock struck the hour. Vincent's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly, homing in on that one specific point. It was time. People by nature are creatures of habit, they have set routines that they unconsciously stick to. Ready to be exploited. He willed himself to absolute stillness.

Thump.

The entrance doors gaped open again, and spat out a tall, stocky man, dressed in an expensive pinstriped suit and an air of self-importance, talking animatedly on a PHS. Around him milled numerous lackeys, carrying a briefcases or clutching bundles of paper. And still the flow of workers continued unabated on the pavement, jostling past in the evening rush.

Thump.

The arrival had good cause to look exude such confidence. He was a major player in Midgar, with strong enough business acumen to rival Shinra himself; a fact not unnoticed by several key figures in the city. A family man, trading off a skilfully polished image, he'd risen to new heights over recent months. Ugly rumours of industrial espionage abound, but that gleaming public face had so far managed to stay unblemished. Not that Vincent cared one way or the other. The sharpshooter was simply the weapon used to complete a task, he didn't decide the target or debate the morality of the action.

Thump.

A good sniper took his shot between breaths. The best took it between heartbeats. For a while when he was younger, he'd used anti-anxiety pills to slow his heart rate down during missions. He didn't need to any more, instead it was as if for a few brief seconds the entire world slowed down around him, everyone moving through treacle.

Thump.

Range, wind speed, direction, temperature, air pressure, movement of the target – it all flashed through his brain as a matter of reflex. He could think about them now without thinking about them, gauging and weighing up all the factors in the blink of an eye.

The businessman laughed as he spoke into his phone.

Thump.

The pad of Vincent's finger caressed the trigger.

Thump.

Crack.

Thump.

A fountain of red blossomed from the mans' forehead. The street erupted in shouts and screams, audible from even the apartment block roof, as the mass of humanity scattered to the four winds.

And Vincent felt nothing.

oOo

He awoke with a start. Silence. And darkness. All he could hear was his own slightly laboured breathing. Taking a few moments to adjust while his brain kicked into gear, he realised that he had been dreaming. Looking over at his alarm clock, he noted with a sinking feeling that it was just past three in the morning.

"Damnit."

Rubbing his eyes he flopped back onto the pillow and stared blankly at the ceiling. This hadn't happened for a while. It had been a long time since one of his assignments had come back to him at night, he'd thought he was over that hurdle.

Contrary to what the general populace believed, the Turks were not totally unaffected by the sometimes violent nature of their work. Naturally the men recruited to the job were of a certain disposition to begin with – not violently psychopathic as some would have expected, but strong enough to be able to do what needed to be done in difficult circumstances. Intellect was a prerequisite as their tasks ranged from intelligence gathering to analysing tactical situations to hostage negotiation. But it couldn't be denied that they were also trained to be superb fighters, able to kill.

When he had first started in the Turks and effectively handed the role of marksman, Vincent had found himself haunted by the faces of the people had been ordered to eliminate, initially unable to come to terms with the more ruthless elements of his chosen career. The then leader of the Turks had immediately noticed the problems his bright young protégé was experiencing and took him aside.

"Look son, I know it's difficult. Lord knows we've all gone through it. It's not pretty, we're not some messengers of divine retribution. You have to face up to it, we do what we do and that's that. The secret is how you deal with it."

And it was. Vincent noticed that each Turk had his own way of subjugating the feelings. Linden drowned his in drink, dulling the pain with alcohol and women. Deacon, most surprisingly, found solace in religion, being one of the most devout men Vincent had ever encountered.

"You find your own way… And you deal with it."

He had. He took all the guilt, the anger, the fear… And ignored them. After a particularly difficult hit, it had suddenly occurred to him. It was simply down to discipline. Already one of the most important factors in his life, he just applied it to his feelings as well. He wrapped them up into a tight little package and shoved them away at the back of his head. It was his job and he would do it. End of story.

Almost.

After a good fifteen minutes of lying there, he eventually realised he wasn't going to crash out again anytime soon. He'd spent the past few days on surveillance which played havoc with his sleep pattern at the best of times, so he stood little chance now. Sighing, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat up. His raven hair flopped forward into his eyes and he ran a hand through it to shake out some of the tangles. There was a slight chill in the air, and since all he was wearing was a pair of boxers, he pulled on an old shirt to keep warm. Padding over to the kitchen, he switched on the coffee machine for a much needed quick caffeine injection. If he was going to be awake at 3am, then at least he would be awake with a black and one sugar.

Despite earning a salary large enough to buy any of the houses in Midgar he chose, Vincent preferred living in this apartment. In fact, the position of leader of the Turks automatically came with a deluxe residence in the city courtesy of the President, but he hadn't felt the need to move in. Instead, he had opted to stay in his apartment in Sector Three's upper plate. It was a fairly basic layout, with only two proper rooms. The bathroom was tucked away to the rear of the flat, while the rest was a combination of living space, sleeping area and kitchen. Open plan, he'd heard the estate agent say. Whatever. It suited his needs perfectly. He'd fitted the interior out exactly as he wanted it, almost meticulous in detail. Bookshelves lined one wall, with a collection that Deacon joked would rival Shinra's own vast library. It had all the mod cons, TV, stereo, computers. There wasn't much of a 'lived in' feel to it; you also got the impression that the owner wasn't always in very much. That was true, Vincent spent more time either out on missions in different cities or inside the HQ than he did here. Whenever he was here it was usually only for short periods of time, and then he was generally in a hurry to get somewhere else. The almost obsessive neatness spoke volumes about its occupant.

It was the polar opposite to Lindens' place; he had a long way to go before getting to that, a fact for which he was profoundly grateful. Linden was a man for whom the term 'housekeeping' was a complete mystery. Vincent had once reckoned that a cure for all the worlds' illnesses could be found at the bottom of the laundry basket, if not new forms of life. Being the eternal bachelor, Linden kept his own apartment in a state of perpetual chaos. The only time it saw anything so much as resembling a cleaning utensil was when one of his female conquests had finally had enough and blitzed the entire warzone. Needless to say, Linden had yet to find a woman with whom he could have a relationship that lasted more than a fortnight. Not that the fact bothered him in the slightest for, in his own words "women come, women go, but as long as I get laid, I don't care."

Vincent poked his fingers between the slats in the kitchen blind and peered through the gap at the city below, while the coffee maker glooped and gurgled in the background. Even at this late (or maybe that should be early) hour, the sprawling metropolis of Midgar was never silent. People still wandered the streets; a few drunks staggering from a bar, couples walking home. Cars zipped past them all, and the lights of the commercial areas shone colourful neon into the night sky. He sighed, his breath forming condensation on the cold window. So many people, all running round in pursuit of… what? Curiously they put him in mind of Professor Gasts' mice, scurrying through mazes in the hope of a reward. Was he like them?

The machine gave a high pitched ping sound to announce his drink was ready. He snorted to himself and moved away from the window, marvelling at how philosophical a man can get at three in the morning after only a couple of hours sleep. He picked up the percolated coffee and poured himself a mug before moving over to the sofa and sitting down.

All rats in somebodys' maze, he thought to himself. Rats in a bloody maze.