Day of the mission. You're set up in your spot, towel folded and placed on the lip of the roof before the barrel of the rifle comes to rest upon it. Sunset, he said, and the shadows in the street below are growing longer by the minute.

There's movement on the street corner. A small bandana, tied to a street post, catches the wind and snaps ominously. The signal. You exhale, calming your nerves, seeking out that place inside you where the world no longer matters, you no longer matter. You are merely the extension of the gun, an aiming device to guide the bullet in the chamber to its final resting place.

Face against the spyglass, one eye peering through the glass to locate the target. You sweep the street, looking for details that match the description. Not her, not him... And then you see it. You shake your head; surely that can't be the case. But another sweep of the street says otherwise. The clothes, the height, the color of the eyes...it all matches, and now you know why your leader refused to give more details.

You're not expected to take out a human this time, like all the times before. This time, it's a turian. It seems to not know that there is anything amiss as it finishes its business in the storefront and exits onto slowly darkening streets.

One target. You put the spyglass aside and sight down the scope. The crosshairs settle almost lovingly on the place where fringe meets skull. You've seen the vids, heard of the First Contact War. You were barely a year old when it happened. Too young to form a bias against turians, too young to remember the Council stepping in to negotiate peace.

But...

Your hand hesitates, fingers curling around the trigger guard instead of resting lightly against the trigger. You've never seen one in person. You find yourself studying the markings on its face...his face, how the mandibles twitch every so slightly. You wonder why he would choose to come to Earth, knowing that there would be bias against his kind on the human homeworld. Why here? Why this part of town?

Studying him has distracted you, and the target is almost to the bandana on the street corner. You refocus the lens, mentally adjust for angle, wind speed. Your finger moves to touch the trigger.

It's getting hard to focus on the turian's head. Your breathing is erratic, your hands shaking. Why this person? The others were members of rival gangs, humans being shot down by humans. But this... The weight of it settles on you. Who is this turian? Why does your leader want him dead? Is he an important ambassador? A diplomat? Or is it just because he's a turian?

The last question sends a chill down your spine. The way he dresses, the way he walks... No dignitary would be caught in this part of town without any sort of guard. He is the only turian on a near-empty street.

Your mind races with possibilities. You could not pull the trigger. You could let him walk. But if you do, you've signed your death sentence. It would be an open act of defiance, and no matter how useful you are, you've now become a threat. But the longer you linger, watching him, you realize that you can't go through with it. You don't want to know what color the mist of brain matter and blood will be.

You don't have a choice. You've been given a mission.

But...perhaps there's another way.

As the turian reaches even with the bandana, you take aim. Your finger pulls back with the same practiced motion it's used to, driving the hammer home on the back of the bullet. The stock kicks back against your shoulder perhaps a bit harder than normal, as if it knows what you've done.

There is a small puff next to the turian as the bullet embeds itself in the brick. A bit of fringe drops to the street as the three-clawed hand claps to the back of his head. He looks up, and you can see his pupils through the scope.

A human would have run from a near miss. He just...stands there, staring up at you, like a near-perfect statue. A few drops of blood hit the pavement, and you can't help but notice that turian blood is blue.

The world narrows to the two of you, human and turian, hunter and prey. You could take another shot, drop him where he stands. But if you were going to do that, you would have done that with the first shot. As if he senses your hesitation, his mandibles twitch, breaking the illusion. You think he might be smiling at you.

And then the moment is past. He disappears around the corner, leaving you with the weight of consequences on your shoulders. You missed your shot. You never miss. That's why they trusted you.

You go through the normal routine as if this had been a successful mission. Leave no evidence. You pick up the shell casing and place it in your shirt pocket as a reminder. Eyes look across the rooftops. Three rooftops over at the very least. But there was nothing to run from.

You decide that tonight you can take a different route.

The moon has barely risen above the horizon when you arrive at the meeting place. You're hours late. The leader is furious. He demands you explain yourself. The rest of the gang is there too, watching. Waiting.

A thousand answers spring to mind, but only one will set you free. You stand there quietly, ignoring the weight of the rucksack on your shoulder, hand under the canvas as he screams profanities at you. You have ruined the gang's chance to rise up in the world, he says. Turned your back on your race. He's old enough to remember the First Contact War, to be nursed on the hatred of the unknown.

When he's finally worked himself up into a rage, he draws his gun, shaking it at you like a parent might scold a child. You should tell your family why you disappointed them, turned your back on them, he says. You're to be an example for the rest of them. Over fifty successful missions, but your failure on this one cannot be ignored.

The pistol slides into your hand, finger stroking the safety off. You cocked it before you ever left the rooftop. Your leader has taken the time of your silence to point out everything he's ever done for you, everything the Reds have done for you, and he's just finishing his speech when the barrel of the gun catches the moonlight.

"No more," you say. The muzzle flash is blinding in the darkness. The mist from his head is illuminated in the glow of the flickering streetlamp above. Red, like all the rest.

A/N: Whoof! Hi guys! Huge apologies for taking so long to get this second chapter up. I've been sitting on it for a bit, tweaking it here and there, and then life got in the way. There should only be one more chapter for this, and hopefully it won't take two months to post.