Now…

Outside the Longrest Bar, Patienceville, Whitefall, fourth moon of Athens…

Marshall ‘Soul’ Washburne tried to get comfortable on the rocky, dusty, roof from which he’d chosen to make his shot. Squinting his hazel eye through the scope on his rifle, he surveyed the outside of the bar he’d been informed his quarry was in. Inside the bar was an agent feeding him intelligence. As his earpiece came to life, his left hand brushed the annoying strands of brown hair that kept falling down across his forehead. “Target has finished his drink, and is paying the barkeep.” “Roger that. Let me know when he heads for the door.” “His coat is on, and he’s moving. Be advised, he is carrying a heavily modified, possibly custom rifle.” “Understood, I won’t give him the opportunity to use it.” “Target will reach the door… now.” Opening his other eye, Soul watched the door of the Longrest Bar swing out. A man emerged wearing a dark colored duster, and carrying a long heavy barreled sniper rifle. It was a bullpup arrangement, with the magazine behind the pistol grip, and with what looked like a shotgun mounted under the main barrel. As he paused to lean the rifle against the wall of the bar, and rummage through the many pockets in his coat, Soul knew that this was his moment. Closing his left eye, he returned his focus to the view through the scope. The infrared filter on the end of it picked up the ranging laser as it worked it’s way up from the man’s chest to his right temple. Taking a deep breath, Soul steadied his aim, and flicked the rifle’s safety off with his thumb. As the lever snapped into firing position, the man’s head suddenly raised and he looked straight into the scope. Soul’s mouth dropped open as he saw the man’s own hazel eyes, and recognized the cocky grin that spread across his face behind the goatee. The final kicker was the well-worn Blue Sun cap that the man pulled out and put slowly on to cover his short wild hair. “Mei, ta ma de hun dan.” Soul whispered, standing up to his full six foot one height. Down below, a man he seen four years ago, though it seemed like only days, a man he’d thought he’d never see again, raised his hand in greeting and shouted. “You gonna kill me Soul? Cause that might be a little awkward.” Soul was speechless. The man he’d been sent to kill was standing before him, but Soul couldn’t bring himself to raise the rifle and squeeze the trigger. That man had been partially responsible for his incarceration into Cryo in the first place, and yet he was one of the few people Soul could call one of his true friends. Soul’s head spun. “Washburne, this is Evigan.” Came the voice from Soul’s earpiece. “Have you eliminated the target? Washburne? WASHBURNE!? Is… Werzbowski… down?”