Inertia

noun

1) Tendency to do nothing or to remain unchanged

2) A property of matter by which it continues in its existing state of rest or uniform motion in a straight line, unless that state is changed by an external force

The target is insignificant.

What counts is patience and accuracy. He must wait in silence for the right moment. He gets one chance, one shot, and there are no do-overs. Time is as irrelevant as the target and he waits, perfectly still as seconds and minutes melt into hours. His whole world is reduced to an image in the circle of cross hairs. Outside that small sphere, that tiny space almost thousand meters away, nothing else exists.

The single round in his rifle, under perfect conditions, has been known to strike a target two and a half kilometers away. Today, he needs less than a thousand and conditions are as close to perfect as he's ever seen.

A sniper only gets one chance. A failure means disgrace. Irvine is a good shot. Edea aside, he has never missed.

These days, he prefers not to know the identity of his target. The less information he has, the less likely his nerves will get the better of him. He doesn't wish to know names or histories, but all those he's been contracted to eliminate have been worthy of a bullet. He expects today will be no different.

"Target approaching. Male, dark hair, wearing a dark gray suit with a blue tie," the voice in his ear piece says.

The target emerges from the building two blocks away and Irvine takes a slow, measured breath as he slides the bolt back to chamber his one and only round. The man holds the door for a female companion in a big hat and giant sunglasses, the color of her hair hidden beneath a scarf. He turns, laughs at something his companion has said.

Irvine sees only the blue tie and lines it up in his cross-hairs.

He matches his breathing to that of his target and through the scope, lets his eyes follow the lines of pin-striping on the man's shirt and the curves of shadows from the folds in the fabric. A hand lifts to tug at the tie and Irvine has a clear view of a wedding band on his finger. It gleams in the early afternoon light, a promise and a commitment to someone, somewhere.

He is so close through the scope. So close, Irvine can almost reach out and touch him.

Irvine can not think of the family or the children this man will leave behind after the bullet ends his life. He can not think of those who will morn or celebrate his death. He is merely a target, a paper cut-out on the other side of a firing range. He means nothing. He is a job and nothing more.

Patience is important for a sniper. Though the target is in his sight, he must wait until the right moment. There are pedestrians, and he can not afford to waste his shot on an innocent. He does not panic or become anxious. He keeps his breathing even and controlled and his heartbeat remains steady. Better to take his time.

Inhale. Exhale. Breathe. Wait.

He adjusts, dials in the scope one last time as the man raises his arm to hail a cab. The companion says her goodbye with a kiss and Irvine knows the time is now. The man is exposed, vulnerable, open.

Irvine's finger finds the trigger as the man's chest is a field of white and blue in his scope. He takes one last slow breath and fires as he exhales.

The rifle kicks hard and the recoil reverberates through his whole body. It blazes through his hands and his shoulder and his chest, but his pulse remains steady and never misses a beat. Down below, a cry rings out as the bullet tears apart flesh and bone and a man falls to the sidewalk, never to rise again.

Easy pickings. Almost too easy.

Except-

Irvine has lingered too long. The man's face is in his sights and Irvine's blood runs cold as he understands what he has just done.

Steely blue eyes peer lifelessly up at the sky, a ridge of puckered scar tissue between his eyes. The woman drops to her knees beside him and pale wings sprout from her back. In a daze, Irvine looks through the scope as magic shimmers over the man's body and he waits, breathless for his old friend to sit up and shake it off.

But Irvine is good at his job. No magic can save his old friend now.

Numb, Irvine collects the spent casing from the ground and pockets it. It, too, is insignificant, but a smart sniper leaves no trace of himself or his tools behind. He descends the staircase at a leisurely pace, his weapon slung over his back and he meets his escort at the bottom. No one says a word. Irvine has done his job, and there is no need to discuss it.

Questions don't come to him until later, when he is on a train bound for Deling City, blind drunk and ignoring the subtle and repeated buzz of his phone in his pocket. He already knows why they're trying to reach him. What they will say. What they will do if they find out it was his bullet that took the life of a dear friend.

He doesn't want answers. He wants a world where there is no need for people like him. A world where a young woman like Rinoa wasn't hated for what she was. A world where an orphaned kid with a sharp eye wasn't seen as an opportunity to create an assassin.

In a split second, a single round has undone all the progress made since the end of the war. Irvine's accuracy with a bullet will have repercussions felt all across the globe.

He has taken a Knight from a Sorceress.

He has killed not one friend, but two.

Notes: This is penance for forgetting that Irvine exists.

The type of round referred to is a Lapua Magnum .338. The longest confirmed shot on record for this particular round is just shy of 2.5 KM, or just over a mile and a half. (scary)