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It was hot not a cloud in sight but that could chance any second, the weather in the bay region had completely turned to shtako and a hot clear day was something of a rarity to be enjoyed.



There was nothing right about what was once the San Francisco bay region it was a hard land for hard peoples, the land held nothing soft, nothing gentle. No love here on the bay merely death by shot or shell. Even the very heavens were hostile with dreaded razor rain.



This was just fine in the opinion of Redcat. The well-built human crouched behind a fell tree, expertly using the scattered branches and his own mottled clothing to obscure his presence, he could have activated his cloaking device rendering him completely invisible to all senses but he believed in the old school techniques of camouflage and concealment over newer technologies he believed over reliance upon such devices made one weak. He crouched there, invisible to all but the keenest of observers, dust and other airborne detritus settling upon his unmoving form. He crouched there, in the heart of the Frisco wasteland, completely still for hours.



He was a hunter, in the purest form. He lived for the hunt, revelled in the kill, took pride in the spoils. He had long since abandoned things like laws, rules and morality, choosing instead to live by his own wits in the wildest parts of this planet



Some called him a mercenary, which is true in a sense. He would do any sort of task for gold, or whatever currency his employer decided to use, but he wasn’t just a mercenary. Being a mercenary was a career, a job, where one worked for a paycheck. Redcat did not do that. To him, it wasn’t a job; it was a way of life. He was a hunter, and so he hunted. If someone just so happened to pay him to hunt something specific, this was merely pleasant coincidence.

Some called him a psychopath, which is true in a sense. He did, after all, enjoy killing. Enjoyed it immensely. But who is the real psychopath here? The killer who embraces what he is, or the people paying the killer and lying to themselves about their own innocence? Or even worse, those who killed in the name of all that was right and just in the world?

Killing is killing, anything else tacked onto that is a lie.



And so here he was. At the behest of the Soleptor, he was here to execute a traitor. An important employee had defected to… some other faction; the specifics were irrelevant. He would hunt his target, kill his target, collect the bounty, and that would be that. Details are frivolous. Names, motives, these things were irrelevant knowledge.

He knew his target in the way only a hunter could: through senses honed by a life of living in the wilds of this planet

When given a target, most assassins come to know their target. They know their name, their routine, their clothes, their face, and their friends.



But a hunter?



A hunter can taste their prey; they know their smell, they know the sound their breath makes, the distinct thumping noise of their hearts beating in fear.

A true hunter is not just a person armed with a long rifle and hunts, a true hunter is master of his chosen weapon, master of his environment, a master of his body and senses, a truly predatory creature akin to the great cats of old. Scholars of this world have tried to give this phenomenon a name, most agree to call it the hunter spirit. But it is much more than that, much more



When on sees a true hunter they are not seeing a woodsman……. One does not see a true hunter just see the results of the hunt.



And so Redcat crouched behind a tree, his long rifle ready, his honed senses scanning the area. These days he could call upon his squad mates to help in this matter, for redcat was not alone, 50 meters back also concealed were the members of alpha section 2nd platoon 47th legion.

Not that today’s hunt would require his mates to do anything. Merely wait and watch, and to prevent any interlopers intruding.



Redcat’s rifle was a magnificent weapon; the barrel itself was made out of the strongest alloys available to mankind incorporating the latest in barrel attachments, the furniture of the weapon lovingly crafted out of wood he could have had it made from exotic composites but the traditionalist in him called for the wood, the scope on the other hand was cutting edge the latest tech to come out of Von-Bach industries, even the magazine holding the specially made ammunition was infused with alien technologies giving each round an incendiary effect.

Weapons carefully manufactured such as his rifle do not make a sound when the weapon is cycled, no clinking of ammunition contain in the magazine nor any sounds from the moving parts, the only sound made is the flat crack of the bullet being fired, even that can be reduced by the right suppressor.



But even without a sound suspressor, buy the time the target reported the sound he was already dead.



Redcat was ready. He had been in firing position for five hours without moving, his weapon shouldered ready to fire for five hours. The muscles of his arms and shoulders had been screaming at him for three. He would have sworn in disgust, he was out of practice. John Cooper the law keeper had been a good employer, but he hadn’t given him any challenges. John had him chasing incompetent fools who didn’t even have the decency to try to make a good hunt.



Redcat couldn’t see his target, yet he knew exactly where it was.



The slightest movement, a single finger moving the barest fraction of an inch, was all the movement necessary to fire.



Redcat could hear the traitor speaking; he could smell the stench of the 99er the target was talking to. Redcat could hear every minute sound movement caused the targets equipment to make.






He could hear the thump of the target falling to the ground his head torn beyond reconition by the passage of the bullet, he could hear the 99er call out in alarm, and the sounds of him rolling for cover



Smart bastard



Redcat hadn’t planned on killing him, but then again he hadn’t expected the meeting to occur outdoors, he was just supposed to eliminate the target as he walked from his roller to the building where the meet was supposed to take place, faulty intelligence Redcat hated faulty intelligence he had half a mind to put a bullet in soleptors head. His thoughts interrupted with the 99ers yelling to his now appearing cohorts.




“Contact, Wait outâ€. A second later “Contact 99ers 12oclockâ€.




Redcat utters into the mic of his radio. As he recycles his weapon carefully shooting an emerging 99er in the head he could head the reports and see tracer rounds of alpha section’s supporting fire, he could see the explosions of thrown Grenades. His squad mates had swung into action.




At last some real fun.

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