Variables

The sniper sighed and shifted a little, careful not to change his breathing or make too much noise. It was still several hours before the variables were due to walk on this rampart, going from one important meeting to another, but he was here anyway.1

Variables, there were always so many variables. The more variables, the more complex the situation, so every variable one gets rid of will make the task that much simpler. People have lots of variables, which is why anything involving people became much more difficult. Not everyone could handle so many things.2

That’s where he came in. He got rid of variables for other people. He didn’t like to think of it as killing, just helping someone else out by making things a little simpler. Anyone could use that... particularly anyone with a full purse. They weren’t people, they were variables, and they stopped being an issue instants after the trademark hyper-thin, silent, toxin-laced bullet left the long, streamlined barrel of his custom-built gun. It was his baby, that gun, his little piece of perfection. The gun with no variables.3

Time went by. He couldn’t even remember the name of the variables he was was supposed to be removing was. He knew they would be fat, wrapped up in a blue suit, with glasses and probably panting. It was a long way up the stairs to this section of the castle, as he himself found out when scouting the site out a week beforehand. Fat, blue, glasses, panting. Right.4

There they were. His employer hadn’t mentioned ugly. They were alone, as planned; he had made sure to bribe all the escorts into taking a day off, and removed the ones that hadn’t cooperated. Four, five... about nine variables he got rid of. What would they have done to screw this up? He shuddered, and focused.5

Slowly, the slender end of the rifle poked itself out of the arrow slit. No one would see; there were bushes on either side. Peering into the scope, the sniper locked in on his target. There was only one more thing to do...6

The gun fired. It was, of course, only a whisper to the untrained ear, but to the sniper it was like a roll of thunder, the one thing that could have exposed him now. They never did, of course, but a certain amount of paranoia was healthy... at least, he thought so.7

Now came the effects of the drug. The man slowed, stopped, panting harder than ever. The sniper thought he looked directly at him, just for an instant, before his eyes rolled up into the back of his head and he fell to the ground.8

Sighing, the sniper got up quietly and folded the gun in half. Pressing a button on the side, he let it drop out of the window into a bush below. It would explode in a few seconds, he knew. After the weapon left his hands, he placed a finger on his temple and pressed a button hidden beneath the artificial skin. In a few seconds, right about when the gun would be obliterated, his memories would also cease to exist, fried beyond repair by a timed power surge. All of the variables, including himself, were to be tied up and removed.9

He knew that another robot just like him would be manufactured for the next job, with the same gun, the same memories, the same mind. It was the way of things. Those who could pay to have their variables removed were assisted by the ones who had none already.10

Humans are such imperfect creatures, he thought. They have so many variables.11