How long until they invented AC's?
He was sweating under the skin tight, black Warp suit. Why did they have to be black? It was stupid. He knew it was making the heat worse.
Leaning forward, he picked up the cup of beer sitting on the table. There was a dark smudge of dirt along the side of the glass. He wrinkled his nose in disgust.
The saloon smelled awful. Like a drunk gymnast with food poisoning. The thought would have been funny if he didn't have to breathe in the stench every few seconds. It almost made suffocating sound tempting. He set the glass back down on the table again, and surreptitiously scrubbed his fingers along the side of his pants to clean them.
The man—who was little more than boy, in truth—scanned the chaos with a practiced eye. The mark still wasn't here, and one of the serving girls was watching him again.
He suppressed the urge to smirk at her. Castian wondered if it was his clothes, or his hair attracting her attention. Both were odd, and his spiky white mane contrasted to an almost painful degree with the jet black clothing. He flashed her a grin, and she quickly turned away.
The look morphed, becoming a smirk despite himself. Again, his eyes roved the crowd. The man he was waiting for still wasn't here. His eyes flicked to the watch on his wrist, the Link Clock was ticking steadily, second after second. He'd been here three hours. Three hours away from the Field. Castian had no idea when the mark was coming though, all he knew was the date, and that it hadn't happened yet. He could be here for three more hours.
Castian grimaced at the thought. If he had to put up with the stench and the terrible, incessant piano tune much longer, he'd go crazy.
His feet swung up and hit the table with a thud, rattling the glass. Beer sloshed over the side, the wood soaked it in greedily. Castian ignored it. He leaned back into his chair, balancing it precariously on the back legs. It creaked ominously in warning. Waiting was so tedious, he reflected as he shut his eyes, tipping his head back. And hot. It was almost twenty-five years still until they invented the first excuse for an air conditioner. Castian decided he would have died if he grew up in this time period.
The free swinging double doors at the front of the saloon swung inward, banging against the walls. Castian let his chair drop to the floor with a sharp crack of wood on wood. His eyes snapped to the door.
The table he sat at had an unobscured view of them, it was why he'd chosen it, that and the fact there was a wall to his back.
A man stood in the doorway, catching the flaps as they swung back. His hair was dark, and tied back behind his head. He wore a large brimmed hat the color of dust, and a vest so dirty it matched.
The spurs on his boots clanked as he moved. Eyes turned to him. Only Castian's stayed on him though, as he moved through the crowded saloon to the bar.
Castian watched his movements, the step of his stride. Mentally he noted the two guns at his sides. The description matched. But it was a description over a century old, and that made him uncertain.
He stood, freeing the strap that held his gun tightly in the holster at his hip. Castian flicked the safety off, leaving it at his side.
The gun was as black as his clothes, and seemed to take in light, instead of throw it. It wasn't heavy, but it wasn't light, either. The balance was perfect. Even. He longed to hold it. Soon.
Marching over to the bar, he leaned against the stool next to the man. His eyes moved over the face. The break in the nose, the chip in his tooth--
"What do you want, boy?"
Castian smiled, a baring of teeth. "Would you happen to be Hays Rifflie?" he asked. His fingers brushed the gun, out of sight, light as a feather's stroke.
The man who was most definitely Hays if they had the right description squinted at him. "Why?"
"I have a message for you. Are you Hays Rifflie?"
If the bastard would just say it he could get out of this festering little western town and back to the real world. And a shower.
"I am. Who told you to find me? What message?"
Castian straightened in a fluid movement, hand landing squarely on his gun. Then he had it in his palm, the cool metal a comfort like nothing else in the entire world.
"It doesn't matter. I'm supposed to tell you to 'rot in the hell of your own creation' or something stupid. I can't really remember."
He fired one. Two. Three shots point blank into Hays chest before the man could even finish reaching for his gun.
YOU ARE READING
An Assassin In Time
Science Fiction(ON HOLD) If time couldn't hold you, what would you do? Castian was born inside a Field, outside of time. He has no timeline. He belongs nowhere, and anywhere. The Field he was in was destroyed when he was young, and he and four other children...
