Muse 9 (ONC 2020)

Prologue

I leveled the rifle at his head, keeping the tracking sight on his temple as my finger caressed the trigger, ready to apply the necessary pressure if needed. Come on, come on.... I needed to get a hit.

The display screen paneled into the gun lit up, showing me the data. I allowed my eyes to drop to the screen to see if I had found a keeper.

Dylin Canna. 42 years.

Has spent years gambling in casinos with a 78% success rate and often attends elaborate parties. Has been the target of an assassination attempt.

I grinned. Gotcha.

Keeping the muzzle of my elegant yet outdated Muse 5 rifle trained on his head, I pressed the trigger. I felt the recoil in my shoulder as the invisible energy shot from the rifle and spiraled for his temple. I rolled back from where I had been propped up, tucking my rifle close to my body as I slammed my back against the low wall. I felt the leaves of a vine tickle my ear and ducked my head down.

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

I tapped my wrist tracker, watching the display come to life and show me the interior structure of Dylin Canna's memories. Scrolling through the layout, I selected the memories that looked exciting enough that someone would drop a carefully collected pile of currency onto my rusty old counter for them.

Gambling, check. Always a favorite.

Parties, of course. People like to see what it would be like when a gathering of people meets the excessive sparkling of lights.

Assassination attempt – sure, why not? All the excitement with none of the death. One of the Stiffnecks might want to try this one out.

Pressing the confirmed key, the memories started to sync with my tracker and I watched the loading bar, holding my breath. One...two...three...oh, come on, come on....

The loading bar vanished and I sighed in relief. Jolting forward, I crawled away from the wall before jolting to my feet, moving as fast as possible to distance myself from the area. Slinging my rifle over my back and adjusting my cape to hang over it and conceal it, I leapt over the wall bordering the other side of the walkway and landed in a crouch in the tiny stream on the other side, my boots making a small splash in the shallow, clear water. Hoping my pale skin wouldn't attract any unwanted attention as I headed back towards my drainpipe to slip back into the underworld, I kept my gaze down and stuck to the back roads, resisting the urge to shield my face with my hood. That would just stand out too much, at least in this more prosperous district. I had to wait until I was further away. I couldn't call attention to myself. I couldn't.

Memory copying, or memory jacking, as it was also referred to, was illegal in Kycene and I couldn't get caught holding the smoking gun.