And now, a real actual story, as opposed to lol random

The setup is simple. There are a couple of bushes to conceal him where the forest begins, and he has an absorbent veil besides - it keeps him away from the scanners. And he has one more thing besides, of course. The laser carbine rifle in his hands.

The driveway is in perfect view. It is a quaint suburban house without a suburb to go with it – the Mayorlees have enough money for a plot of land outside the sprawl, but not the arrogance to build a mansion. And that confuses him somewhat. What have they done to earn Charlene's ire? Looking at the house and the single solitary sec.drone patrolling the estate, Lloyd Mayorlee hardly seems an enemy of the people. Where are the spoils of the masses he has exploited? Where are the armies of trophy wives and underpaid servants, why is there no proof of the insane, decadent drive to own expensive things for the sake of proving you are rich enough to own them?

He moves the rifle a bit, looks away from the front door and at the sec.drone, which is currently passing by a tree with a swing hanging from a jutting branch. It's not an old model, precisely, nor is it precisely cheap, but it is nowhere near the kind Mr. Mayorlee can afford. The S 2300 Guardian Spirit is a streamlined egg-shape on three stilt-like legs. Middle class people buy this model. He's seen the obscenely rich, surrounded by swarms of the S3 7800 Praetorians like shadowy auras, with their designer black carapace and elegant menace. Why doesn't Lloyd Mayorlee own a dozen? Charlene has shown him the reports, the hidden printouts of their man inside the Imperial Bank. He knows Lloyd could afford to surround himself in Praetorians if he wanted to. But he hasn't. Why?

And more importantly, why does Charlene want him dead?

He and Charlene have had...talks. He likes to think she trusts him, inasmuch as she trusts anyone. He understands that the Revolution is her baby, the only lover she will allow herself. Sometimes they lie on their backs on the roof of the vast, sprawling housing projects and gaze at the night sky where the moon is sometimes sensed like a ghost through smog, and she tells him about the Revolution, and the words make him dream. Sometimes the words make him want to touch her, but Charlene does not want to be touched. What she wants is a world where children do not starve because of the greed of reactionary conservatives, a world where the princes have been swept away, where hate and fear and all the other old chains the rich have used to enslave the people have been broken and forgotten.

Charlene is willing to forgo being a creature of meat in seeking that world. That he cannot, that he can still think of her as a woman instead of as a comrade and revolutionary...does that make him a bad person? Sometimes he wonders.

Charlene has told him the Revolution won't be bloodless. It's the only way, she's told him many times. You can't change the system from within. It can change you faster than you can change it. We have to prove we're worthy of freedom through blood.

But the question remains – why Lloyd Mayorlee? Not extravagant in any way. There have been no outstanding rumors of exploitation in his factories. Certainly he has bound wage-slaves in his service like all men of his class, but there are many who treat theirs much worse. Why must he be the first victim of Charlene's revolution?

Then the door opens and Lloyd steps out. He is a middle-aged black man with the toned body of healthy food and geneboosted vigor. He kisses his wife – she's younger than him, but not that young, not as young as he could have bought, could have had grown. Lloyd Mayorlee is blissfully unaware that a crosshair has just come to rest peacefully over his heart.

He thinks of Charlene again. Of Charlene's world, the one after the Revolution, the one she whispers off while they look at a hazy moon and hope to catch a glimpse of stars through the glare of the city. He doesn't know what Lloyd has done to stop that world's birth. But he does know (suddenly, without warning) that he's decided he doesn't need to know this man's sins, that the world Charlene whispers of if worth this death, this price in blood. He knows, amazed deep inside, that he can kill for the Revolution. That he will kill and always count the cost worthy of the prize it buys. A single step closer to Charlene's dream.

He knows this, so he isn't surprised when his fingers tighten calmly on the trigger and his hands hold the rifle with the steady serenity of a master.

He's plenty surprised after the rifle doesn't fire.

Charlene is on the roof when the signal from the transmitter built to look like a rifle reaches her. There isn't a moon, and for good reason – it's morning. She is content to lie there, among the pigeons and her comrades, when there is a buzzing in the pocket of her jeans. She retrieves a sleek, white commlink.

“What is it?” someone asks.

Charlene smiles as one of the names on the status display turns from yellow to green. “It's Nathan,” she says. “He's in it for real, now.”