Cassie shivered, but it didn't bother her. It was cold up here, overlooking the dock warehouses, number 12 below her slightly to the right. Initially, she'd thought of moving her set up to the edge of the rooftop, getting a straighter shot, but after an inital scan through the scope of her rifle after the sun had set she saw the skylight that the message had specified. She didn't know why her instructions featured it so clearly, but after tying the location of the skylight, the angle of her shot, and the placement of the gas tank - she'd made a mental note of its position after her afternoon recon of the warehouse before heading home to prepare - she could guess. It was toward her, against the wall facing the rooftop she was on. The other side was sea, no rooftops to take the shot from there. Fuckin' Locke always liked a show. Apparently her targets counted.

She'd have to bounce the damn shot. The shot would go through the glass - despite the lovely open window that someone had left propped open - and glance off a support beam that was conveniently exactly where it needed to be. It was why she hadn't moved over like she thought about earlier - the angle would be wrong. She looked through the scope of her rifle again, but moved down along the wall to the small white chalk-mark she'd made earlier. It was, roughly, the center of the gas tank. She rechecked her shot for the third time. She wouldn't even need to, when the focus came, as long as she knew her target - but still, it afforded some confidence. Or, at least, kept her mind busy. She hated thinking about her targets. She hated what she did. She thought of Jo. She thought of her afternoon. 

-

After she'd received the message and descended from the office building, she'd walked leisurely to the docks. It was a fair distance from where she was, but she was used to walking, and the dull aching of her soles didn't bother her. She'd checked out the warehouse, subtly pushing up the sleeves on her arms to show her tattoos when someone looked to approach her. She'd wandered 'innocently' through the warehouses, pausing only slightly at 12-A to scan the layout before stealing away. She left the docks completely, heading to Jo's apartment to spend as much time as she could - Jo talked excitedly about a school dance her 'benefactor' (that was all Locke was to her, and Cassie meant to keep it that way) had somehow afforded her passage to, including a beautiful dress that Locke had allowed her, and a cute boy for a date that Jo had managed quite all by herself. Cassie was jealous, but reminded herself that her life was not that of frilly fashion and handsome men anymore. 

After that, she'd bid Jo good luck, and given her the customary kisses and assurance of love, and returned to her own apartment. Cassie still hesitated to call it her home. Once there, she'd taken an hour to herself. A rare luxury, but fuck it, she was paid enough to afford it. It wasn't even eight by the time she was out of the shower, and despite the contrast between Jo's evening - already begun, spiked punch and fumbling male hands aplenty - and Cassie's - still a few hours to go, focused hands and a steady eye - she managed to enjoy herself as she lounged about half-naked, drip-drying because why not, that Locke motherfucker can pay to get the waterstains off the wooden floor. 

Come ten, she was ready. Wig in place, contacts in, outfit changed. White was the colour she'd chosen when her disguise was ordered, and she liked it. Everything about Quintain was designed to be as far from Cassie as she could manage. Quintain's bright, conspicious garments to contrast the dull, plain fashion Cassie sported. Quintain's fair, messy hair, to counterpoint Cassie's dark, sheer-cut fashionable bob-like hairdo. Quintain's unnatural shining amber eyes to displace Cassie's low moss-green. It was all carefully constructed to allow Cassie to distance herself, deindividualize Quintain, assume a persona and protect herself from what she was doing. It worked. So far. 

Eleven. She was on the rooftop, despite an hour and a half - and four minutes - still between her and the appearance of her hit. Still, she was always early. Settling down, setting up her rifle, leaving to mark the gas tank position on the outside of the wall, coming back. Checking her shot. Checking again. She looked at the guage she had set beside her rifle, completely unnecessary but she liked it. Mostly for the time display. Half an hour to go. 

Cassie started breathing.