The rumbling of the sky traffic had broken his concentration. Airspeeders, both those large and small, were flying around in lines which ended beyond the reach of the human eye. This was always the case on Coruscant: the constant motion, the noise, the arid and polluted air dominated the lower reaches of the planet’s cityscape. This wasn’t the lower populace’s biggest concern. The crime, the gangs, the spice dealers and the spice addicts were all an ever present problem to the people living in the undercity.
This was no place for a politician. Their place always has been in the Senate district on the surface of Coruscant – the top of the skyscraper constructions built over the ages by its inhabitants, replacing the molten rock surface of the planet with endless walkways, numerous traffic airways and tall buildings, reaching to the highest peaks of the lower atmosphere. To see a politician down in the slums of the undercity, where the sun literary doesn’t shine, was curious to say the least. To see Darian Dahlgren here would come as a bit of a shock to anyone who knew anything about politics. Dahlgren was an aristocrat, his family descending from the planet of Taris, which was best remembered for the disputes between the upper parts of the city, inhabited by humans, and the lower parts inhabited mostly by alien refugees. Dahlgren, a true Tarisian himself, was not fond of aliens, and was not reluctant to show it given the opportunity. He was turning his head left and right in quick successions, as though looking for someone he suspected was sneaking up on him. He was followed by two bodyguard droids, towering over him by a head’s length, the sensors on their supposed heads flickering in the otherwise dark alley. He turned around and directed his stare upwards, his deep blue eyes piercing the dark-cloaked figure directly through the scope of the former’s gun. After looking for a moment in that direction, not seeing anything of interest, he turned back to the other side of the alley, anxiously tapping his hand against his blue, silky gown.
The dark-cloaked figure kept aiming at him through the scope. The airspeeders passing nearby disrupted his aim before and he was trying to establish a clear shot again. He aimed for Darian’s head – one well-placed blaster shot should do the job right – clean and swift. Unfortunately, the nervous politician did not make it easy for him – his constant glitches always saving him from a straight aim to the back of his head. The assassin tried to regain the upper hand over his prey once more.
His mind clear and his senses heightened, the assassin once again had Darian right where he wanted him. A clear shot to the back of his head he’d been aiming for. His lips trembling, his palms sweating, his finger firmly pressing against the trigger.
One pull and it all ends. One pull and he leaves. One pull and his job is done.