Kevin was an old-school kinda guy. Which was why instead of pulling out a nano-quantum transmitter and searching for his target's bio-interface, he opted to unfold a classic .50-caliber sniper rifle, methodically setting it up on its tripod and carefully aiming it at the opposite window.
Most contract killers preferred to use the new fancy bio-hacking shit, but that was Gen-Q for you. Most didn't even know what a gun was, let alone how to shoot one. Not after all automatic, semi-automatic and even bolt-action firearms had been banned by the Global Socialist Government twenty years earlier, on account of guns being bad, leading to death, yada yada. Well Global could kiss his ass. He wouldn't even be in this situation if they hadn't stopped him from being a landlord, banning private rental properties around the same time. He used to be such a normal guy, playing the game, owning a few houses, watching the money come in, ignoring tenants' emails for maintenance...
Old men like him, he was part of the problem, they said. Not true. The real problem was this skinny white suit he had in his sights. A little Gen-Q shit, talking on his bio-interface, probably talking with his other Global friends, removing more rights from the people. Kevin fiddled around with his own interface—Global made him get one installed, along with the rest of the sheep—and ran a few quick scripts, until he could hear what this stick was saying.
"Yeah, okay—wait, hold on, Kyle, I think some guy is trying to get into our call. Some old—wow, 70, that is old—man called Kevin... Yeah, I know you're listening, grandpa."
Oh no. Kevin scrambled to stop the script.
"Oh, Kyle, check this out, I'm looking at his public bio, he calls himself a capitalist? I didn't even know they still existed. Well, reported. Bye, Kevin. You picked the wrong person to try and hack. Honestly, old people these—"
The connection cut out.
Kevin fumbled with his rifle, unsure if he should continue aiming, or pack up and leave while he still had a chance.
He fired, but badly missed, hitting the wall several windows over from his target. His guy ducked, rolled, and then he was gone, probably into his portable panic room. Kevin, for a moment, almost wished he too had a PPR—after all, most people had at least two—but he snapped himself out of it and grabbed his bag. He wasn't a wuss, he was old school.
He went to fold away the tripod, but before he could, he heard a whining coming from his bio-interface, followed by a heart-blasting pain, which froze his muscles in place.
"THIS IS GLOBAL," screeched a nearby drone. "DO NOT PANIC, BUT YOU HAVE UNFAIRLY BROKEN ONE OF OUR SOCIAL RULES. AGAIN, DO NOT PANIC. A PEACE GUARD WILL BE HERE TO HELP YOU FIX YOUR MISTAKES SHORTLY."
Kevin would have sighed, if he could. Things were so much better in the old days.