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They march & fly the flag.

He ran a hand down his unfamiliar face, marveling at the power of stolen beauty as a wry smile curled his lips. The voice of the station manager came over the intercom system, instructing all passengers boarding the eight o'clock to Cullville. The masses obeyed, moving around Nash like water past a rock.

The crowd shrunk surged and receded as the arriving passengers pushed past their replacements. This shipment had brought with it a load of soldiers wearing the white uniforms of the Imperium. Troops heading for the front line. Most of them would probably end up on the same train he was getting on, which was a shame for them. They looked young.

Nash spotted his mark standing in line at a concession booth, barely visible behind a street conjurer performing simplistic spells for a group of children. He stood stock still, the shear thrill of accomplishment freezing him in place. His mind raced through possibilities, weighing the few available options against likelihoods of success. The best option was to wait. His eyes drank up every detail of the man he was about to kill.

The man was tall, just shy of two meters, with honey-blonde hair and blue eyes. His skin had the deep, golden-brown tan of an outdoorsman, and it was stretched taut over his muscular frame. The man moved away from the concession stand, dropping the cap of a drink bottle into the performer's upturned cap. The performer didn't notice the deceit, and formed a laughing face out of wavering light to thank him. Nash's fingers twitched in anticipation.
His mark was an incredible specimen, pushing his lumbering frame through the crowd toward the train yard behind the station. The man had an arrogant sort of strut, his weight moving indelicately across the ground in long strides. There was little refinement to his motion, thought Nash, and he probably had little, if any, combat training. The approach would be speed, silence and opportunity. A harsh, shuddering breath was all Nash could muster as the man passed within a meter of him, completely unaware. When he was roughly thirty meters away, Nash began to follow.

He tipped down the brim of the hat over his eyes, just enough to not be spotted by the man should he turn around. The mark left a large wake in the crowd that Nash avoided. His appearance would immediately cause suspicion if he was seen too closely.

The crowd thinned as he stalked his quarry through the station. It made him easier to spot, but made his prey easier to follow. The far end of the station ended in a series of offices, storage hangars and the miles of tracks used to organize the routes of the incoming and outbound trains. His target stepped through a doorway into the back areas, and, after a moment, Nash followed him through.

The rear passages reeked of oil and overheated steel, and were much quieter than the conversation-filled din of the platform. The mission files had said the security would be lax, aside from active magic detection on the platform and in the train yard. He wasn't disappointed. The few staff in the long, door-filled hallway bustled past, unconcerned, and there were no dedicated security guards.

The target stopped at an office door midway down the line, knocking twice and heading inside. Clocking in for work at Compton E&L, thought Nash. He took a seat on a bench in front of an unmarked supply office. The door to the office in front of him had been left open. A pretty young secretary sat at the desk inside the door, plucking away lazily at the keys of a typewriter. She looked up and caught his eye, and he smiled and winked. She blushed and went back to work, typing perhaps a bit quicker. Magic, he marveled.

A door closed down the hall and Nash saw the target coming towards him out of the corner of his eye.

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