The figure rose to the podium, a face of determination, a heart of apprehension and ambition. His smile towards the roaring crowd was warm and personal, and his grey eyes, so full of dark and light at the same time, seemed to touch everyone in the square. This was his moment, and no one would take it away from him, not even death himself.
Fortunately for the figure, death wasn’t present at that time.
But a glint above a campaign party office was.

The man stood hunched down on the rooftop 500 yards from the square, an easy shot for the experienced soldier, but he knew it would be the hardest of his life. Sweat rolled down his brown as the full realization of what he was about to do struck hammering blows at his conscience. He coughed and zeroed the range on his scope for the hundredth time: he had been on the roof for 10 hours now without food or water, and the elements were beginning to wear on him. He had fought on every kind of terrain imaginable, but then again, this being his 3rd year since his dishonorable discharge; he was getting a little soft. He coughed and chuckled lightly to himself: he never was much of a politics man.

The man on the roof looked at his watch and grinned smugly: it was time. 11 hours on the dot. He began to raise the rifle and prepared himself. He slowly slowed his heart rate down in order to fire between shots as to not let the vibration of the contractions affect his shot: the crosshairs almost seemed to focus themselves on the center of the figure’s chest. This the end to either man, be it the prey, or the predator.
The shot rings out.
A man collapses to a gasping crowd.
The figure stands starring as a black splotch in the distance falls from the roof of his rival party.
The shot had missed.
The soldier had stepped to fast in the dance,
Forever lost in his own tempos and melodies.
He chose die for his cause.
Rather than rot for his enemy’s.