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I wove through the Southern wedding like a guest who had forgotten a present but remembered his special forces training. A naked guard would wake up a few hours later, after the sedative passed through his system, to find his employer terminated. At least there wouldn't be anyone to discipline him for sleeping on the job or leaving his clothes lying around near the exit.

Til 47 Did Them Part

No flashing compass waypoints led me to the father of the bride as he stood over a freshly dug grave, and no button prompts flashed on the screen as I shoved him in. No glowing silhouettes led me to the open window of the manor's greenhouse, and no perky radio assistants advised me to unpack my sniper rifle from its inconspicuous briefcase; she had kept her mouth shut since the end of the mission briefing.

I waited. Just like the half-dozen botched attempts before it, the wedding bells rang and the celebrants assembled. This time, however, it was all perfect. I leisurely watched the ceremony, confident the six-shooter salute a few good ol' boys would fire off after the groom kissed the unenthused bride would cover any sound to escape from my comically large silencer.

Farewell to the groom. As John "Hannibal" Smith would say, I love it when a plans come together.

But before the climax, blackness; my desktop and a helpful box telling me Hitman: Blood Money performed an illegal action and my computer took the liberty to stop it.

No autosaves quietly preserved my progress, and no manual saves could be accessed from outside of the level. No shot, no kill.

The PC game (though it also came out for consoles, we both knew where it belonged) teased me with freedom, stroked my ego for figuring out its little idiosyncrasies, and led me back to its hotel room for some sweet satisfaction. Then it had a seizure on the bed and derezzed. Seemed fitting.

I restarted my computer. It's not healthy to go too long with blue (Silver)ball(er)s.