Assassination 2136

Chapter 1: In My Sights

Fifteen minutes.

I shoved the heavy metal door open with a grunt, the scraping noise echoing down the large stairwell below. The cold, brisk morning greeted me, enveloping me in it's bitter bite. I stepped out onto the rooftop, letting the door slam shut behind me. I didn't need to bother being quiet, no one would hear me. The next guard wouldn't be on duty for another hour, plenty of time to complete my mission.

My black boots scuffed the rooftop cement, as I casually strolled to the side of the building. There was a small ledge that only came up to the middle of my shin, and I peered over the edge. A gentle breeze lifted my hair, blowing it gently in the wind as the cold swirls surrounded me. My nose was cold, and my fingers despite being all snug in their gloves, were also feeling the chill.

The building was so tall, I could barely see the ground below yet I could just make out tiny little people hurrying about in the early morning air. It was only 3am, yet there were people going for a jog, people going to work, people just trying to exist in this world. Insignificant, small, cogs in a machine. Just like me.

Ten minutes.

I plonked down in a huff, sitting cross legged on the side of the building behind the pathetic attempt of a barrier. The city was covered in the hazy smog of pollution, it's yellow-purple hue smothering the lights coming from the buildings around me. Sky scrapers stretched upwards towards the sky, reaching for a sun they would never see. I could hear the horns down below, cars and scooters zooming around, never ceasing never resting.

Despite being so high up, I felt claustrophobic. Desperate for space, yet never able to obtain it. I could see the steam rising from the people and machines, creating a slight white fog in the morning air. I could always smell oil, smoke, sweat and blood. It was a constant stench that lay over the city like a wet blanket. I had smelt it my whole life. The rooftops were where I felt comfortable, familiar, the only place I could get enough room to stretch my legs out away from the crowd. The noise sounded so far away, and yet it persisted. The constant noise of the city never rested, a constant reminder that you aren't alone.

I shrugged off my rifle from my back, cradling it in my lap. The cool, sheer metal reflected the city lights back at me, twinkling dully. I took out the silencer from my pocket, swiftly screwing it to the end of the sniper rifle. There was no hurry, I thought to myself as I felt the cool hard metal against my skin. Every minute down to the second had been planned out, thoughtfully mapped details and lines that were now coming to fruition.

Five minutes.

The rifle was propped up on the small lip of the edge of the building, my legs still crossed over the ankle. I cocked the gun on my right shoulder, adjusting it to sit perfectly in the nook of my neck. My right eye peering through the lens, scoping out the surroundings. I zoomed in and out, trying to find the perfect angle. The room was in my sight, but all was dark, quiet. Same as always.

His routine was always the same, I'd been tailing him for about a week. Every morning he got up at 3:15am to get ready for work. He lived on the 43rd floor of the skyscraper opposite me. I had found this vantage point particularly useful during the stakeout, as the guard change over was consistently aligned to leave a gap exactly when he woke up.

My job is definitely made easier by the rhythmic and regular activity of people. We are creatures of habit, doing the same thing over and over even if it kills us. We wake and we work and we sleep, over and over an endless cycle. There's comfort in routine, familiarity and safety. Yet I can't help compare the person working themselves to death to the snake who eats itself from stress.

Two minutes.

It was nearly time, I thought to myself as I checked my watch. It was a pretty old watch, a silver band covering most of my forearm. I turned the watch to face me, the screen flickering to life. It showed the time, as well as the whether and wind direction. It wasn't much, but it was all a sniper needed.

One minute.

I didn't know his job, who he was, or even his name. Does he have a family? People who care about him? When given the contract, we don't even get a photo, only the ID of the tracking device of the victim. Every single person in L.A has a tracker, it's implanted at birth. But unfortunately, any technology can be hacked and used against you. As an assassin, I learnt quickly to not ask questions. Makes it easier.

3:15 am

Suddenly, the lights to the target's apartment turned on. Through the scope of the lens I could see him stirring, rolling over in bed. He did this every morning, the internal debate about wether to get up or not. Today would be the last time he ever did so.

He reluctantly swung his legs over the side of the bed, rubbing his eyes and stretching his arms above his head. He made his way weary eyed to the window to gaze out at the hustle and bustle of the city. In the distance, I could hear ambulance sirens. Never a dull moment in L.A.

He was just standing there.

Waiting to be shot.

I stared at him through the scope, eye wide and unblinking. My heart rate was slow, controlled, calculated. I was unfazed and not worried in the slightest. There was a gentle breeze coming from the right, but that would have little effect on my shot. My hands were steady, gripping the gun in a way I had done a thousand times before.

I inhaled deeply, imagining myself like a balloon. More and more air rushed into my lungs, filling them to the brim. I moved my finger over the trigger, holding my breath momentarily. I then exhaled through my lungs, breathing out all the air I had taken in to meet the cold air with a white puff of fog.

And I pulled the trigger.