Ink.

2201

The details? I'm an assassin.

Or as Nathen prefers to point out: I WAS an assassin.

Like I said before, it's my job to regain that worthy title unless I want my story inked out like the other villans. My life shouldn't be considered as any danger because there is a fine difference between murder and assassination- my profession obviously in the grounds of assassination.

The things I do are for the good, not the bad. Bad people should be killed so I kill them. Nothing different from a job as a teacher or nurse, apart from I'm 15.

Being my only other relative, Nathen took me under at the age of 4, teaching me about all the various categories of bad in this world and I suppose from then on he trained me.

I was given my number at age 10, being allowed to help out with machinery on occasion however it wasn't till I was 13 when I started to be given lists. Nothing high tech or agent like, just a scrappy old piece of paper with a couple of names inked onto them. It was these names that made it important.

It's like a nurse without a patient, a teacher without a student. Just as an assassin without a list. No list, no assassin. That sh*tty scrap of paper, I need it.

Just my luck to be the only guy pulled out of this kind of job. I'm pretty sure I'm the first number that this has ever happened to: number 2201. The unlucky number. The short straw.

Well I can tell you I'm far from the short straw now. In fact, it's going to make me stronger. A true and dedicated assassin would have the right mind to do whatever they had to in order to get back to their line of duty. I am that dedicated assassin, me.

Although I can pretty much look after myself, Nathen still has to live in the same household as me (just in case a police officer comes knocking on our door out of the blue) so when I see his note about how he's got some job to do this evening, I take it as a perfectly timed gift.

Nathen's out, all is a go.

I dump my school bags down in the hallway and race upstairs in the direction of Nathen's room. Sh*t, it's locked. So I try using the good old spoon trick by hacking into the lock but that too ends up in misery. Sh*t. He never locks his door, why now? Why the time when I need to get in there the most?

After attempting another 6 times, I reluctantly, but still pretty pissed off, take a shower. I use the time of steaming water pouring down my back to think about just what it was I was going to do.

It would have to be kept to myself, obviously. If Nathen found out he'd flip and most probably tell the agency too. The agency part I didn't mind so much but Nathen, even I have to admit he's strong.

Working as a killer, you have to be strong. Doesn't really work out if you're not.

Perhaps when Nathen is asleep I could sneak in there and grab some documents. But he's always been the opposite of a deep sleeper unlike me who can sleep through earthquakes.

Whatever I had planned to do, it had to happen soon because sooner or later it won't be too long till the agency find an all time replacement for me. And that is worrying. Knowing that although I was one of the strongest, they can still replace me, is worrying.

I needed to start of small. Commit a couple of needed crimes or save a few measly life's of locals.

Not being much of a book worm, I turn to the tv and flick to the news channel. Nothing.

Why did I have to live in such a nice area where everyone was fine and dandy? What happened to all those back streets and alleys which homed many of the drug dealers, bank stealers and criminal people?

This was just great. If I needed to take some action it would mean I'd have to drive there and with Nathen in the household, it wasn't so easy to sneak out without any suspicions being raised.

Just then the phone rings, causing me to -all so automatically- leap up from my seat and kick over a vase. I ignore the pile of clumped flowers and mouldy water and dash for the phone.

It goes to the answering machine. Oh sh-.

Its Nathen.

"Hey Belle, it's me, Nathe. Look I don't think I'll be home tonight due to some more problems out in the southern area. You can cook yourself a microwave meal from the fridge and you'll probably see me tomorrow when I pick you up from school. You know the drill. Keep safe, bye." The machine cuts off.

So he was thinking on picking me up from school tomorrow? He's just as clueless at a teenage life than I am. Nobody at the age of 15 is picked up from school. Oh well, I don't care.

But the most important thing he said was that he wouldn't be here all night. Bingo.