Up In Arms

Chapter 1

I am a killer.

The correct term is assassin, but the job title has turned into such a cliché that I do not want to associate with it.

My coworkers – that is, other killers – have been finding my aversion to the label increasingly humorous as time goes on and more kills are tucked neatly into our belts. I am assuming that this is because I oh-so-perfectly fit the stereotype in regard to my emotions and thought processes. Emotionless killer, determined to make the kill regardless of the target, only caring about my reputation and getting paid in the end.

My outwards appearance seems to be the opposite of the stereotype, reinforced by the way we group together to create cover stories and misconceptions. Once every two weeks my blonde hair is styled into golden waves with a bit of a curl, and contact lenses turn my left eye dark blue and my right a barely detectable darker blue. My coworkers and I go out 'clubbing', getting seen by the masses and contacting those in search of our services.

A week ago, I was given a contract to kill an illegal arms dealer, and it had taken me till now to gather information and locate my target. Staked out on the roof at the end of the street, I peered through the scope of my sniper rifle at the arms dealer's apartment. His blinds were closed, the faux-wooden type that kept even the shadows of movement concealed. I had both exits within my sights and his truck's tires were also within range and view of my perfect position.

The black-haired boy came out of the building with stark white headphones over his ears, giving the appearance of aloofness. They were just for show, to fit in with the stereotypical image of a college kid if his age was any indication. I saw him glance both ways nonchalantly, his mismatched eyes the opposite of my own.

As I watched him scan the tops of the surrounding buildings, our eyes locked for a moment unbeknownst to him. The crimson bled out of his right eye, replaced with a familiar inky black that I used to see every time I looked in a mirror.

Satisfied that he saw no one, the arms dealer retrieved black duffel bags and loaded them into the back of his truck. My finger rested on the trigger as he glanced down and caught his own reflection in the glossy white paint.

The man stumbled backwards in surprise, away from his reflection and unknowingly closer to me. He was alerted to my presence, the soulmate indicator tipping him off.

I pulled the trigger, and the bullet went in his back and through his heart, sinking into the side of his discreetly armored vehicle.

I watched him fall face-first onto the sidewalk, a growing pool of blood the same color as both my eyes framing the corpse of the man that was supposed to be my soulmate. Picking up my sniper rifle, I made my way towards the fire escape without looking back.

It was a shame he was my target, I could have used a new arms dealer.

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