Up In Arms

Chapter 2

The last words that went through my mind before I died were:

'Fuck, my soulmate's an assassin.'

Now, I know what you're thinking. You're thinking: "If he's dead, then how is he narrating the story?"

Well, my friend. What if I told you that I'm not dead?

"What?!" You exclaim. "But you just said that you died!"

Yes, but dying and being dead are two different things. You see, there are strange things happening in this big crazy world. Not just assassins and underground organizations and all that shit, but crazy things like soulmates and superheroes and regular people who just don't fucking die.

Like me.

The number one rule that helps people figure out all these superpower and soul-tie shenanigans is that nobody can inherently have two unique aspects. So, while I did have heterochromia iridium – two different colored eyes – a classic sign of a soulmate bond, that soul-tie came from my assassin soulmate's side of the family. I knew my natural eye color previously because I've seen my baby pictures and my eyes were black until I was about three. That fact didn't help me not freak out when they changed back, and she put a sniper bullet through my heart.

So, because my soul-tie came from her, it is completely possible for me to have another aspect. Hence, not dying. I guess I'm either lucky that I can't die, or I was chosen to be her soulmate because I can't die.

My first thought after waking up was:

'Well, it's going to be easier to make a new identity this time around.'

Would you believe that I have a routine for this?

I got off the pavement as my split blood boiled and evaporated into the air, the hole in my chest now only a scar. My clothes were un-bloodied but still ripped, so I went back into my apartment and changed out of them. The next change was my hair, and I harshly rinsed out all of the temporary black hair dye and revealed the mottled brown hair beneath. Flecks of every previous dye color I went through still remain in my hair, so I usually have to re-dye to cover them up. With no new colors on hand, I left it au natural and packed up my stuff into my suitcase and duffel bags.

Appearance: check.

Dialing a number from memory, I used my headphones as a wireless headset as I packed away all the clothing from my closet into a duffel.

I heard the phone pick up and didn't give the man a chance to go through his usual intro. "Vic! My favorite used car salesman! I've got good news and bad news."

There was a deep sigh on the other end of the line. Victor – only I call him 'Vic' – is the only person in the world who knows about my ability, after I pushed him out of the way of – get this – a car and took the hit myself. So, considering he owes me his life and all that, he is my go-to guy for whenever I'm making a new identity and need a different car. I got lucky that the one guy I saved was the owner of his own used car dealership, but hey! I'm his biggest customer.

"Good news, found my soulmate! She's a total heartbreaker though, gives love a bad name and all that. Bad news, I need another reinforced car, there's a sniper bullet in mine." I zipped up a duffel and started throwing paraphernalia into the suitcase, making sure to grab a third bag and empty most of my kitchen.

"Dammit." Victor cursed, meaning that I caught him with no customers. "You're a lucky son of a gun, you know that, right?"

I didn't know whether to laugh because I was an arms dealer, or flinch because I was assassinated. In the end I did neither because the remark wasn't that funny. "You've got one on the lot?"

"I want payment up front, cash."

"When have I done anything else?"

Victor hung up on me with a grunt.

Leaving the phone and my headphones on the bed, I dumped the keys to my apartment and those to any other locations linked to my old identity on the kitchen counter before heading out and tossing the rest of the bags in the back seat of the truck.

Stuff: check.

The drive to Victorious Used Cars was short and familiar, and I found my new vehicle in the usual spot hidden from security cameras behind the building. Paying my man in cash left on the front seat of my old vehicle, I moved my bags and weapons from the white truck to the camouflage green SUV and hopped in.

It was a newer model, and I smiled at the delightful purr of the engine starting up.

Car: check.

Next up: new identity.

And the last item on my list: soulmate.

I made it a point to keep up-to-date on how to contact the local assassination services in the area, which resulted in me spending a little too much time in clubs and bars than I would have preferred, only in the hopes of becoming familiar with the appearances and identifying aspects of an assassination contract maker.

Still too early for them to be out, I stopped by a cosmetics store and picked up an assortment of hair dyes and the other necessary products for my identity transformations, and then went to one of those humanitarian group stores to donate my old clothes and pick out a new wardrobe.

My old identity – I went by 'Kodak' – was a college student making a little extra dough through the illegal arms trade. I was a nosy little shit, picking up skills and information with every delivery and job. That's probably what got me assassinated, I learnt something I wasn't supposed to, and they needed to keep me silent. Anyways, 'Kodak' was a college student, so I wore baggy jeans and various hooded sweaters, shirts that were either plain or that had heavy metal band logos, and some beat-up sneaks.

My new identity was going to be older, more mature. Some dark button-ups and muscle tees went in the cart, jeans that fit me better and a badass leather jacket. Black aviator sunglasses, combat boots, and a few other accessories, as well as a new satchel and some nick-knacks. Also, food and a few bottles of soda. Getting killed always made me super hungry, like, three hours later.

Back in the truck, I circled around to my old apartment and tried to map out where my soulmate had hidden. I had parked near the corner of the street, so any of the buildings down the row had a good view of my truck from the side that I approached it. I had been shot in the back, and – having checked my new scars in the store's changing room mirror – I knew that the shot hadn't been from a large angle.

I pulled up behind a building at the end of the street and found a fire escape ladder that was covered in rust but deceptively well-oiled. On the roof I found no signs of where the sniper had laid. Usually there was a kind of nest, left over cigars or some snack food wrappers and sometimes a shell or two, but here there was nothing. Either she picked up after herself, or she brought nothing except for herself and her gun.

Checking the time on the cheap watch I purchased, I made a mental note to buy a new phone in the four hours I had before the clubs opened.

More than enough time to plan out how to find me some assassins.

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