It's not as if it was easy, this job. There was people, noise, life. Not that silence was any better, though. The silence that came after, always after, was the worst. Not necessarily the noise in the atmosphere, from the collective people, but from the once-a-person, the newly-dead. The dead aren't really quiet, either, but at least it wasn't on this plaine. That meant it wasn't her problem. Angelie positioned herself on the rooftop, preparing herself for the moments to come. She knew it was bad to question it, especially right before a job - even worse, the night before - but sometimes she just couldn't stop it. She blocked the thought from her mind, as well as all other thoughts, focusing solely on the target. The atmosphere outside tonight was some festival or maybe a parade (she hadn't bothered to check beforehand, but she'll surely hear about it in the news) - so many people, so much noise. Sometimes the noise of people was a bad thing - if the sound was heard, they'll panic, run, alarm the target - and sometimes it was a good thing - it could mask the getaway. Whatever it'll be tonight, she prayed it was the latter option. It really was the perfect night - the air was warm, the sky filled with a moderate amount of clouds and always the ever-present stars. The heat of the night caused the target to leave the window open, the clouds causing cover when needed. Then again, this had been arranged. An inside job. Someone had planned it like this; weeks, months, perhaps years of planning - how was she to know? Not that it really mattered in the end. It wasn't her position to question things, only carry out the job. That's what she was paid for. That's what she was good at. Perhaps - long ago - it could've been something different, but not now. Things change; that's the only constant in this world. She aimed. It was a clear path from here to the target. The shot was perfect - nothing could bounce off, intervene, reflect - it had been an inside job, after all, perhaps years in advancing. Of course it was perfect. A clean line, straight on through. She adjusted the microscope. She could see him more clearly now, not that she didn't already know what he looked like. A man in his mid 40s, hair already white - perhaps from the stress of his job - and blue eyes; wrinkles had started to form around his mouth and forehead and eyes, but his smile retained a portion of youthfulness that met his eyes, making him seem more alive than - she ended her thoughts there. Now was not the time. But children, sons - he was a father, a beloved husband with a beautiful wife - she shook her head. That was the public talking. You know what he's done, she reminded herself. What he's done to them behind closed doors. An inside job, you've read the reports. The marks, the bruises - the experiments. You know what he's done. She steadied her breathing, taking shallow breaths. A boy no older than eight, perhaps, with three long pale lines down his back, something seemingly singed into his skin - wings? A burn on the small one's wrist in the peculiar shape of a bird. The large bruise on the back of the wife's neck, a deep purple, the burn marks on her back. She was missing three toes - two left, one right. Neither child could go to sleep without being snuck in some powerful sleeping tonics and even then they had nightmares. The wife was afraid to walk alone in the garden, alone anywhere. She raked her nails on her thighs and would bleed lest someone stopped her. Angelie took the shot. No one said it was easy, this job.
