Author's Note: Something I did for my Writing 12 class. It was supposed to be a character limited or omnicient thing. And it was supposed to be about a person and their shoes. Well. This was close enough.
Has no name, so I just labelled it "Drabble".
Poised gracefully on the mansion's slanted roof, Train was thankful for the perfect traction of his new shoes. Any unwanted movement, and his target would surely spot him.
The shoes supporting him were simple, black leather sneakers with rubber soles. Velcro held them tightly on his size nine feet, for laces would have been a problem if they accidentally came undone. Train wore plain, black, form-fitting pants, a long, small, white tee-shirt along with a cropped, black jacket, and black belt adorned his hips to hold his favourite gun. His shirt had a v-shaped neckline, revealing part of his torso with a "XIII" tattoo.
Train sighed, relaxing only the slightest bit, as his target entered the building, and ran a hand through his dark, messy hair. His mind was blank, save for the mantra he always ran over and over through his head: "Don't let the target escape. Don't kill anyone. Don't mess up." Shifting slightly, Train prepared himself to slip into the open window he knew was waiting below—his partner, Sven, and he had worked it all out earlier; Sven would open the window while in a meeting with the target, Train would hop in unexpectedly, and the target would be theirs. Perhaps it was not one of their more carefully crafted plans, but as long as Train was back to the hideaway in time for his daily milk, he honestly didn't care.