just like bosnia

Smooth saxophones and rough smoke, dirty puddles and reflected neon, interconnecting letters of sparkling green and bleeding red. It's an eye sore, every inch of this place glows or blinks, a vibrant STD of signs and words.

I try to smile, to slick my hair back into some kind of order and look normal. It isn't easy, the suit is grey and out of place, a couple walks past me holding hands, two women, one of them has a Mohawk and a glowing piercing in her nose, a ring of blue that contrasts the bright dye of her hair.

They don't notice my staring, the large sun-glasses hide my probing eyes, round and black I feel like a cop, some biker sheriff from the desert. Mind wandering, have to do something about that.

Training and simulations run through my head, statistics and experience tell me that the job is an easy one, a smash and grab, just like Bosnia.

Sky-scrapers and towers sway above me, phosphorescent colors blinking and swirling, the glow is held in the pregnant clouds and makes the sky come alive in a way that resembles the northern lights. I half expect the coming rain to be a torrent of paint drops, a sudden mural of watery oil, the image makes me smile for real.

More people pass in front of me, torn clothing and glow-sticks, they resemble bums that fell into a dumpster outside of a rave, but that's how everyone dresses here. Things have changed all over, if the videos that I've seen have told the truth it means that it wasn't always like this. Broken and automatic, an ancient machine that has forgotten about the humanity that lives inside of it.

But all that will change, and soon. The mob of people drift off into the smoke and steam of the winding streets but I keep my vigil next to my car, the tower before me holds the target. It seems impossible to me but my handlers assure me it's the only way, I'm not stupid, I know they are using me just as much as the system used me. But I don't care, the things I can do are important, I would have to act no matter what.

'A life-time of killing and stealing has led me to this',
that's a phrase that I had been saying to myself over the past few years, a sneaking little sentence that would play in my head before every job, while relaxing in between work, and lately for no reason at all, it became my mantra.

I flatten my suit and feel the long pistol that sits against my chest, a straightening of my belt and I check the snub nose revolver. The clouds rumble like a hungry stomach and I jog to the huge glass doors that welcome me to the Institute of Science and Belief, the doors slide open and the recycled air engulfs me as the doors slide shut. I turn my head and look outside for a second.

The rain begins to fall, the drops are slick and blue, long trails of green and yellow, explosive drops of red and purple. I grin like a madman as I turn to the long twisting escalator, just a smash and grab and afterwards the world would finally be a better place.