Frank Iero Must Die {Frerard}

2

Ta daaaaa happy Friday

When the train stopped, I got off and walked away into the subway station fluidly, slipping headphones into my ears to give the appearance of a lack of awareness of my surroundings.

This technique had benefited me countless times, although I sometimes wished I could actually listen to music while working. Music was distracting, which can be wonderful, but not in my line of buisness.

I walked into the lobby of the small hotel I was staying at, nodded to the woman at the front desk, and took the elevator up. I smiled at a few people as they boarded the elevator, knowing I would melt from their memories within a matter of minutes. That was my greatest gift.

I walked to my room, closing and bolting the door behind me. My hotel room wasn't fancy, but it wasn't as bad as some hotels I'd had to stay at in the past. I shuddered at memories of rats and cockroaches.

I tossed the duffel bag on the bed, rummaging through it for anything that might still have blood on it. As soon as I had gotten rid of any possible evidence, I hopped in the shower. Naturally, I brought a knife and gun with me and placed them on the soap shelf. I'm not paranoid, I'm prepared. As a killer, I've taken advantage of people's stupidity in not protecting themselves. I wasn't about to make the same mistakes as them.

When I got out of the shower, I looked at my plain appearance in the mirror and sighed. Why must I look so boring? I opened my bag and pulled out a small bottle. I stared at it for a second. This could screw everything up for me if I wasn't careful. I popped the lid open, making an instant decision and squirting the contents of the bottle into my hand.

I massaged it into my hair and scalp, letting it sit for a bit and praying I wouldn't look too ridiculous. I couldn't afford my boredom with myself to get in the way of my job, and dying my hair bright red could present a small problem. Not only was it very noticeable, it was hard to forget seeing. Panic rose in my throat as I thought this over. I could die because of this. I was supposed to blend, what was I thinking?

Taking deep breaths, I rinsed the extra dye out, looking at my new hair colour. Maybe this wouldn't be all that bad after all.

Red hair actually suited me. You know that feeling you get when you're finally able to express your individuality, and you just feel so proud of yourself? That's exactly how I felt.

My only form of rebellion left is to fuck up my hair and look like a sixteen year-old. Oh well.

I took a quick power nap, effectively refueling without taking up too much time. When I woke up, I ordered room service and sat down to prepare for the murder of Frank Iero.

I printed out all the necessary information, including his file, blueprints of his building, the picture of him, and his history. I couldn't help but notice that for the past few years he'd been working as a "consultant" for a company I'd never heard of. A quick google search proved that it didn't exist. Interesting.

That, combined with the way they'd referred to his eyes as "hazel" in the file, almost as though he had a say in what was written (because I'd done the exact same thing), were enough to make me suspicious. Were they sending me after a fellow assassin? I'd have to be careful.

There was no way I could ask them for information, they'd only take the contract away. Kill first, ask questions later was practically our motto.

They'd sent me after a trained killer before. I'd completed the assignment, but had broken my collarbone in the process and hadn't been able to kill for months.

I needed to know just how much experience Frank had with this, so I hacked a few databases and did a little research. You know, typical stuff.

He had dropped out of university three years ago and been off the map ever since. I dug further and found that there and been a court case in which he'd testified against his father. It didn't say what the case was about, and no one had been prosecuted.

Afterwards, he had filed a restraining order against his dad after a public argument that had gotten physical. It didn't take a genius to figure out that he'd been abused. So he was used to fighting for survival. That was something to worry about.

The desperation of someone who'd lived with a constant battle could be a dangerous weapon. I did, however, have years more field experience, so this shouldn't be too big of an issue, but I would still have to be careful. I can't leave Mikey on his own just yet.

I needed to know more about his skill-set. Taking a deep breath, I picked up my phone and held down the R key for speed dial. "Hey, Ray? I need to look at the archives."

An hour later, I was entering a huge office building. Everyone around me was wearing fancy dress suits, but I didn't mind being the one guy wearing a leather jacket and black skinny jeans. The red hair was a different story altogether.

Most people in this building were the office workers behind us assassins. Every now and then though, one of us would need more information and would have to stop by, so these people were used to it. They were not used to assassins with a bright, incredibly noticeable feature, like dyed red hair.

Ignoring the looks I was getting, I walked over to the lifts. There were six, but I was looking for one in particular. Inserting the key that I kept attached to the band around my wrist, I twisted left and rotated the arrow shaped button that pointed upwards so that it pointed downwards. I pressed the button, removing my key and entering the lift.

It was a short ride, coming to a bumpy stop that I was well accustomed to by now. When the doors opened, I breathed in the familiar scent of old documents and comic books. Ray was sitting at his semi-circular desk in front of the filing cabinets, reading a comic that I'd brought him last time I was here.

I pulled another one out of my jacket, "Hey," I waved the comic under his nose and he instantly grabbed it, his brown 'fro bouncing. "Thanks man!" he cried. I shrugged, "I need to look at an assassin's file. From another organization." His mouth dropped. "A file...for another killer?" I nodded. "You know that's not allowed. I could get fired for this. Then they'd send you to kill me." I raised an eyebrow, "C'mon Ray, you know I'd help you fake your death if that happened."

He sighed, "Fine. You're lucky there are no security cameras right now. Malfunction." Then, understanding dawned on his face, "That was you, wasn't it?" I shrugged, "Possibly. I need Frank Iero's file."

Ray walked to one of the many rows of file cabinets, his eyes scanning over the labels. He opened one, pulling out a file and bringing the pages over to the photocopier. It was one thick file. So my suspicions had been right, he was a fellow assassin. Oh well.

Ray handed me the photocopied pages. Thanking him, I tucked them into my jacket and left.

When I got back to my hotel room, I spread the pages out around me on the bed, reading them one by one.

As it turns out, Frank was an assassin working for a similar organization to mine, with a body count almost as large as mine. He was good at what he did, but there were a couple of pages of inquiry as to his mental stability. Not that there weren't any in every killer's file, but there were quite a few in his.

When I got to his mental assessment page, I nearly fell off my bed. The psychologist that had spoken to him had jotted down a few notes:

-admitted to past suicidal thoughts

-past? self harm

-past? depression

-possible bipolar disorder? ←proven false

Wow. It appeared that his mental assessment was identical to mine. I got up and neatly piled up the files, the order of the white papers calming the chaos of my thoughts. Time to begin.