Target

A young man strode purposefully down the crowded street, head held high, eyes bright with confidence. A heavy bag was slung across his shoulder but he was unhampered by the extra weight as he broke away from the rest of the populus, entering a series of narrow alleyways. Weaving his way easily through the maze of tight spaces that he was so familiar with, he smirked to himself, thoroughly pleased with his own resourcefulness.

Presently, he arrived at his destination. Kicking off of the wall, he hooked his fingers over the lower rungs of the old fire escape and used his weight to extend it to the ground in one fluid motion. Wiping his hands off on his jeans, he quickly rid his palms of any stray flecks of red paint. Cracking his knuckles, he set about clambering up the rickety structure. His footing was sure as he swung himself higher and higher, ignoring the whine and groan of the metal. He already knew that it was capable of taking his weight.

After reaching the top of the building, he paused to glance at his watch. He had made good time, just as planned. Adjusting his earbuds and selecting the proper playlist, he swung the heavy bag off of his shoulder. He pulled the zipper open smoothly and set about removing his most prized possession (besides himself, of course) piece by piece. His movements were careful, almost reverent as he set the individual parts in their place, a practice he had long since perfected. He was the best in his trade and he took pride in that fact. The man was no slacker. He did his job as required and he did it better than anyone else.

Music thrumming softly in his ears, he began assembling the item that let him be so good at what he did. He called her Heartbreaker, a personal little joke he had come up with years ago to amuse himself in case the job ever become monotonous. So far, it hadn’t.

His task complete, he hefted Heartbreaker and made his way to the edge of the building. Glancing at his watch, a smirk reclaimed his lips and he picked out his mark on the streets below with ease. The boy was in his late teens, back to him. An ample target. He aimed for the head instead. The cranium was always more effective and he knew he could make the shot. He didn't bother checking the wind as he adjusted Heartbreaker, pressing her buttstock firmly against his shoulder as he peered through the sight, quickly lining up the boy's shaggy-haired head and beanie between the crosshairs. He could probably knock the kid’s hat off if he felt like it.

Counting down the seconds until the perfect moment, his finger rested lightly against the trigger. He had a relaxation only perfected through time and experience, of which he had plenty. Just another few moments. A girl was approaching the mark, a teetering armload of books distracting her from where she was going. It was time. Compressing the trigger, he sent the red-tipped projectile whistling through the air. Satisfaction caused his grin to widen as the spray of red only he could see confirmed his success. He had managed to knock the hat off after all (not that he ever doubted he would), sending the two teenagers reeling into each other and scattering the girl’s books across the walkway.

His job was complete. Squatting, he began to disassemble Heartbreaker with practiced ease, once more assured of his own prowess or (as he preferred to call it) savoir faire. This was just the beginning of the story between the boy and girl, a story that he had started and they could take from there. It was no longer his problem if their relationship didn't work out. He had played his part.

Taking out an old pencil stub and a small, worn notebook, he flipped through the pages until he came to the most recent, the only one still half-filled. Adding another tally to the countless already there, he felt his satisfaction grow. Counting the few remaining sheets of blank, he realized he would have to get another book soon. This one would soon join the hundreds he had already filled back at his home over the thousands of years he had spent perfecting his trade. He had considered modernizing his system, especially after he had upgraded to Heartbreaker, but he found he preferred this one element of tradition.

“The love god claims another victim,” he mused to himself, “Few more like that and I could get the day off.” Hefting his bag, he drew a sharp breath, lip curling as the strap raked across his delicate, snow-white wings before settling comfortably between his shoulderblades. Stretching his arms above his head to loosen his muscles, he sighed contentedly, allowing himself a moment to relax before he ran off to his next assignment. He flared his wings, the feathers sparkling in the sun. It was nice to take a moment to preen. Checking his watch, he swung himself over the edge onto the fire escape, whistling along to the next song of his playlist, a favourite of his by Sam Cooke.

"So Cupid, draw back your bow,

And let your arrow go.

Straight to my lover's heart for me,

Nobody but me."