Goldbullet v. JFK

Today was it. His heart couldn't stop thumping his ears, the blood rushed to his face underneath the harsh heat of the sun. Today was an unusually hot November day for Texas and there wasn't a cloud in the sky. "Hey Gibby, you mind taking these crates up to the sixth floor?" A black-haired man walked up to him, holding a cardboard box filled with books. He blinked, processing what his colleague said before noticing his blue eyes were starting to drift downwards towards the bag on his shoulder. He shot up out of his seat, laughing like he usually does. "Oh! Hahaha yeah sure I can! Just promise me you'll cover my lunch today?" Goldbullet took the hefty box from the other man's arms, exchanging looks of assurance. But he certainly wasn't sure. He wasn't sure if Shinri had noticed how out of sorts he's been all day, he wasn't sure how Hakka got to work so early today, he wasn't sure if Flayon was still on the sixth floor, he wasn't sure if Ruze had fixed the elevator correctly yesterday, he wasn't sure if the motorcade would even come down the street at the right time, he wasn't sure if Axel noticed the green duffel bag he's been trying to hold on to all day. Stop. Get to your objective. Like a robot his grin disappeared along with Shinri down the stairs to the lobby of the book depository. He turned on his heel, making a line to the elevator doors, jabbing the red button nearly a dozen times. God, what am I doing? The seconds it took for the elevator to meet him felt like eons. Everything that's about to happen, needs to happen. There's no reason to think otherwise. Ding!

The sleek golden doors gaped open, inviting death. One foot, just foot in the door, one right after the other. In his mind, maybe 12 years had past. He jabbed the button next to six. The doors creaked and shut softly, but the sound rang like church bells in his ears. A lifetime had past, people have flying cars, robots make toast on command, no more poverty, people live to be 200 years old by the time the elevator rose up to the sixth floor. DING! He nearly screamed. The golden gates opened at a dead slow pace, but just enough time for Goldbullet to quiet all harassing thoughts that blurred his mind. This is it. He stepped out, scanning the room for any sign of life. Just boxes and shelves of books. No Flayon muttering under his breath. Perfect. He gently set down the cardboard box and shrugged off his green duffel bag. What now? Just pick any window. A familiar voice of reason, one he's been hearing every single day for the past six months. He quickly walked up to a window, it was the perfect view of the street and the crowd had gotten noticeably bigger since last he looked. He brought his wrist to his face. Approximately 10 minutes. Fuck. He dropped the bag, opened it and quickly got to work assembling his rifle. One piece after the other. Breathe. It was stuffy and dusty in the room, he leaned over twisting the nob on the window to open it. The sound of people and a light breeze rushed in. For six whole months he's had to endure conditioning, being poked and prodded by needles and liquids, sitting in wet marshlands, engaging and fraternizing with the locals. Playing pretend. Playing house. Playing the good guy. "I know!" Familiar, must be from the floor below, definitely Bettel's voice. More laughter. Bettel, Shinri, and Hakka in total. Bettel's here early so his car must be parked at the southeast exit by the generator. He slowly slipped the barrel through the window frame, resting the bipod on the sill. Adjusting the scope, he noticed a blonde man. He stood at the edge of the sidewalk on the other side of the road, a wide-brim sunhat covered most of his head but he could recognize that purple button up shirt from anywhere. As if he knew, the blonde man raised the brim of his hat slightly just as the roar of the crowd rose. His golden eyes immediately found the eyes of the sniper. And he just smirked as the first car of the motorcade passed him, American flag waving goodbye. "All of this will be taken care of, including you." Well, now there's really no going back. The pink hat of his wife entered his vision and finger gently caressed the trigger, squeezing it only when the optimal position was taken. The birds that rested on the roof of the book depository flew away in a flutter, the scream of a grieving wife covered in blood cut off the laughter of his colleagues downstairs. By the time anyone in the building deducted the gunshot came from upstairs, his coworkers testify Goldbullet had disappeared. If that even was his real name.