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Freak

The lights were always off by the time Alias got back to his humble abode. Then again, it was three in the morning. Most creatures had long since called it a night, but for Alias, this was his time: the quite hours when there weren't many people around. After climbing five flights of steps to his floor, Alias strolled down the darkened hallway. There wasn't anything special about it. The building itself was old as dirt, constructed many years ago when this part of town wasn't considered to be in the shadier end.

But a man's home is his castle, Alias thought as he pushed his key into the deadbolt of his apartment door. The old wooden door creaked open, and Alias wasted no time slipping inside, and shutting it again.

Locking the deadbolt back, he strolled from the door to his living room. There sat an old couch, which he had done many hours of thinking on, adjacent to and ancient television, which was hardly ever used. The couch was only a few feet away from the doorway to the kitchen, which was small, housed very little, and only led back to the one bedroom where Alias slept. The other bedroom was past the couch and some steel, green, filing cabinets, but Alias didn't use it for sleeping.

Shoving his paws into his jacket pockets, Alias's fingers were met by a hard object. Curious, he pulled the object out and examined it. Shaking his head, he realized it was only the AP mine Mick had given him. Walking over to one of the green cabinets, he kicked open the bottom drawer and dropped it, and its detonator into the drawer, and promptly kicked the drawer shut. Alias was sure that by the next day he would forget about its very existence.

Walking to the kitchen, Alias sat at his makeshift dinner table, which in reality was only a small card table. However, he was the only person he ever had over for dinner so it did just fine. Reaching behind his back, Alias made contact with the manila folder he took from Hets, detailing his next job. Pulling it out from its secured location, he plopped it down and flipped it open.

His green eyes scanned over the contents, taking in the various aspects of what Hets was going to pay him to do. From the looks of the information, it seemed like an assassination. It had building layouts, security codes, security shifts, and the itinerary of a lion named Uri Verraden. Alias noticed a note next to the picture of the cat. Apparently Hets would pay double if it looked like a suicide. Alias sighed. That ruled out poisons, sniping, and car bombs; the later of which was too public for Alias anyway. Sitting back, Alias considered how this would be best accomplished. Falling from a high building, like where his office was located, would be convincing, but everyone would know instantly.

Alias went back to the blueprint of Verraden's office. Scowling, Alias noticed that the hallway leading to it had no security cameras at all. Alias had everything he would need to gain access without detection or forced entry. And he also knew Verraden's schedule down to when he would go take a piss. It just seemed like Hets was throwing away money on this by using him, instead of one of his other cronies.

Whatever.

One shot right through the stomach would kill Mr. Verraden quickly and after placing the gun used on his body, it would be written up as suicide. It was the quickest and easiest way. Besides, it would be hours before anyone would find the body. By that time, Alias would be back in his apartment thinking about his bank balance and how much it had increased.

Alias shook his head. He just realized how much he thought about money. It wasn't his biggest concern in the world, but it was up there. He was saving his money, so that one day he could just live comfortably, and not do this stuff anymore. That was the dream Alias lived by, that someday he wouldn't have to work for people like Hets and the Invisible War would be just a bad memory.

But it would be difficult.

Alias looked down and pulled out a pistol from its holster. He unloaded the magazine, set it aside and pulled the slide back, and the release engaged. A nine-millimeter hollow pointed round fell into the palm of his paw, which he loaded back into the magazine. He then proceeded to disassemble the pistol, and in a matter of seconds had it in three separate pieces. He sat back, knowing it would take no effort to put it back together. It was quite ironic. He had remembered everything, except what counted the most. Alias had always been a mercenary, working for the highest bidder. He knew the skills, but knew not how he learned them. It was like instinct for him, but Alias knew better than that. Field stripping a gun, flipping someone twice his size over his shoulder, having the skills to penetrate even the tightest of security; all this he knew how to do. But he didn't know where it came from. Which only led Alias to a larger question: why?

There were so many things in life that Alias wished he could forget. So many things that haunted his sleep. Alias unconsciously picked up a pen, and began to doodle on a scrap piece of paper. It was a strange feeling when the person who looked back at you in the mirror every morning was a total stranger. Who was he, where had he come from, why or how did he know the skills he did? He had answers to none of this. It was like walking in on a movie that was half way done, only the movie was his life, and Alias had just stepped into his shoes, knowing nothing about what was going on, or what came before. His work wasn't something that was completely pleasurable, but at the same time, Alias was good at what he did, making it all the harder to not do what he did.

Alias looked down at his paper. Then there was that damn image.

In Alias's subconscious doodling, his lines had allied together to produce a picture. Only this image, Alias was quite familiar with. He had been drawing it since...forever. It was branded into his mind, and he saw it when he closed his eyes. His dreams were plagued with it. And Alias had no explanation.

It was the same young female zebra he drew every night. She had no name, and Alias didn't even know if such a face ever existed. However, after Alias finished one of his drawings, he felt better. Not less confused, but just less angry.

Yeah, I'm a freak. Alias's brain concluded, throwing the pen down and quickly reassembling his pistol. Draping his black overcoat across a chair, Alias walked back into his room. Shutting the door, he removed his flack jacket, which was made of a thin durable material, (also black), his boots, and laid back on his bed. Some day he needed to get something with color. He wasn't trying to make a fashion statement with his wardrobe of black, but it was just practical for his lifestyle. He didn't want to be noticed on or off the job, and his attire made that possible. The alcohol still running through him, the fox took comfort in the slight sense of euphoria that he floated through. The only comfort Alias held to him was the hope that someday he would have these questions answered.