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| The motion in the streets is dreamy, chaotic, swirling. A roving eye speeds past some things in a blur, catches itself on others, turns corners, swerves to avoid objects and oncoming people. The sounds, too, are a blur, a confusion of layers. In a bubble of silence, a teenage boy stands by himself, nothing extraordinary about him except for this zone of quiet around him, as if the crowds have parted. He is the eye of the storm. |
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| The roving eye pauses to watch him, then begins to track in slow motion as an ominous brassy sedan cruises past, glare flashing from its polished chrome. It is filled with armed men, one of whom points his gun at the boy's chest, just as the boy's eyes focus on it. The boy's mouth goes slack, and the man smiles as he fires off two shots. As the car glides away, the boy comes unstuck. He gasps for breath with a convulsion that tears through his body, and glances down to find he is intact. There is no blood. |
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| It was pointed right at me, he thinks helplessly, looking around in panic. It is business as usual on the street. "What did I do?" he asks out loud, and the silence is broken. A hand comes out of the crowd to steady him, and a voice asks brusquely, "Are you all right?" "They shot him, I saw it!" says another, but he wrenches himself away. "Leave me alone. Why can't you people just leave me alone?" |
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| We hear him in voiceover. "This happened to me when I was fifteen. They were blanks, I guess. It was a wakeup call, a lesson. I wasn't paying attention. Ever since then, I can't help thinking that everything that happens to me is like an extra round, a race against death I can't possibly win. It's just a way to keep the boy running, and right behind the one-way mirror that looks perfectly real, I can feel death laughing at me. On the other hand, if that's how it is, I've got nothing to lose, and I know it. That makes me the perfect assassin, the perfect weapon, don't you think?" |
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