The morning alarm rings out.
Brad Pines, a mid-thirties newly elected member of the US Senate for the state of Georgia begins his morning routine. He cleans himself up, gives himself a little pep talk in the mirror, and debates a little too long on which color tie he should wear.
His house is baren, but clean. No artwork, pictures, diplomas, memorabilia from memories past, or even much furniture. To call it minimalistic would be too generous; perhaps the classification of an essentialist would be more adapt.
Pines stands in front of the mirror holding a red tie in his right hand and a blue tie in his left. He begins his statistical deduction, "There will be 565 men and 378 women in the crowd today. There is a 60.2 percent favor with republican ideologies. Red and blue coloring will be too aggressive and risk alienating a percentage of my audience who perceives color coordination with stances on public issues."
He pauses for a moment and looks over at a green tie.
"Green – the color of finance, luxury, energy, and success. Potential risk of alienating the lower to middle class. Poverty rates are hitting a decade high in just the last year," Pines reasons.
He glances at an orange tie.
"Orange – There are no political calculations with orange. Orange it is."
The politician knots his orange tie around his neck and ambulates to the kitchen. On his countertop sits a single shot glass with a dark, oily, espresso-like liquid. Pines approaches the glass and gives the concoction a quick gulp.
"Refreshing," he says to himself.
Pines approaches a suitcase by the front door. He sets it on a nearby entrance table and gives its contents a quick scan. Everything seems to be in place for the workday ahead. He grabs his car keys and heads out the front door, ready to take on another day. Pines enters his vehicle and sets the briefcase on the passenger seat. He turns the ignition of the sedan on and eighties pop begins to play on the radio station. He reverses out of the driveway and goes down the neighborhood street.
After a short while, Pines exits the highway and begins to enter downtown Atlanta. Skyscrapers and heavy traffic surround him; nearly overstimulating his senses. He hits a red light and comes to a slow stop. Another vehicle pulls up beside him in the left turn lane. Pines turns and gives a signature wave to his fellow commuter. The driver gives no notice and turns left as their light changes.
"Up next we have a classic that topped the charts in 79'. Here's The Buggles on what exactly killed the radio star," says the radio station broadcaster.
Pines begins to drive forward as "Video Killed the Radio Star" plays through his speakers. All seems normal and calm on this Monday morning, just as any other daily commute through the city. He approaches another red light and comes to a stop.
Far off in the distance, a shine off of a reflection can be seen from the driver's side window. Pines notices the slight shine off in the distance. His focus on the shine attempts to zoom in on a potential cause, but the change to a green light takes his attention away. Pines slowly begins to pull forward with a light press on the gas. Suddenly, without warning, the glass on the driver's side window shatters and a bullet makes impact on the temple of Pines' head. A dark red substance splatters on the windshield and passenger window.
Pines' car pummels forward and hits a lamp post. Nearby civilians that witnessed the event are slowly piecing together cognitively what they just saw. A brief panic breaks out as some decide to scream and run, while others take out their cell phones to record and livestream what is happening. The rare bystander uses their phone to dial 9-1-1. As the rush of hysteria continues on the city block, Pines' deactivated body lies motionless across the driver's seat and armrest.
The song continues to play on, "In my mind – and in my car. We can't rewind, we've gone too far—."
Across the stretch of urban jungle, on top of a nearby office building lays 40-year-old hitman Jin Shimada. His clothing is loose and relaxed; top button undone, open cuffed sleeves, unstraightened tie, and glasses that hang off the ridge of his nose. The smoking barrel from his sniper rifle serves as a near identical reflection of the freshly lit cigarette on the cornice of the building.
Jin lifts the sniper rifle back up, in the background from his own portable radio, the same song that served as Pines' final acoustic waves continues to play on, "You are – a radio star (oh, a, oh)."
Jin reaches for his earpiece, "Target's taken care of. Am I clear to leave?" He asks.
On the other end of the communication line, a voice rings out from Sebastian Wix. Single, late twenties, flamboyant, and full of enough sass to be the stiletto in a room of flats.
"Come on Jin – Give our boys in blue a little bit of a head start," Wix replies.
Jin smirks as he begins to pack up his brief case and take apart the sniper rifle. He exits the rooftop area of the building and works his way back to his car in the building's underground parking garage. He opens the trunk of his vehicle; it looks innocent enough so that if anyone were to pass by, they wouldn't take notice. Jin takes a quick look around the garage to make sure no wondering eyes are closing in. Once he deems it clear, he flips a hidden switch, which flips the bottom tray of the trunk to reveal a hidden armory of death. Jin places the sniper brief case back to it's assigned spot before notching the switch once again. He waltzes to the front of his vehicle with a little bit of a jig and slides into the driver's seat.
As the car turns on, the radio continues to sing out, "Video killed the radio star—."
Jin looks down at the radio and begins to flip through a montage of channels and music; eventually setting on a radio talk show of the daily news report. Surely his work would be broadcasted soon. Jin's car pulls out of the underground parking lot. Police cars drive by on the city block. Their sirens blaring across the metropolitan morning haze. Jin works his way to the highway ramp to head north, towards his home of Washington DC and away from the fresh, self-caused, chaos of Atlanta.