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Odin pushed his hands into his jacket's pockets, fighting back the urge to whip out his gun in clear view and shoot down his target. He resisted that irrational, impatient side—reminiscence of the scrawny teenager he had long abandoned but still carried around.  
The tingling feel of anticipation nipped around his fingertips. His hands were starting to  
get sweaty. 


He only needed a few seconds to finish the target off once that guy stepped out of the conference hall across the building. 


For now, he just had to wait and control his nerves. 


Looking left and then right to see if anyone was spying on him, he moved to a bench nearby the windows. He made a mental note to disregard such actions next time. It didn't bode well if everyone could read his suspicious behavior.


Still a half hour to go before that man is finished talking. Approximately ten minutes for him to go to his room and prepare the weapons.


God, he craved for a stick. 


His right hand dug around the many inner pockets for the cigarette pack he vaguely remembered putting away last night (or was it last week?). He managed to find a crooked stick in a near empty-squished pack, but no lighter. Biting back a curse, he searched the floor for a convenience machine—none, and slumped down in his seat. 


His eyes wandered to the large wall clock—still twenty five minutes away. He tore his eyes away to look around at passing shoppers before settling his attention on the boy sitting at the other end of the bench.


Trias Politica—he managed to read the book set beside the boy, and a faint scrawl of 'Heero Yuy' upon the syllabus' identification bubble. A college student. 


"Hey! You got any lighter on you?" He called out.


The student fixed a steely glance on him, not exactly smiling, as he put down his notebook that turned out to be a Sudoku exercise. "Smoking is bad for you."


Odin snorted. "Yeah. Whatever." 


Kids these days often experiment with smoking, more often than the previous generation. Obviously, he had asked the wrong one.


"Here!" 


Startled, he almost dropped his last stick when the boy threw something to him, snatching the object before it could hit him square in the face. When he opened his fingers to look into the cradle of his palm in curiosity, he stared at an old-fashioned, disposable lighter.  


"Thanks." He muttered. 


Still ten minutes to go.