Afterdeath: Bullets for Change


“You need to stop coming here.”

He makes his way through the grass to the man staring at a monument.

“It’s my grave. They buried me here.”

“Right. And now you are back, you are here. That grave is empty. It’s time to move on.”

“Is it empty? Sometimes I want to find out and make sure…”

“Listen, you died. You came back. It’s what heroes do. Move on. You came back for a reason and it’s time to get to work.”

“Did you bring them?”

He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a box.

“Armor piercing. Just as you ordered. Bullet would not be happy about this.”

“She’s still young. One day she’ll grow up and understand.”

“I’m not going to tell you what to do. I’m not the one in a mask fighting evil. But she lost you. She saw you die. Don’t make her regret your return.”

“Just give me the bullets.”

For over a decade, since I first put on the mask, I used a variety of bullets. Mostly to stun, to hurt, but never kill. That was before I fell twenty stories and died. Things are different, my blood was spread out in the street. I used to fight for justice, now I’m just angry.

“What are those?”

“Bullets.”

“Real bullets. What are you doing with those?”

She’s still young, naïve. That makes her a good hero, a perfect partner in all of this.

“You’re not you anymore.”

“No. I was dead.”

Two figured hide in the shadows, watching. These aren’t your typical superheroes. They aren’t symbols of the war against crime, of hope. They aren’t seen on the news. They are urban myths, whispered on the streets. She calls herself Bullet, she likes having a name, likes to hear people talking about her. He prefers to remain nameless, newspapers just call him “the vigilante.”

It begins.

They dart from the shadows as the warehouse door opens. A smoke grenade announces their entrance.

“Nobody move.”

“It’s the cops!”

A gun shot. Someone reaching for a gun falls to the ground a hole in his head.

“What the fuck are you doing? You killed him.”

“This isn’t the place for this.”

He opens fire, never missing. Bullets ripping through body armor and flesh, breaking bones and spilling blood.

He’s standing over someone, his gun pointed at their head.

“Who are you selling these to?”

“You’re supposed to be dead!”

“I’m a hero. We don’t stay dead. Who are you selling these to?”

“Fuck you, hero.”

He shoots. The man’s head snaps back.

“Have you gone fucking crazy? You just killed everyone.”

“Shut up, Jesse.”

“You do not get to use my name. Not here, not ever.”

 He watches her leave. He raises his hand, aiming the gun at her sillouhette. One bullet left, he could do it. It would be so easy. Too easy.

“Jesse…Bullet…wait. I’m sorry.”

He says it. But he’s not too sure that he means it.

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About litbandit

El Bandito Bibliotequa...or something.
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