Chapter Text
The first thing you feel as you open your eyes is the pain in your chest. As they flicker open you see why; large gashes and chucks of concrete and rebar alike show through your shirt, blood dying the black shirt you are wearing a deep red to the areas the rubble is embedded in. That gas explosion did a number on you it seems.
‘You have to get that stuff out of you.’ Logic barks in the back your mind,
“You think!?” You mental shout back as you try and move your arms-
Wait. Why can’t you move your arms?
You glace to your left to see if sight would give a better explanation.
‘That looks bad.’ Logic comments, a slight bit of worry in its usually emotionless chatter. Burns run along your left arm, scorch marks cover what’s left of your charred hand. Some of the spots are even still burning. Good that you can’t feel that, the adrenaline running through what’s left of your veins completely numbing any pain you may have felt.
As you look to your right (while trying to stay as calm as someone who just got caught in a gas explosion can be) you see your other arm is moving on it’s own. An electric shock? A loose, sparking wire confirms your theory, a nearby street lamp was damaged in the blast, and one of the wires got your right arm.
‘And that. Is so MUCH worse.’ Logic spits from the back of your head. If you survive this, permeant nerve damage is inevidtable.
“They seem to be about the same in their condition.” You reply as you lean back onto the piece of rubble behind you.
‘Our legs are gone from the knee down’ Logic notifies.
Odd, you didn’t notice that until now. Must be the blood loss making you not be able to think straight. Or you're in shock.
‘Also we got company.’
“What?”
You slowly gaze up to see a man in a deep black suit, you try and get a good look at him, but you can’t see his face through the smoke. You can barely see an empty holster on the left side of his belt and what looks like a rifle on his back. A pistol can faintly be seen held in his right hand, his left is clenched, as if holding something. As the figure approaches, he tosses to you the item from his left hand; it lands on you lap with a near silent *thump.*
As your eyes drift day to the thing on your lap you finally get a good at what he was holding. It’s cylindrical, shining in the light of nearby flames as if it’s made of brass.
Because it is. It’s a bullet casing. The end facing you shows in just readable letters,
“INCEN ROUND” as in incendiary round.
That explosion wasn’t an accident at all.
This was an assassination.
YOUR assassination.
But, why? Why you? You’re just a 15 year old high school student, you barely started your tenth year of school a couple weeks ago. What did you do to piss someone off bad enough to hire a hitman to kill you?
You look up at who you now know will be your killer, he is much closer than you thought you would be, pistol pointed directly at you.
“Any last words?”
‘Is he serious?’ Logic confusingly asks in the back of your mind, ‘An assassin is about to ask for our last words? What's the point in that? What is this guy new to his job?’
“If this is how I go, might as well go out with a bang.” You chuckle to yourself as you begin to think about other people’s dying words from varying forms of media.
Oh. Oh that works, might scare him to the day he dies.
You look him dead in his eyes.
“When you are old and gray, you will look upon the man I see before me, and hate him.”
He doesn’t reply. He just pulls the trigger.
You feel each of the three bullets pass through your heart.
And then you wake up.