Chapter 20: BAD END 2 – Gunfire

I have to disarm her!

If I'm going to level the playing field, then removing that weapon is the first of my priorities!

Focusing on that one point. That singular object that I have to grab, I run.

One metre lies between me and her. I cross half of that in an instant. And with a burst of energy, reach out for the gun that she has yet to lift!

Her arm lifts, and the gun points in a direction.

The thoughts in my body freeze. The breathing I'm so accustomed to ceases to circulate for an instant.

I made a mistake. She was never aiming for the boy in the first place.

That woman planned to aim for me.

With my mobility, I lower my centre of mass, hoping to make myself a smaller target.

Bang.

I feel a bullet scrape by my cheek.

Right now, as an additional measure, I lift my right hand in front of me.

As a last resort, I lift my right hand in front of me.

Bang.

Another echo of a bullet.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Three more in quick, subsequent succession.

Two bounce off my arm, and two hit a place I won't consider.

I'm near her now. So close. Yet, she's high, lifted up by the horns still, beyond arm's reach.

To negate that distance, I run along the right wall. Then after that, once her hand is close enough, I cover the barrel of gun with my right hand.

Bang.

Another bullet.

Then, ensuing catastrophic failure. The weapon implodes on itself, its own bullet turned against it, stopped by the metal on my right hand.

I drop to the ground. All the expended energy returns to me all at once.

How much blood have I lost?

I know I've been shot, but I don't know to what extent.

Which organ of mine is hit?

Lowering my head, I search my body, looking for any sign of holes or damage.

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The search goes on. Soon, as I'm tracing a finger along my clothes, I feel it.

Blood. Wet and thick, pouring through a newly made orifice.

There are two of them. One on my left breast and another on my chest.

I want to say that it'll be alright.

That there's hope yet.

Though, if it's any reassurance, there's a quick way to tell.

A last-ditch effort. A reminder that, above all else, that I'm different, that I might just survive something a normal person can't.

"Status."

 

̴̥̙̟̲̞̦͕̹̩͚̖̈́͛̈̀̉͗̏̅͝P̸̖̬̼͓͙̥̞̽̕͝R̴̢̨̛̝͍̩̙̻͚͔̗̩̲̻͇̈̆̈́̏͆͠Ơ̵̱̮̺̻̤̟̳͋͌͑͐͘͝ͅͅF̴̫̩̙̮̘͍̉̔͂̃͠ͅI̷̘̼̾͆̆͛̈̔͋̔̀͘͝L̶͎̜̟̣̦͙̭̗̣̙̐̃̾͑̽ͅE̸̦̜͖͑͌͛̈͜ͅ
N̷̺̳͛̎̀̓͗̃̒̈̑͗̾͛A̵̛̰̪̒̔̑͆́͐͊̓͠M̶̪̖̈͒̉̿̒̈́E̷̢͙̯̜͉̓̅̿͂͊͌̽̿̑͝:̸̡̭͈̔̓̈́̿̄̑̃͌͊̆̊ ̷̡̢̧͚̰̘̘̠̜̳͉̹͕̃̀̈́̇͜Ċ̵̢̝͖̣̠̲̜̜̯͈̘̞͎͛͊̚̕ą̵͎͕͖͕̺̠̲̳̍̒͊͒͂́m̸̧̑ͅì̸̛̪͉̦̖̟̙̊̓̓͒̂̎̋̈̔̇̚l̷̢̗̮̥̦̯̅͆͂̇̀̐͂͘͜͝l̸̞͉̙̗̰̣̂̎̄ė̷͇̼̲͚̬͉̖̝̤̹̞̇̉̒̈	S̷̢̢̡̡̢̭̙͉̘̣̱̹̤̺̒͋̒̈́̒̿̏͘Ţ̴̭̪͐͌A̶̡̡̨̠̻̹̣̥͙̫̝̞̮͙͕͗̌̓͂͂͊̐T̵͙͚̖͇͕̜̮͓͕̮̤͗̈̍͒̂̍̃͑͜Ų̴̦͙̯͇̱͎̹͓̩̝̹̐͌̓̓̋̒̓̆͘̚̚ͅS̵͕̟̗͎̘̣̗̻͕̗̥̯̰̈́́͂̀̓̉͂͠ͅ:̸̛̘̳̗͕̹̭̖̭͕̤̯̫̟͌̏́͊̓́̓̈́̎͝ ̴̳̖͙́S̵̬̩͖̯̘͍͉͇͗̂̓͒̑͝Ò̵̧̠̼͎̳͖̟̜͙͈̅̋O̴̢̧̨̤̱͕̥̻͚̖͒̔͊̒͜͜ͅN̴͔̞̻͎̗̹̰̉̀͒̀͛̓̀̊̔͘ ̵̡̹͇̔̔̊̋͒̈͌͗̆̌̏̊T̷̛̼̘̗̈́̌̿̏̅̃̊͝Ǫ̸̬̭̯̼̂̕ ̵̨̨̻̮̣̳͒̆͌̓̕ͅB̵̫̲͍͛̏̀̈́̈́͑̓͐̓́̉͘Ę̸̧̛̹͎͔̼̫̠̜̝̱̪̰̞͛̓͑̿̄̕ ̷̨̘̠̇̈́̌̓̋̍͂͊Ḏ̴̡̰̘̙̲̘̣̻̝̋̉̕ͅͅĔ̸̪̱̩̭̍͋̚͝Å̴̤͂̈́̔̓́̑̚Ḓ̴̟̞̺̬̣̝̻̭͋̍̀	̶̨̡̛͇̗̯͈͍̱͇̜̘̔̆͌͂͂̾̍̈́̑̏̇͜͠͝͝T̸͓͈̹̪̞̯͓̖̭̩̤̥̬͍͗́͑̓I̷̡̬͇̣̗̹̼̼̬̪͔̬͓̖͖̾̌͊̓̍̌T̵̨̨̨̺̩̮̗̘̳̹͙̜̒͊̊̉́̐͌͑̓̈̌͗͆̕̕͜ͅL̷̛̰̅́̿͛̿̇̂̕̚È̴̡̢̧̛͇̞̗̣̟̪͉̪̰̰̈́̓̃͂͌̔̆͝͝ͅ:̴̭͚̞́́̌̎͛̎̔̈́͆̎ ̴̨̛͔̺̪̗̹͉̰͉̙̖̻̝͈̆̎͋̅͗̀͒̿̽̾̅̀͜Ḑ̷̂͊̆̌̐͊͘ȩ̸͚͎̲̳̱͙̤̤̣̈̌̃̓͋̋̆̍̆̕̚̕͠ģ̸̗̤̗̞̪̀́́́̌̋͊è̷̯̘̻̣͔͉̦̖̠̝̈́̏̓͊͘͠͠͝n̴̨̛̪̯̯̤͖̒̎̓͌̈̓͗͊͆̐̕e̵̹̺̊͒́͗̀̈̏́͗̓̅̂̚͝͝ͅr̸͇͎̔̐́̓͘ȧ̷̬̲͖̝̇̇̌́t̵͙̰͎̠̻̆e̴͚̠̹̾̾͐͘
HP: 0	̵͍̰̝̘̟̱͉̩̠͍̘̔̄̏̅̀̂̾̓̂́̈́͜R̶̻̼͋̌̓̿ͅA̷͖̬̔̑̑͘͝C̴̗͈̟̪͇̓̆̐̉͊̓̿͠͠E̵̢̢͙̗̣͍̹̫͐͊̄͆:̵͎̣̤͈͔̻͚̰͓̳̜́̇͐̈̐̓͝ ̸̢͉̘̩̫̂̇͊̽̀̒̔̏H̵̢̡͇̖͚̰͉͚̠̣̬̋͆̓̏̄̍̐̒̓͗̒̏̕͘͠Ũ̴̧̨̧̧̯̤̣̤̜̯͍̳̑M̴̤̭͔̫̠͎̖̝̫͍̺͓̟͑̈̚̚A̴͔̗̘͙̫̪̹̼̍͐̃̏͛̔͗̀ͅŅ̸̛͔͚̣̘̮̠̹̞̪͔͙̳̐̔̋̔̚͘͝	̶̬̮̲̖̋͑L̴̢̨̘̥̰̭̹̗͓͕̫̓́̓ͅḜ̷̧͕̙̼̪̖̜̳͕͙̬͎̱͝V̷̛̩̤̟̦̰͌̓̽͆͝Ȩ̵̢̢̛̖͈̜̭̮̟͓̳̫̻̐͋̄̂̏̒̈́̈͛͛̊̕͜͝͠ͅL̸̡̡͈̩̦̦̲͇̬̼͔͉̫̀͊͌͊̏͝͝:̴̩̯̫̐̍͆̈́̓̊ ̴̛̜͈̼̰͓̍̎̔̋͘̚͜1̶͉͈̹̝͉̳͚̩͓̖̯̹̘̎̆͜
S̶̢̨͙̙͎͍͔̜͐̽͆̂́̑̔͑̈͌̓͂̌̀T̴̨̝͍̗́̒̾̿̐͗̂̑̎̒͆͑͝͝R̵̢̛̖̮̙̯̐͊̊̈́͑͠:̸͙̪͕̦̭̬̺̺̮̭͒ ̷̛̭͉͎̥̰̼̣̼̱̫̙̰̌́̃͂͆́͠ͅ1̶̡̛̫̫̦̜̙͕̼̟̫̮͔̱̏̑́̂͆͐̎0̸̪͕̳̱̝̱̾͂̅̇̓̄̈́͐̆͂̾̊̃̕͘	D̴̪̻̘͌͊̃ͅË̷̢̨̢̡̹̻̗̟̯́̊͜͝F̶̢̹̝͕͙̙̜̠̦̣̲̼̼̫̹͛̾͛͆͗̍:̶̨̡̣̩̤̻͕͉̟̄̉̎͂̂̿͒͐̆̐̍̈͠͝ͅ ̸̡̛͚͎̟͍̘̝̝̞̖͈͉̰͎͛͐̍̓́̃̋͒̏̒̀͌͘̚?̷̧̭͈̬̜̺̞͕̦̑̓́̑̆̋̆̒͆̎͠͝͝
D̵̡͔̗̮̖̬̥̂̈E̶͓̠̹͎̳̿͑͜͜X̵̨̛͖͔̝̹͈̱̖͙͇̘̘̅͛͋̿̓̐͋:̷̢̛̉̃́̂̋̅̃̇͘ ̸̢̧̡̛͍͉͈̫̳̯̰̞̠̱̩̀͗̐͋͋̂̋̉̋͐͠͝͝1̵̖̬̫͇̥̼̲̙̼̜̓̉̐̋͜͝0̸̡̧̡̛̩̳̤̪̺͉̬̖̗̥͚͂̉̑̓̆͆͝͠	R̷̢͍̱̦̭̉̄̈̀̋̅̒̾̍͘̕͘È̵̢͖͍̠͎̹̞̭͖̤͕̙̻͋̈́̈́͛͝S̸̗̝̤̍̅͜:̴̢̤̯́͑͊͊̿̒̄͒̐ ̵̡̱̲̫̰͖̘͎͈̠̟̔́?̶̖̤̻̥̰̘̙̰̠̝̠̙̍̔͜ͅͅ

Ah.

It's hopeless. Even my 'ability' tells me as much.

Clouds pass through my head, shroud it, makes it hard to see through or process anything. I lean against a nearby wall. The air no longer enters the way it should.

My senses feel dull. Smoothed and run over by steel wool.

Someone is running to me. Someone is making a loud sound, shouting worries and asking for forgiveness. And someone is watching at a distance, their duty already finished.

I'll be dead in a moment, and as I lapse into it, I can only wonder what might have been.

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