In this one:
Characters: Alfred
Universe: Human AU
Genre: Why do I even bother anymore?
"…unidentified male, early thirties. Tagged as John Doe #82, corpse located off twenty-third street. Cause of death: two bullet wounds to the back of the head, probably from a .42 millimeter. Two clean entry wounds, no exit wounds. Bullets still partially lodged in cranium. Minimal shattering indicative that rounds were fired at point-blank range. Shouldn't be too difficult to remove."
Alfred set the voice recorder down. It was still on, so he could continue the commentary.
The corpse on the table wasn't very interesting, professionally speaking. Getting shot in this part of the city wasn't a big deal. Thugs, thieves, pimps, druggies, you name it, he'd seen it. Alfred's idea of an interesting day involved someone actually dying of old age. Nobody lived for very long here.
From a purely medical (and aesthetic) standpoint, though, John Doe #82 was a bit of an anomaly. "Suffered from severe albinism during life," said Alfred to the recorder on the table. "Grooves in both humeri show wear from prolonged muscle strain. Scars everywhere. Healed, but they must've been pretty gory when inflicted."
He ran a gloved hand down John Doe's side. He could feel the ribs. John Doe was skinny and pale, a little like he'd been addicted to some sort of dangerous drug, but he had a wiry strength to him all the same. Ropy muscles must have been obvious back when John was still alive, even if they hadn't been particularly pretty. His hands were scratched and calloused, like they'd been used to a lifetime of work. Long, crooked nose, broken several times; right side of the chest sunken in a little as though a rib had been broken and then set wrong. John looked like a man who was better off dead.
"And I'm guessing you were some sort of gang grunt," muttered Alfred to himself, even though it didn't matter. His job was to perform an autopsy, not try to figure out this man's past. The cause of death was pretty fucking obvious, the rest was just protocol; cutting this guy up to see what was inside, and then sewing him back up and sending him to the churchyard to be buried alongside all the other nobodies.
"Performing Y-incision. Beginning at left clavicle."
He held his scalpel almost carelessly, because he had no reason not to. Nobody was going to claim the body. John had no ID, no money, not even a driver's license. "Poor bastard," Alfred thought, but didn't bother saying it aloud. He punctured the skin.
The corpse yawned.
Alfred screamed bloody murder and threw himself backwards, knocking over the table holding his voice recorder. He fell on his ass and nearly impaled himself on his own scalpel. "Jesus Mary Joseph whatthefuck-" he cried shrilly at the blinking corpse who seemed more amused than dead.
Alfred pointed. "Oh my God!"
The man on the table snorted. "No, just me."
"But you're dead!"
"Obviously not." The corpse-thing shifted around a little, and started to sit up with a groan. "I'd like some water, if you don't mind."
"I don't have any water, 76% of my daily fluid intake comes from apple juice," replied Alfred, face pale. "What are you doing? Don't get up! You've been shot in the back of the head, you crazy bastard, we have to get you to the ER!"
The man sitting on the table waved him off, and started fiddling with the wounds in the back of his head. Alfred watched, slack jawed. He'd been this close to cutting a man open when he hadn't even been dead, and here the guy was calmly trying to pry two pieces of lead out of his skull.
"Wait, stop!" Alfred cried, finally getting up and grabbing the man's arms (which, in hindsight, was probably not the best way to handle a man who'd recently been deceased). "Don't pull those out! For all we know, they could be what's keeping you alive. If you pull them out now, all your brains will come oozing out of your head like soup!"
The undead man stared at Alfred as though he was the crazy one. "My brains are fine," he said.
"They're not!" replied Alfred desperately. "Let me call a doctor!"
"I told you, you don't need to. I'm alright. Where are my pants?"
"Why aren't you listening?" asked Alfred a little hysterically. "Don't get up!"
"I'm getting up."
"Don't!"
"Stop grabbing my arm."
"Come back! Stay down!" Alfred sobbed. "You're going to die again and it'll be all my fault! Let me help you, John, you don't deserve to die twice!"
"Who's John?"
"I don't know," said Alfred tearfully, and then he sat on the operating table.
The recently reanimated man sighed. "Call me Gil. Stop crying. You're pathetic, you're a grown man. I'll be fine, I tell you. I can't die."
"What the fuck do you mean, you can't die?" Alfred demanded, standing up only to sit back down again. "You're going to die. Stop being so stubborn."
"I can't die," repeated Gil. "It's sort of complicated. This is the third time this week I've been shot in some vital region, and I'm just fine."
"Who's been shooting at you three times a week?"
"Doesn't matter," Gil said dismissively. "It doesn't matter, because I come out fine anyway."
"Who shot you?"
"Some guy. No big deal"
"I think it is a big deal!" wailed Alfred in return. "You were murdered!"
"But I'm not dead."
Alfred put his head in his hands. "I may have had too much to drink."
"Don't worry yourself about it," said Gil, not unkindly. "I'll be fine. Just dandy. Right as fucking roses, you'll see."
Alfred's head snapped up. "But why?" he wrung his hands. "Why aren't you dead? Why can't you die? I saw those bullets! They should've killed you twice. How did you survive? Why can't you die? Let me get you to the ER!"
Gil smiled mysteriously. "You wouldn't understand if I explained it to you. Let's just say, I try to avoid death."
"That doesn't make any sense! You just died!"
"Okay. Well, the thing is, I sort of made a deal with someone. I'm not allowed to die."
"Who the fuck banned you from death? Are you friends with God, or something?"
"Something like that," shrugged Gil. "Wipe your nose."
"My nose is fine," replied Alfred obstinately. "Sit down and shut up or your brain will leak out. We have to keep the bullets in there, or you really will die."
"You shut up. These bullets are fucking itchy. Take them out."
"No!" Alfred cried. His face went from pale to red. "What the hell is wrong with you? Can't you see some sort of miracle's just happened? Why are you being so stubborn?"
"Because it's no big deal," replied Gil nonchalantly. "Where are my pants?" He started looking around the room. Alfred stood up, grabbed him by the arms and tried to back him back onto the table. Gil shook him off.
"What is wrong with you? I already told you I can't die, didn't I?"
"I don't believe you. Nobody's immune from death. Just what the hell makes you so special?"
"I made a deal with a blonde guy," replied Gil dryly. "Your palms are sweaty, get off."
"I can't just let you die, you lunatic. You're pissing me off. Stop being an ass and let me get a medic."
Gil huffed. "Alright. Okay. You know what? I'm going to prove it."
"Prove what?"
"That I can't die. Take that pointy knife thing and stab me."
"Are you insane?"
"No, for God's sake, just do it. I'll be fine, I promise." Gil picked up Alfred's abandoned scalpel from the floor, and handed it to him. "There. Aim for the heart"
"You're crazy. You're obviously in some sort of shock," Alfred tried to back away, but Gil held fast. "What are you doing? Let me go! Help! I'm being attacked by a dead man! I'm afraid of zombies!"
"Stop struggling," Gil said between his teeth. Naturally, Alfred struggled harder. He pushed frantically, and stepped into a spilt puddle of saline solution. He slipped. Gil came with him.
Alfred landed on his back, hitting his head hard against the tile. His vision was swimming. Having Gil on his chest made it difficult to breath. He shoved the other man off, gasping.
"Was that so hard?" a voice rasped at him. Alfred turned.
The scalpel was sticking out of Gil's stomach.
Alfred shrieked and lunged forward, yanking it out instinctively. Gil gasped.
"Fucking crap on a cracker, that hurt, you moron!" he wheezed. "Nice job, now I'm going to bleed even more."
Alfred wailed. "Shit! I forgot, you're not supposed to pull the blade out, oh my God, what should I do? Should I stick it back in?"
"I will break your neck," choked Gil. Alfred gathered him up in his arms. Gil was even lighter than he looked. "Now I'm really taking you to the ER," he said.
Gil shook his head, eyes slipping shut. "Nah. I'll be fine."
Alfred struggled to the door. "You hang in there, Gilly. Don't you die on me." Gil didn't answer.
Alfred looked down. Gil wasn't breathing.
Alfred swore and set him on the floor, pulling off his scrubs and trying, too late, to plug the wound. It wasn't bleeding anymore, which was a bad sign. Dead bodies didn't bleed.
"CPR, CPR," Alfred chanted to himself. He placed both hands on Gil's chest and pumped repeatedly. "Come on, come on!"
It didn't work. Gil didn't start breathing again. Alfred fell backwards, onto his ass. He put his head in his hands and started to cry.
This was it. He'd witnessed a miracle; a man who should, by all means, be dead, had woken up and been well enough to walk. And then he, Alfred F. Jones, had killed him. Sure, it had been an accident, but was that what the cops were going to think?
No, no. Alfred took a rattling breath and tried to think rationally. This man, this Gil, was already supposed to have been dead, right? So if he happened to wake up, and then died again, it didn't make much of a difference. Alfred didn't have to tell anyone. He wouldn't get in trouble.
What if there were security cameras in the room? They'd know everything. They'd know Alfred had killed him. But then, they'd also know it was an accident, right? They couldn't act like it was intentional. Alfred might not have to go to jail after all.
But he'd still have to live with the knowledge that he'd killed another man. He'd seen something fantastic, and then he'd gone and ruined it by being a clumsy fool. He'd taken away a life. He'd have to live with that forever.
How long had he been sitting here? Gil's body was probably cold. Alfred wanted to light a cigarette but he really didn't want to look up and have to see Gil's empty, glassy-eyed stare. He couldn't do it.
Alfred sobbed.
"I thought I told you to stop doing that."
Alfred stilled immediately. Slowly, he looked up. Gilbert was wearing pants. He was also standing up and trying to rub dried blood off his stomach, but that was secondary. The important thing was, Gilbert was wearing pants.
"No, the important thing is, I'm alive. Just like I said I would be."
Alfred gaped. "But…how?"
"I told you." Gilbert slipped his shirt on. "I don't do death. Don't worry about it."
Alfred watched Gil potter about the room, looking for the rest of his things, without saying a word.
"I don't understand," he said in a very small voice. Gil paused, and then patted him on the head consolingly.
"Not many do. Relax, kid. Take the day off. Get a beer."
Alfred sniffled.
Gil rummaged around in his pockets, and then held out a hand. "Here," he said. "Souvenir."
Alfred hesitantly reached out to accept the offering. He opened his palm. Gil dropped two twisted, darkened bits of metal into his hand.
Bullets.
"Been bothering me for a while now," Gil grinned. "Have fun with them. Tell your friends you saw a ghost."
"W-wait!" Alfred cried, scrambling to stand up. "Are you really immortal? You have to tell me how you did it. Do you understand the impact this could make on modern medicine? You have the cure to everything!"
Gil paused, considered it, and then shook his head. "I'm not sure it's worth it."
"That's not really for you to decide," Alfred began, but Gil was already halfway out the door. "Come back!" he said, and followed. "I'm not done with you-"
He stepped out the door. The corridor was empty.
"And that'shhh what happened," Alfred concluded, beer sloshing around in his glass. Most of the others at the bar (a Turk, some Cuban, a guy with big eyebrows and a jar of peanuts) had stopped listening to him by now. The alcohol had calmed Alfred's nerves a little. He wasn't shaking anymore. On the downside, he was obviously drunk.
Matthew hadn't believed him. "You scare yourself over everything," he'd said. "And you're tipsy. Are you sure it wasn't just a dream?"
Alfred had sworn up and down that he was telling the truth, but that hadn't stopped his brother from wandering off in the middle of the story to play with the foosball table.
Only one other person was listening to Alfred, and even she didn't seem interested. She was some leggy blonde thing who wore too much black and didn't smile much. Alfred stared at her for a second like he'd just noticed her. She stared back.
"You don't sheem impresshed," he noted. "I know you dun believes me, nobody does because they is bastards. But it's true. I'm serious as a gas attack."
The girl snorted and swirled her drink. She only had water. Alfred turned his back on her, harrumphing.
"Fine. Be that way. Imma find my brother Matt, he's my brother, he's better'n you even though he ran away." He stood, unsteadily, and ambled off calling Matt's name loudly.
The girl at the bar watched him impassively. "You get all sorts, here," said the bartender to her nonchalantly, and then he left to pry one of the patrons off the jukebox.
The girl finished her water and set it on the counter, and then rummaged around for an old-looking gold coin. She set that on the table and stood, ruffling her skirts. And then she smiled.
"Found you."
Yes. The peanuts stopped listening. You know you're boring when the peanuts ignore you because peanuts are usually very obliging /srsface
I ordered a set of Iron Man headphones HUEHEUHEUHEUEHUE. I am happy.
Also, super long story to make up for the last one. Yus.
Thanks, Zoe. And thanks for reviewing, guys! Don't stop ahaha. Happy February (Y)(Y)
