Danger Prone (Strong Language)
An unlucky teenager finds himself the target of an assassin unbeknown-st to him and the only person that can help him isn't easy to get along with...
For Damien Cressman, the shooting range was a routine activity, going whenever he had the chance. He was by no means gifted with use of firearms; in fact, thirty percent of the time he missed the target entirely. You can guess where the bullet lands the other seventy percent of the time.
He decided it was important because he was one of the unluckiest people he's ever known by far; it's as if he was danger prone every second of his life. One moment he'd be playing tennis, the next he'd find himself on the floor after realizing he'd been hit in the face with a tennis ball. He also decided to take up martial arts but he was no good at that either. There was nothing he could do to prepare himself for everything that's thrown at him. He was a silent, shy type of person who liked to read and occasionally play RPGs, rarely setting foot out of his house and into broad daylight. His life had been bearable up to one point in his life. Then everything became an utter shit-storm.
Damien always walked home from junior high; it would take fifteen minutes at the most. One day he'd be stung by a wasp, the next he'd trip over his own shoelaces and land face first into the concrete. Everyday was like an adventure, a really, really, shitty one where the only rule is Damien gets hurt one way or another. This day was no exception.
He knew he smelled smoke the second he walked into the apartment building, sniffing the air around him. He kicked open the door, which in turn swung backward sharply and knocked him off his feet. He fell to the ground on his rear end, dropping his books and his glasses skittering across the sidewalk and into the street, where moments later it was crushed entirely by a Corvette. He sighed, picked up his books, and headed up the stairs again, barely able to see where he was going.
This time he gently opened the door and walked in. He looked up to see that the source of the smoke was from room #216. He lived in room #216. "Shit!" he breathed, dropping his books. He dashed around the pool and raced up the stairs as fast as a sea horse. He was never really into athletics. The moment he opened the door a billowing cloud of smoke enveloped him, causing him to wretch and retreat down the stairs. He took a deep breath and stepped back in.
The place was a mess, flaming shingles of broken roof was falling to the ground and everything in the entire living room was either laid to waste or burned to ashes. He barely avoided a shard of burning debris as he made his way to the master bedroom. The moment he stepped in, he knew what to expect.
3 Years Later
Much hasn't changed over the next three years as Damien came to realize. Life just goes on. After the fire, he told himself that he could forget about high school. He'd been adopted by two old-timers that call themselves Jon and Margaret at fourteen. They didn't really care about his; he was just for show because they never had children of their own. He was seventeen now but life was the same; Monotonous, unchanging, and worst of all, painful. His so-called parents were out today. He sunk into a leather couch after turning on his Xbox and grabbed a wireless controller.
He propped his feet up on the coffee table that sits in front of the couch. He heard footsteps. "I thought you were gone for the night," he said without looking up. Something dark blocked his vision. He looked up to see a slender woman wearing a blackout suit that went all the way up to her neck. She must've been at least twenty years old. "Holy shit!" he yelled, falling backwards off the couch. The controller left his hand as he backed away as quickly as he could. "Who the hell are you?" She stepped around the couch, taking her time as she did so. "Get up." He was about to protest when he noticed belts filled with ammo clips and various weapons decorating the suit.
He held his tongue and stood up as instructed. "You're Damian, right?" she said. "Y-yeah," he stammered, stepping back slowly as he did so. "I'm Andy. Here," she tossed him a gun. He barely caught it, nearly letting it drop. "What am I supposed to do with this?" he said, unsure of what to do. She sighed and rolled her eyes, "What do you think you're supposed to do with it? That's like asking me what shoes are for. Now shut the fuck up and follow me." He slowly nodded and with great unease, he followed her to the living room. The moment she stepped in she took cover behind the couch. "What are you-" A bullet whizzed by his head and buried itself in the television, causing it to explode. "Shit!" he screamed, diving for cover.
"Can you tell me what's going on?" he whispered. "No questions. Just shut up and shoot." He aimed the gun at Andy with a trembling pair of hands. "Tell me what's going on," he said with a shaky voice. "Now. Or I swear..." She laughed and started to blind fire with one hand and a ready a grenade with the other. "Or you'll what? Are you going to shoot me? Stop being such a stubborn piece of shit and do something," she replied calmly, tossing a grenade over. "I'll give you three seconds," he said, his hands vibrating with panic. "One," he counted. Andy risked a look over the couch and fired three shots. He heard the sound of a body crumpling to the floor as she dropped back into cover to insert a fresh clip. "Two..." he croaked. "Cover your ears," she said, removing the sniper rifle on her back. "Okay," he said miserably, both hands covering his ears, the pistol still in his right hand.
She squeezed the trigger twice in rapid succession. Four bodies dropped to the floor. "I think that's about-" a bullet nicked her ear. "Fuck!" she said, grabbing her ear. Recovering his courage once more, he pointed the gun at her again. "I'll give you one second to tell me what's going on!" Instead of replying, she looked at her hand, which was covered in blood. "The bastard actually hit me..." she said, trailing off. Frustrated, Damian pulled the trigger. Or at least tried to. The trigger didn't move. "You really are a retard," she said, backhanding him. "The safety's on you dumb fuck."
She took the gun from him, aimed at the remaining person, and squeezed the trigger. The sniper toppled from the building and landed with a satisfying splat. "You gotta band-aid in here somewhere?" she asked, wiping her blood on Damian's shirt. The entire situation was unnerving. Damian found it difficult to move. Was this really happening?
He decided it was important because he was one of the unluckiest people he's ever known by far; it's as if he was danger prone every second of his life. One moment he'd be playing tennis, the next he'd find himself on the floor after realizing he'd been hit in the face with a tennis ball. He also decided to take up martial arts but he was no good at that either. There was nothing he could do to prepare himself for everything that's thrown at him. He was a silent, shy type of person who liked to read and occasionally play RPGs, rarely setting foot out of his house and into broad daylight. His life had been bearable up to one point in his life. Then everything became an utter shit-storm.
Damien always walked home from junior high; it would take fifteen minutes at the most. One day he'd be stung by a wasp, the next he'd trip over his own shoelaces and land face first into the concrete. Everyday was like an adventure, a really, really, shitty one where the only rule is Damien gets hurt one way or another. This day was no exception.
He knew he smelled smoke the second he walked into the apartment building, sniffing the air around him. He kicked open the door, which in turn swung backward sharply and knocked him off his feet. He fell to the ground on his rear end, dropping his books and his glasses skittering across the sidewalk and into the street, where moments later it was crushed entirely by a Corvette. He sighed, picked up his books, and headed up the stairs again, barely able to see where he was going.
This time he gently opened the door and walked in. He looked up to see that the source of the smoke was from room #216. He lived in room #216. "Shit!" he breathed, dropping his books. He dashed around the pool and raced up the stairs as fast as a sea horse. He was never really into athletics. The moment he opened the door a billowing cloud of smoke enveloped him, causing him to wretch and retreat down the stairs. He took a deep breath and stepped back in.
The place was a mess, flaming shingles of broken roof was falling to the ground and everything in the entire living room was either laid to waste or burned to ashes. He barely avoided a shard of burning debris as he made his way to the master bedroom. The moment he stepped in, he knew what to expect.
3 Years Later
Much hasn't changed over the next three years as Damien came to realize. Life just goes on. After the fire, he told himself that he could forget about high school. He'd been adopted by two old-timers that call themselves Jon and Margaret at fourteen. They didn't really care about his; he was just for show because they never had children of their own. He was seventeen now but life was the same; Monotonous, unchanging, and worst of all, painful. His so-called parents were out today. He sunk into a leather couch after turning on his Xbox and grabbed a wireless controller.
He propped his feet up on the coffee table that sits in front of the couch. He heard footsteps. "I thought you were gone for the night," he said without looking up. Something dark blocked his vision. He looked up to see a slender woman wearing a blackout suit that went all the way up to her neck. She must've been at least twenty years old. "Holy shit!" he yelled, falling backwards off the couch. The controller left his hand as he backed away as quickly as he could. "Who the hell are you?" She stepped around the couch, taking her time as she did so. "Get up." He was about to protest when he noticed belts filled with ammo clips and various weapons decorating the suit.
He held his tongue and stood up as instructed. "You're Damian, right?" she said. "Y-yeah," he stammered, stepping back slowly as he did so. "I'm Andy. Here," she tossed him a gun. He barely caught it, nearly letting it drop. "What am I supposed to do with this?" he said, unsure of what to do. She sighed and rolled her eyes, "What do you think you're supposed to do with it? That's like asking me what shoes are for. Now shut the fuck up and follow me." He slowly nodded and with great unease, he followed her to the living room. The moment she stepped in she took cover behind the couch. "What are you-" A bullet whizzed by his head and buried itself in the television, causing it to explode. "Shit!" he screamed, diving for cover.
"Can you tell me what's going on?" he whispered. "No questions. Just shut up and shoot." He aimed the gun at Andy with a trembling pair of hands. "Tell me what's going on," he said with a shaky voice. "Now. Or I swear..." She laughed and started to blind fire with one hand and a ready a grenade with the other. "Or you'll what? Are you going to shoot me? Stop being such a stubborn piece of shit and do something," she replied calmly, tossing a grenade over. "I'll give you three seconds," he said, his hands vibrating with panic. "One," he counted. Andy risked a look over the couch and fired three shots. He heard the sound of a body crumpling to the floor as she dropped back into cover to insert a fresh clip. "Two..." he croaked. "Cover your ears," she said, removing the sniper rifle on her back. "Okay," he said miserably, both hands covering his ears, the pistol still in his right hand.
She squeezed the trigger twice in rapid succession. Four bodies dropped to the floor. "I think that's about-" a bullet nicked her ear. "Fuck!" she said, grabbing her ear. Recovering his courage once more, he pointed the gun at her again. "I'll give you one second to tell me what's going on!" Instead of replying, she looked at her hand, which was covered in blood. "The bastard actually hit me..." she said, trailing off. Frustrated, Damian pulled the trigger. Or at least tried to. The trigger didn't move. "You really are a retard," she said, backhanding him. "The safety's on you dumb fuck."
She took the gun from him, aimed at the remaining person, and squeezed the trigger. The sniper toppled from the building and landed with a satisfying splat. "You gotta band-aid in here somewhere?" she asked, wiping her blood on Damian's shirt. The entire situation was unnerving. Damian found it difficult to move. Was this really happening?
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