Disclaimer: I do not own Grand Theft Auto: Vice City, or any of its licenses or affiliations. I do however, own this collection of words relating to the piece of media in question. Harmless.
Wasn't the color of life supposed to be green?
Whoever said that little remark should be smacked upside the head, and be forced to rethink his ideas.
Tommy wryly smirked at the sky, a sense of wobbling entered the mans distended vision, making him nauseous, stick to his stomach.
Was this what death felt like? A sort of... what he could only describe as 'detachment'. The body armor, he had gathered, had failed in its job to protect him. The soldiers bullet had ripped straight through Tommy's torso, piercing his lung. He'd be sure to rip Lance a new one when he found him. Directing him to the Ammu-Nation that needed to have a grenade shoved up where the sun don't shine.
Most times, a clean rifle shot would go through and out. Not this time. He could tell the bullet that promptly ended his existence, was some sort of armor-piercing type. Designed to punch through practically anything a human could wear. It was designed to hurt people. It did a damn good job.
The end result was; Tommy had smacked the ground in a crumpled heap, blood pouring and permeating with its thick, almost metallic composure, into the concrete in some sort of butterfly design that reminded him of a car crash. The M16 assault rifle clattering noiselessly from his grasp. God, he wanted to puke so bad right now.
Tommy could only think of one thing to relate to at the moment.
It was a funny term. Normally reserved for drunks and hobos who had one too many cocktails. Dark Humor at its finest?
Of course, this train of thought was ended when darkness overcame the mans vision, almost as if it was automatic. Why did Tommy feel like he'd been here before?
Before he knew it, Tommy was back on his feet, right outside the hospital, looking at the same sky he was looking at not only minutes ago.
This always happened. A fatal occurence of some sort, and he'd be standing upright, clean cut and fresh before he realized it.
He was beginning to think he was immortal.
It was the only explanation he got. All others were ridiculous. Not that immortality didn't sound ridiculous in the first place, but it did seem much saner than say... an alien or a demon. Perhaps he was set here for a purpose? One he could not fathom, though.
Everytime he died, whether it be a car crash that utterly flattened his body, Tommy's inability to swim, lungs filled with water, or the fiery, twisted inferno known as helicopter crash sites, it hurt just as much as the last, so it made avoiding pain still worth the mindset of mortality.
Maybe he wasn't immortal at all. Rather, some sort of skewed government conspiracy to clone him, and replace him everytime he had critical existence failure, didn't seem any less appeasing to this strange phenomena, and his immediate annoyance was that Rosenburg had dragged him to one to many sci-fi flicks. Okay, just fix him up using some of that magical surgery those darned surgeons could cook up. It was fine. Plastic surgery, therapy, yadda yadda whatever, who cares? I'm alive aren't I? He'd tell you what, though. Every time he woke up, a good amount of his money was gone from his wallet. He supposed it came with the resurrection, but it still pissed him off they did that without asking first. It wouldn't be as angering if he knew about it beforehand.
But what if it was true? That scared him the most.
So... what happened to others who realized they weren't truly real?
Tommy had to run. Had to run away before they found him. And try to erase him from existence. To bad he didn't get to finish that thought, as a small, unrecognizable 'FFFT" sound had erupted from the calm, almost cool air. Tommy's body flew backwards, creating a dull, almost sickening 'thud' upon hitting the floor. The sound in question, had originated from the hotel adjacent to the hospital building. If one looked really closely, you could see the curtains pulled aside ever so slightly.
A Pull back, shiny brass-colored shell ejecting from the side chamber, clacking against the tile floor. As if in rythym, no less. A sleek cellphone vibrated near the window sill. One gloved hand reached out and grabbed the device, sliding it expertly and without fault.
"Moniters read a sudden spike in abnormal behavior. I take that it became self aware?" A drawl, yet taciturn and young.
"Yes. Subject Three-Two B has been dealt with. We will expect a fresh copy in a matter of hours." Came the gruff reply.
Agent 47 loved his job.
...Tommy was back on his feet, right outside the hospital, looking at the same sky he was looking at not only minutes ago. He stretched his back, earning him a few cracks from his aging spine.
"God. I hate those soldiers. So damn annoying... And those doctors. Taking my hard-earned cash... fuckin' little..."
A/N: Please tell me I'm not the only one who didn't accept the fact that you just 'wake up' and get pat on the shoulder, ready to cause mayhem once more? I don't care who you are, you don't survive some of these things.
For a fun little thing, leave a review stating what you think happens inside of those wacky hospitals.