This is the beginnings of a short story I’m working on. The character needs a new name, Jack’s far too common and bland. I’m really not sure where to go with it without being too predictable and boring. But anyways, here it is. If you have any feedback or ideas, let me know!
Jack stood casually, a smirk playing at the edges of his mouth. The armed man in front of him drabbled on and on, ever so theatrically, about how he can’t just walk into their warehouse, kill a score of men and steal $500,000. Boring.
“You die here, American. You’ve earned your place in Hell,” the Russian gunman said, relishing every word.
Typical, Jack thought to himself. These boring fucks think they’re so tough with their damned suits and their damned guns. They all give the same speeches about why they’re there, why I’m going to die. Fucking grandiose bullshit.
The Russian raised his 9mm Beretta and emptied the clip into Jack’s chest. Jack fell to the ground and laid there as his blood began to seep out of his body, a large crimson pool forming around. Bad groupings he thought to himself, smirking.
Jack laughed, relishing the burn of his fresh gunshot wounds. He picked himself up off the ground and cackled when he saw the bewildered expression on the face of his would-be assailant.
“Are you serious man?”
The Russian stood there, dumbstruck.
“I just bought this shirt yesterday! For you! For this!” Jack looked at the bloody holes in his otherwise pristine shirt and his face grew cold and serious. “Do you know what I’m going to do now?”
The Russian stared at him.
“Well, I don’t either, so let’s see, shall we?”
The wounds in Jack’s chest closed up, muscle fibers reattached and skin fused together. The air around Jack seemed to glow and it grew brighter by the second. The Russian reloaded fired three more shots from his compact Beretta handgun. Jack flinched at the sound of the first shot as the bullet barely made its way to him, piercing the first few layers of skin. The other two bullets disintegrated before they could make an impact. Jack circled around his attacker who simply stood, shaking.
“Oh, I know what I’m going to do,” Jack said malevolently, a grin forming at the corner of his mouth. “I know exactly what I’m going to do.”
Jack raised his arm, energy coursing through his veins. His muscles tensed and threads of electric blue seemed to dance down the length of his arm. Jack released the energy and hit the Russian square in the chest. Blood splattered the ground as every scar on the man’s body was torn open. The man writhed on the ground struggling to find a way to bleed to death comfortably. It was in vain.
“God, help me,” the Russian gurgled.
“Every single cut you ever got in your life has reopened and you think your imaginary friend is going to help you out? Come on, grow up. I’m going to tell all your friends and they’re going to think you’re a pussy.”
The Russian stared at him, grimacing.
“Nothing? You don’t have anything more to say?” Jack grinned.
“Alright then.” Jack walked over and picked up the Russian’s Beretta and shot the man in the head, ending his misery.
Jack stood marveling at his work, significantly weaker than before and wandered out of the warehouse, briefcase in hand, whistling.