A Gun On My Pants Or Just Happy To See You?

Even though I’m used to crashing in the car, it always fucks up my neck. You can’t fully lie down—if you prop your legs on the seatback, your head throbs later. If you let them dangle, your ankles go numb. Whoever designs this shit, take notes.
Throw in removable cushions or something—seriously, you’d be doing despondent divorcees, unlucky bastards, and folks like us a solid.

“Hey… don’t you smell blood?” Cher asked, splitting her focus between the road, us, and scanning the car. “Seriously, it reeks of blood.”

“Nope.”

“Nope.” Aya and I answered damn near in sync.

“Uuh… maybe it’s you, Hiro. You’re beat to shit and… ugh, you still haven’t showered.”

“Yup, probably, very probably,” I said, sprawled across the back seats.

“Or it’s the stiff in the trunk…” she continued, blowing every red light because, right now, spending cash was way more important than some trivial shit like dying in a car crash.

“How’d you know about the trunk?” Aya asked, gripping the seat like it’d keep her in one piece if we slammed into something at this speed.

"Cause there’s a corpse in it.“

But how—”

“She probably clocked we’re not hitting usual speeds, so she added our weights, divided by the car’s, math didn’t check out, and the number in her head was roughly an average adult minus two kilograms.”

“Minus two kilograms?”

“About what a brain weighs,” Cher added.

“What the fuck, do you two always act like this!?” Aya asked, whipping her head between us, it looked like her neck was gonna launch it like one of those prank cans with gummy worms.

Cher threw her head back laughing, smacking the wheel. “Always... uhm... well, not always… When I met Hiro, he was a total fucking pussy.”

Aya stared at her, then craned to peek at me wedged between the front seats. “How much of that’s true?”

“About thirty-five percent… give or take” I said, still trying to get comfy.

“And… how’d you two meet?”

“You’re gonna piss yourself laughing…” Cher started. “So it tu—”

“No, no, no, no, no.” I shot up fast as I could and clamped both hands over her mouth. She swerved a couple times, but it wasn't a problem for her.

“Hiro, what the hell’s wrong with you?” Aya asked, prying my hands off Cher.

“You just triggered a goddamn flashback.”

“Huh?”

“That.”

So… that's it, can't escape memory lane now...
White fade or sepia-toned memory? Your pick.
Done? Fine, to the boring-ass past.

Turns out, two years back, I wasn’t this sexy, seductive playboy you all adore—I was a mediocre screenwriter whose projects got rejected every fucking time.
Happy now? You know it, but you want more ‘cause you’re assholes, so fine…
I lived in my parents’ house—repeat, their house, not with them. They were dead, so technically mine—ignore the pending paperwork.

Suburbs were always 'uh, gunshot at 3 a.m.' and next morning, some dude face-down on the sidewalk. Not pretty, but you get used to it.
That night sounded like fireworks—like Jesus second coming, assuming he already came… but blasphemous tangents, ignore me.
Of course, the barrage of shots had me bolting downstairs to lock doors—‘cause everyone knows bullets need permission to punch through a locked door.

The living room window shattering jolted me, so I grabbed the only thing handy—an umbrella—and hugged the wall.
‘Cause umbrellas are top-tier defense against pretty much everything in this and at least another three worlds.

And yeah, that’s when I saw her: covered in cuts, barely clothed, gasping for air, slumped against my kitchen counter, using her last strength to pluck glass shards from her body.

“Whoa, whoa, w-who the fuck are you and what the hell’s going on?” I asked, creeping closer, eyes darting everywhere, brandishing the umbrella like it’d actually do shit.

She pointed at me instantly, don’t know if exhaustion or a change of heart, but she dropped her arm. “Come… come here…” Her voice was ragged, her chest heaving showing she was insanely weak.

Call it instinct or stupidity—synonyms, really—but I approached despite the gun and started checking wounds, my hands were hovering without touching. “H-Hey… we gotta hit the hospital… you’re… you’re not good…”

“Stick a finger in…” she said, grabbing my wrist with way too much strength.

“Excuse me?”

“Stick a finger in… I need it…”

“Look, I don’t know about you, but this ain’t the time for that…”

“Hey, you fucking idiot, I’m bleeding out—not inviting you to some bullshit.”

My bad, I know, but her word choice sucked.
One glass shard was buried deep in her gut and pulling it out caused a gush.
My brain was pounding. Call an ambulance or improvise a plug with my finger? Cops? How to explain? Who was she and how the fuck did she end up like this?
I could’ve spiraled through a thousand scenarios in seconds, but outside noise bitchslapped me back to reality.

“What the fuck’s happening?” I muttered to myself, shoving my finger into her gut wound—ironically, the only warm thing here was inside her. “How many?”

“Heh… quick on the uptake…” she said between shallow breaths, dropping her gun into my free hand. “Just three… mag’s full… even an idiot can take them…”

“What? No, no, no… I don’t…” I felt her hand stroke my hair.

“Hey, it’ll be fine… chill…” she said, her other hand pressing mine after setting the gun. “They won’t see you as outside this… won’t care… it’s us or them…”

“Fuck my goddamn life…” I muttered through gritted teeth, gripping the gun. “I… I can’t…”

“Hey, dumbass, it’s automatic—don’t rack it, no need…” There was a soft edge under the insult, plus the hair-stroking.
And no, don’t get ideas I wasn’t affection-starved she just had something.

This was hell: someone dying beside me, my finger in her wound, three guys coming to waste us—too much to process.
Too much… but something in my head cracked, though that’s temporary.

Ever freeze a glass bottle for hours ‘cause you want ice-cold soda against brutal summer? Yeah, like that—the bottle doesn’t explode, just fills with cracks.

I hit the mag release, shook the gun sideways to half-eject and count rounds. “Okay… okay… deep breath, you got this…” I told myself, smacking the mag back in against the counter.

“Uh… looks like you know your shit…” she said, watching me.

“Not really…” I bit the slide like it’d take a finger and racked it back. “Just seen too many movies…”