the dirt at their feet, firing into Survivor’s grave. Soldier reels back, trips over nothing, and falls on his side. The pain that was there before levels up and hits him hard. He scrambles some, trying to pull his body back into position as the bullets pelt the ground near his feet. As soon as he’s able to get back up, he loses his footing again and falls back down.
Soon enough, Carolina runs out, and Prophetier stops shooting. As the gun quiets, Soldier can hear men shouting, running toward them, the men from the tree line. Soldier cranes his neck, tries to find them, tries to see how close they are, but all he sees is Prophetier standing over him, Soldier’s gun balanced on his palm.
“There,” Prophetier says. “Now it’s done. Now he’s dead for sure. Now you can go home.”
“Son, what the hell is your problem?”
“Stop wasting your time. Go home. Start preparing. When it comes, we’ll need your help. Stop being weak. Stop talking. We all come back. You’re The Soldier of Freedom. You’ll save us again.”
“What the hell’s your problem!” Soldier shouts.
“Be prepared when it comes. If you’re weak, you won’t be able to save the world. You won’t be able to save Pen. You won’t even be able to save Mashallah. If you’re weak, distracted, she’ll die. So get going.”
“Just shut up. Just be quiet.”
Prophetier lets go of Carolina, and she falls heavy onto Soldier’s chest. “You’ll need this,” Prophetier says, and a man comes from the right and tackles him, shoves him down onto the graves. Another man is there, a security guard, and he grabs Prophetier’s arms and binds them behind him. Prophetier tries to say something, and the first man shoves his face into the ground.
A third man comes up behind Soldier and starts to lift him to his feet. “You all right?” the man asks.
“I’m fine,” Soldier says, bucking out of the guard’s arms, getting his own legs to stand him up. He looks over to Prophetier, who’s struggling against his captors.
“We’ll take care of this,” one of the men says.
“He didn’t mean any harm,” Soldier says. “He just ain’t right. It ain’t his fault.”
Another guard picks Soldier’s gun up and hands it to him, and Soldier holsters the weapon. “Don’t worry,” the guard says, “we’ll take care of this.”
“Please,” Soldier says. “He ain’t right.”
They don’t seem to hear him, and the guards prop Prophetier up against Survivor’s headstone. Proph’s yelling now, going on, and they find some tape and put it over his mouth as they go about reporting the incident over their radios.
Soldier steps back. He means to say something else, explain what this was about, how a man can be like that, struggle against nothing. Sometimes you need a fight. Everyone needs a fight, a villain waiting for your shot. Pull the trigger.
“I’m sorry,” Soldier says, and he’s not sure if anyone hears or cares. He says it again, then he turns and walks toward the cemetery exit where he left his truck.
A few yards down the road he hears Proph going off again, shouting at all the dead villains, “We all come back! We all come back! We all come back!” Proph must have got an arm free, got the tape off his mouth. It’s hard to keep a hero down.
Soldier keeps a steady pace, walking the best he can for a man with knees made of silk and blades, and behind him, back near all those buried villains, Prophetier continues to shout out, “We all come back! We all come back! We all come back!”
The Soldier of Freedom #520
Soldier drives around for a while. Eventually, he heads to the range and takes aim at a paper man, three circles drawn in his center. Pull the trigger. He draws and fires from fifty feet and misses. He calls the target closer. Forty feet, and he misses. Thirty feet, and he misses. Twenty feet, and he misses. Ten feet, and he misses. Ten feet. Pull the trigger. He remembers a war where he killed thirteen men
Soon enough, Carolina runs out, and Prophetier stops shooting. As the gun quiets, Soldier can hear men shouting, running toward them, the men from the tree line. Soldier cranes his neck, tries to find them, tries to see how close they are, but all he sees is Prophetier standing over him, Soldier’s gun balanced on his palm.
“There,” Prophetier says. “Now it’s done. Now he’s dead for sure. Now you can go home.”
“Son, what the hell is your problem?”
“Stop wasting your time. Go home. Start preparing. When it comes, we’ll need your help. Stop being weak. Stop talking. We all come back. You’re The Soldier of Freedom. You’ll save us again.”
“What the hell’s your problem!” Soldier shouts.
“Be prepared when it comes. If you’re weak, you won’t be able to save the world. You won’t be able to save Pen. You won’t even be able to save Mashallah. If you’re weak, distracted, she’ll die. So get going.”
“Just shut up. Just be quiet.”
Prophetier lets go of Carolina, and she falls heavy onto Soldier’s chest. “You’ll need this,” Prophetier says, and a man comes from the right and tackles him, shoves him down onto the graves. Another man is there, a security guard, and he grabs Prophetier’s arms and binds them behind him. Prophetier tries to say something, and the first man shoves his face into the ground.
A third man comes up behind Soldier and starts to lift him to his feet. “You all right?” the man asks.
“I’m fine,” Soldier says, bucking out of the guard’s arms, getting his own legs to stand him up. He looks over to Prophetier, who’s struggling against his captors.
“We’ll take care of this,” one of the men says.
“He didn’t mean any harm,” Soldier says. “He just ain’t right. It ain’t his fault.”
Another guard picks Soldier’s gun up and hands it to him, and Soldier holsters the weapon. “Don’t worry,” the guard says, “we’ll take care of this.”
“Please,” Soldier says. “He ain’t right.”
They don’t seem to hear him, and the guards prop Prophetier up against Survivor’s headstone. Proph’s yelling now, going on, and they find some tape and put it over his mouth as they go about reporting the incident over their radios.
Soldier steps back. He means to say something else, explain what this was about, how a man can be like that, struggle against nothing. Sometimes you need a fight. Everyone needs a fight, a villain waiting for your shot. Pull the trigger.
“I’m sorry,” Soldier says, and he’s not sure if anyone hears or cares. He says it again, then he turns and walks toward the cemetery exit where he left his truck.
A few yards down the road he hears Proph going off again, shouting at all the dead villains, “We all come back! We all come back! We all come back!” Proph must have got an arm free, got the tape off his mouth. It’s hard to keep a hero down.
Soldier keeps a steady pace, walking the best he can for a man with knees made of silk and blades, and behind him, back near all those buried villains, Prophetier continues to shout out, “We all come back! We all come back! We all come back!”
The Soldier of Freedom #520
Soldier drives around for a while. Eventually, he heads to the range and takes aim at a paper man, three circles drawn in his center. Pull the trigger. He draws and fires from fifty feet and misses. He calls the target closer. Forty feet, and he misses. Thirty feet, and he misses. Twenty feet, and he misses. Ten feet, and he misses. Ten feet. Pull the trigger. He remembers a war where he killed thirteen men
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