Fall and Ascension

It was a night like any other since he had quit his job. Jet would don one of his new suits and wander through the city, daring it to kill him first—cancer or a chance encounter with a lunatic. Once he grew weary or bored, he'd hail a cab and return home.

Jet moved briskly, fueled by his medications, when he spotted him. Chris Wainright, the perpetrator. He clutched a bottle of liquor, poorly concealed within a paper bag, taking big swigs.

Chris boisterously chatted and laughed with a scantily clad teenage girl who was flaunting far more than just her skin. She held a joint, inhaling deeply before they exchanged items and climbed into a flashy, custom-painted muscle car. It wasn't the same Camaro that Chris had used to end Carl's life; this one was even grander and more opulent.

In that moment, Jet felt like he might vomit blood. How had he forgotten about that little bastard? Had his cancer eroded his mind to the point where he'd let such a loose end slip?

The car's tires screeched, and it sped off, narrowly avoiding running down a woman who had frozen in fear while crossing the road. The scantily dressed girl leaned out of the window, hurling insults at the still-shaken woman.

Jet could almost hear those two idiots laughing. Clenching his teeth, he hailed a cab and began to formulate his final act.

First, he stalked Chris across all his social networks, learning his routines and habits. Jet then began shadowing him, secretly attaching a GPS tracker beneath the Camaro to keep precise tabs on his whereabouts.

Scanning through Chris's Chirper, Jet discovered at least fifty parole violations. While trailing him, Jet took numerous photographs of Chris indulging in alcohol and drugs.

But Jet had no intention of handing this evidence over to the police. What would he gain from that? Chris would merely receive another slap on the wrist and then become more cautious.

Jet didn't have the luxury of time or the patience to wait for the justice system to deliver its verdict.

Less than a week later, through Chris's Bookface page, Jet learned about a rave he planned to attend. Jet double-checked his equipment and slid behind the wheel of his new car, a sleek black 1967 Chevrolet Impala.

The best car for hunting monsters. The rave was kept secret, slated to unfold in some decrepit, forgotten corner of the city.

Jet shadowed Chris closely, waiting until they were out of the reach of traffic cameras before executing his move. He veered the Impala into the side of the Camaro, forcing Chris to screech to a halt.

As soon as Chris emerged from his car, Jet incapacitated him with a stun gun. He then swiftly checked the Camaro for additional passengers.

Fortune favored him; Chris was alone. Jet conducted a thorough search, crushing every electronic device he could find—fitbit, smartphone, even Chris's keychain.

He bound Chris's hands and feet, gagging him with a ball gag. Jet also destroyed his own smartphone and the GPS tracker, discarding the remnants by the roadside.

With Chris stashed in the Impala's trunk, Jet headed to a party meant for an audience of two.

He drove to an abandoned warehouse in the desolate industrial district. Jet had already swapped out the old lock and chain on the massive metal doors for his own.

Within the warehouse, two chairs were affixed to the floor, a bucket, and multiple water tanks.

Jet popped the trunk, but Chris had regained consciousness, prompting Jet to stun him once more. He then relocated Chris to one of the chairs, securing his arms and legs tightly.

Jet doused him with a bucket of water, forcing him back to lucidity.

"Hello, Chris. I'm Jet Evangelista, and you murdered my brother. We've got some talking to do."

Chris struggled against his restraints, and while Jet acknowledged his efforts, he dealt a brutal blow to Chris's groin with a nightstick, inducing paralyzing agony.

"Where were we? Ah, yes. The last time we crossed paths was during your sham of a trial. Do you remember me?" Chris panted heavily.

"Good. Let's cut to the chase." Jet retrieved two digital timers from the car, setting the first for thirty minutes and the second for two hours, forty-four minutes, and sixteen seconds.

Then, he produced a gun and fired two rounds into Chris's liver. Chris's screams were stifled by the gag, but the gunshots reverberated loudly within the hollow warehouse.

Jet simultaneously initiated both timers and leaned in close, observing the thick, black blood—evidence of a ruptured liver.

"Now, before the real agony takes hold, pay attention to those timers. They're pretty important." Chris sobbed and screamed, so Jet splashed him again and tugged at his hair to regain his focus.

"The first timer signifies how much time you've got left. When it goes off, even if by some miracle someone breaks through that door to save you, it won't matter. You'll be dead. You only have a limited time until your system becomes inundated with toxins, unfiltered by your liver, to the point where no transplant can rescue you. The second timer? Well, that's a surprise. We'll get to it in due course. For now, your sole task is to stay conscious and savor every moment of torment, just as Carl did."

Time seemed to slip away as Chris continued to scream through the gag ball, and before long, the first timer's piercing ring broke the silence.

Chris's sobs grew more intense, briefly halted only by waves of escalating pain.

Jet no longer engaged with him verbally, merely pacing back and forth, occasionally checking the second timer's countdown.

Whenever Chris passed out from the torment, Jet would splash him, forcing him back into consciousness before refilling the bucket.

When the second timer finally chimed, Jet broke the silence.

"I've got bad news and good news. The bad news is that I lied earlier. I did my research on liver injuries, and with your severely crushed liver, you had no hope from the start. Even if I had shot you in front of the best hospital in the USA, unless they had a compatible liver on hand, you would've died. I wanted to give you false hope, much like my brother experienced while waiting for help. The good news is that you've suffered as long as Carl did. I might be many things—unyielding, vengeful, a liar, a killer—but I'm also fair. So your suffering ends now."

Jet pointed the gun at Chris's head and fired twice.

Then, he aimed it at his own head.

"Little brother, I'm coming. Wait for me," he uttered before pulling the trigger one final time.

As Jet's lifeless body descended, his consciousness bathed in light, feeling itself drawn toward the sky.

After months of mourning, a lifetime of anguish and pain, Jet sensed his traumas and hatred fading away.

He had never experienced such tranquility. In this new existence, he harbored no negative emotions, at peace with his past and unafraid of the future.

Jet reveled in a present that seemed to hold endless possibilities, where there was no right or wrong, success or failure. He simply existed, with no strings attached.

This euphoric sensation persisted until he abruptly awakened, still alive and breathing.

All his negative emotions rushed back, plunging him into despair. Jet inwardly cursed while attempting to focus his eyes. Perhaps due to the gunshot wound to the head, his vision was blurred.

"Well, there goes the perfect plan. Some idiot must have rescued me, and somehow I survived the trip to the hospital. I'm still alive. I still have cancer. I'm still alone." But as his vision gradually cleared, it starkly contradicted his assumptions.

Jet found himself in an expansive metallic corridor, surrounded by lifeless bodies. Alien bodies, to be precise, encased in full-body armor reminiscent of a sci-fi space suit.

"Where the heck am I? What does this even mean?" He screamed while attempting to rise, only to stumble back to the floor.

He landed on his hands, and that's when he noticed he was in a spacesuit as well, with hands—four of them—each sporting three fingers.

"What! The! Actual! Heck!"