Can't Kill What's Already Dead {A Marvel Fanfiction}

Prologue

"Status!"

"She's breathing..."

"Is she alive..."

"Her blood isn't pumping... her heart is stopped completely..."

"But is she alive???"

"...no, sir."

"Good... keep it that way."

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Six Months Later

I jogged down the empty street, pumping my arms at my sides rhythmically as I breathed. I saw my breath roll out behind my in a white trail. The sky above me had just started to show signs of the morning, and I smiled. 

Everything was finally back to normal.

Almost everything...

Several minutes later, I was in front of my humble abode once again. I'd grown accustom to being technically homeless, but my warehouse provided everything between warmth on cold days and kept me shielded from wandering eyes of civilians. It was an occupational hazard of sorts. No one but me could get inside, as it took a certain set of skills to dodge the obstacles of barbed wired fences and fifteen foot jumps, both across large gaps and back to solid ground. Every once in a while, even I would land just wrong enough to get hurt. but I could handle the pain. Most people would be rendered immobile if injured in the same way. 

I through a quick glance over my shoulder to make sure no one was looking before jumping atop the dumpsters and volting myself over the ten foot fence. Landing with a soft thud, I began sprinting to gain momentum and wall jumped a corner to grab onto the ledge of the ventilation grate. Hoisting myself inside, I closed the metal sheet behind me and crawled through. It was routine, I knew the directions by heart; straight until the first right, pass two fans, take two lefts, the second vent dropping fifteen feet into the forty by forty foot concrete room I called my home.

As I hit the floor, I heard the scampering paws of my two year old German Shepard, Booker, coming to investigate. He barked once, then ran up to me, jumping and leaving slobbery kisses all over my face. Laughing, I gently pushed him off. 

"Down, boy, it's good to see you too..." I squatted down to his level as he sat, and scratched him behind his ear. "Guess what I brought back for you?"

Booker stood up again, waging his tail eagerly. I pulled my canvas shoulder-strap backpack off of me, unzipping it and getting out a large rawhide bone. Holding out for him to have, Booker took it in his teeth and trotted off to his favorite spot next to my homemade furnace, where it was warmest.

Smiling to myself, I took my bag over to my desk and unloaded my loot. 

The past four hours, since two this morning, I'd been staking out a stuck-up CEO, who was taking thousands of dollars out of his companies business funds account to pay for the transport of a variety of narcotics from Mexico into the states illegally, and taking out several more for his one leisure. He was in a meeting with some other co-owners from across the water in China, and I knew that they'd be most vulnerable then. I was taking back the money from him by stealing the codes to transfer the money into my private, anonymous account to distribute it back out to the under-payed workers, which is where it should be going in the first place.

This was my life now. Stealing from the rich to give to the poor. Dealing justice.

Each job I did, I took out a little extra, exactly $6,845.89. This mostly went into savings, in case I needed to move, but occasionally, when I knew was set until I found another candidate, I'd send the money back home to my parents. No, they don't know I'm alive. When I send them the money, I put it in cash in the mail so they can't trace my bank account. Why so specific with the dough?

It cost them $6,845.89 for them to have services with and to bury an empty coffin.

But for their sake's, they can't ever know I'm still alive. If they knew, they'd come looking for me, and if they came looking for me, they'd be in over their heads. 

How exactly did I magically come back to life, may you ask? Not magically, that's for sure. Someone put chemicals in my body that forced me to stay 'undead'. I say 'undead', because I'm not dead, nor am I alive. My blood and heart are at a stand-still, yet I still breath air like a living being. If anyone asked if this was voluntary, the answer will always be no.

I'd rather be dead than be whatever the Hell I am now. 

I'm a freak, that's what I am.

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