A gleaming white shape emerged from the blackness with a popping of joints. Fire burst into existence, beating away the chains as if they were cobwebs. A skeleton silently stalked out of the darkness, a heavy Beretta pistol cradled in one hand, and cocked its head. Its crimson points of light that served as eyes cut through the gloom like flashlights.

The two skeletons looked like they could be brothers, inasmuch as skeletons could have siblings. Blood-red eyes watched each other; thick bones hung motionless in the air, suspended with no visible means of support. Both were rather tall. Only their clothing set them apart. One--the summoner--wore a finely-tailored robe that matched his eyes, with a leather vest over it. The other--the "summonee"--was garbed in a jacket and cargo pants made of a sand-colored, bulletproof material. A cap, worn backwards, was secured tightly around his head with the velcro strapped together as tightly as possible.

For a moment, the two skeletons stared at each other. Skeletons are accomplished starers. Then, with out further ado, Johnny Bones pulled the trigger of his pistol and pumped a trio of bullets into his summoner's face.

"...the hell?" he asked, holstering the pistol. "I don't have time for this."

This is what you get for minding your own business, is it? For saving people? Johnny hated his skeletal self. The thing he least wanted to see was someone else that looked like he did. No way, José. If emo kids moping around at the malls across America could share Johnny's zombie state, they would value their skin more likely and, hopefully, stop cutting themselves.

Thinking about emos made Johnny's mood, already at a low point, take a turn for the worse.

He didn't want to fight anybody. He was tired of it. There were nine-thousand people out there that needed to be rescued from unknown fates; who said violence was necessary for soul-saving? Not God. Not Johnny. For a moment, he considered fleeing while his counterpart corpse was still sizing him up.

Depression bit down hard at times like this; depression bit down hard all the god damned time. That was another advantage of having skin and a digestive tract: alcohol and drugs.

No, no running. He still had some pride. He'd just make it quick.

Golden flames sprang into life in his open palms, crackling with holy energy. He slammed his hands together to create one single fireball and hurled it at his summoner. It crashed into the taller skeleton's chest and sent him tumbling backwards.

That made Johnny feel a bit better. Not by much...but enough.

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Kellson (Deceased). Johnny Bones (Only Technically Deceased).A witticism goes here.