So I Accidentally Killed the Chosen One

Chapter 1: Oops

I didn't mean to kill the Chosen One. I didn't mean to do a lot of things. But here I am, standing on a dirt road in the dead of night with the Chosen One sprawled out in front of my pickup

Well. It's technically not my pickup, which makes this entire thing a whole lot more complicated. 

Squatting down in the dust, I brush the Chosen One's dark hair from her face and shiver. Not because there's a lotta blood or anything. In fact, aside from a couple dings and the total lack of pulse, she's not really in bad shape.

No, the thing that freaks me out is the fact that she looks just like me. From her dark brown skin to her plump figure to her button nose, she and I are identical. Except for the half sun birthmark on her face, but that's only because she is—was—the Chosen One, and I'm just an idiot college graduate who owes a whole lotta digits to a very angry organization.

Red lights blare in the distance and all I can hear is sirens, swearing, and my mother's voice echoing in my head. "Guillerma, how could you be this stupid?" she'll ask me as I sit in prison. Or in an executioner's chair. I don't know for sure what the punishment is for accidentally running the Chosen One over with a stolen truck while on the run from the law, but it's probably about as pleasant as getting slurped up by a dozen hungry chupacabras.

The red lights start inching towards me, and with it the prospect of death, public humiliation, and my mother's chankla.

Looking down at the Chosen One, an idea occurs to me. A mindbogglingly stupid, completely impossible idea. But the red lights are getting closer and I don't exactly have a ton of options. Besides, I've been doing stupid things my entire life and I'm thinking now isn't the time to attempt something new.

"Screw it." It's do or die, my friend. And I'm too young to die.

Scrunching up my nose, I reach down and sling the Chosen One over my shoulder. Her limp hands knock against the back of my knees as I heave her into the bed of the truck. Her head bangs against the tailgate.

"Oh. Sorry," I whisper. "Errr. Wait. No." Don't talk to corpses. That's bad luck.

As if having one in the back of your ex-boyfriend's pickup truck is a frickin' blessed omen.

The sirens blare, filling the hot pink night sky with an unearthly screech. I lunge for the door and shake the truck's stick, trying to shift it in gear. Stupid stick shift. Who even drives these anymore?

The gears groan into place and the truck shudders, lifts a few inches off the ground, and begins gliding forward. I punch a code into the console and the truck vanishes as the cloaking device activates. Through the rear-view mirror, I get a glimpse of a few hovercrafts taking a wrong turn. I also catch sight of the Chosen One's body tumbling around in the back, but I try not to think about that bit.

Kicking the truck into gear, I fly down the back road and begin mapping out my plan.

Step 1: Bury the body.

Step 2: Get a face tattoo.

Step 3: Assume the guise of the Chosen One.

That last part seems a bit rude, but I did already run her over and steal her dead body, which, really, is about as rude as it gets. Besides, this is the perfect way to get the Intergalactic Collegiate Parking Permit Police off my back. I'll make my apologies to the Chosen One when I see her in Paradise after I've grown old and died from non-execution-chair reasons.

Supposing I even make it into Paradise, which currently isn't looking too likely. Guess I'll just light another candle for myself. At this point I'll be violating Code 893 with the number of open flames I have in my ship, but that's the least of my concerns.