Pots Because Archeology - Tumblr Posts

Immortal Shenanigans

Chapter 2: Bullets and Pots

pt.1

You stare at them. And they stared at you. You grow and twist her arms until the hiding becomes loose. You really had to remove the bullet from your head. You violently dislocated your shoulder and pulled your left hand free.

You throw your head forward dislodging the bullet in your head. You reach into the hole pull out the bullet and drop it onto the ground. You rotate your neck before freeing your other arm.

“You know it’s impolite to shoot someone from that distance.” You hum as the hole in your head begins to close. “Next time shoot me up close, so the bullet doesn’t get stuck.”

You reach down untie your feet, stand up, and walk toward the group. “What with those expressions? It seems like you're seeing a zombie—“

Bang!

Another bullet hits you point blank in the face. You fall backward as they lay more bullets into your body. They quietly stare at each other before leaving, your eyes open and you stand up in the empty… where were you?

It didn’t matter you picked up your bag and left. As you leave the large room you hear a low voice talking. We’re they still here? Might as well scare the shit out of them.

“Hey,” you round the corner as a bullet hits you in the heart. You stare down at the hole in your chest. “That’s not very nice.” You look up shaking your head.

“How the fuck are you still alive?”

“I’m immortal.”

“We killed you.”

“You tried.”

They stared at you with horror in their eye. You were still alive. I looked down at their map, they were planning something.

“Mmh, colonizing shit, you make your ancestors proud.” You look up at the British military men. They give you a cold look.

Ghost raises his gun, “Don’t waste your bullets on me.” You say not looking at him. “We both know it won’t work.” He slowly lowers his gun and looks down at you.

“Why are you here?”

“I’m Egyptian…. I’m from Egypt. This is my home territory.” You’d rate the obvious.

“How old are you?” Soap folds his arm curious about the answer.

“About 5,000 years old.” You casually stare looking down at your ruined clothes. “I was born a little after Egypt was unified. So about 5,000 years old.” You looked him in the face.

“How are you still alive?”

“I don’t know.”

“How don’t you know?”

“We didn’t have science back then!” I shout at Soap.

“I’m older than your Goddamn country, show me some respect!”

“You act like a bratty child.” Ghost hums looking at you with annoyance.

“I am still 20, there’s a dichotomy, between my age and my mental age. I’ve been through a lot and processed it like a 20-year-old.” You explain. The mustache man nods somewhat understanding.

“You do act your age.”

“What you guys doing?” You stand on your tippy toes trying to catch a glimpse of what they're doing. They move to block your view.

“This is private information.”

“Geez ok,” you put your hands up, “it’s not like I’m gonna retain that information. It’s not important to me.”

“Why do you wanna know then?”

“Because I’m nosy,” you shrug. In this decade you decided to be the most immature person ever, to truly act your mental age. A little dumb and completely insufferable.

“Anyways I need to head back… I’m thinking the lady I’m staying with is looking for me.” You begin to walk off, humming a tune so old it was ingrained in your very soul.

“Where do you think you're going?”

“Back to my Airbnb,” you turn around spreading your arms to the mustache man. “Don’t worry I won’t mention you, all four of you aren’t worthy to be remembered.” You give them a bow and Waltz out.

You have rented the Airbnb for a month. you open the door and set your bag down. If the police are looking for you, you're going to have to call in and clear up the misinformation. You take a shower and change to less damaged bloody clothes.

“Hey is this the police?… this is yn… I wasn’t missing just went on a spiritual journey without my phone… sorry for the inconvenience… of course, I’ll tell someone next time.” You hung up, bored and slightly numb.

You should call in that temple site, and get your pots in a museum; not the British Museum, but a local one. You found the right phone number of an old colleague.

“Hey is mister Renfield there? Yes, this is Sofia, Mary’s daughter. Me and my mother stumble across a hidden temple.” News travels fast and you soon we’re back in your temple this time willingly and unstuck.

“Sofia,” you look up.

“Look at these pots, they are your specialty,” Benjamin said. He was an archeologist from America helping with the dig.

“These are in great condition,” you hum, of course, they are. Nobody touched them but you. “These artifacts might tell us more about this temple.”

“This site gonna be a new tourist attraction.” You smile but deep inside you hate the idea of random people ruining your sacred temple.

You walk the street at night. You didn’t need sleep, you didn’t need food, you didn’t need water. But you like those things, they make you feel more mortal more human. You found it ironic you wanted to be human again when for many years you’ve seen yourself as a god amongst men.

“These pots look expensive.” You froze and looked to your right.

“We can sell this to the British Museum.”

Hell no!

You begin to walk down the alleyway, those pots— must have come from your site. Those were your pots, nobody else but yours. You found three men packing them into boxes.

“What do you think you're doing with my pots?” You coldly asked in Arabic. They turn to you like deer in headlights. One pulls out a gun and threatens to shoot. You stare at them coldly arms folded.

“Back off bitch!”

“Why?” You walk closer and they frown. They turn to each other and begin to speak another language.

You could understand them. They were talking about your looks. They could sell you. Or harvest your organs. You frown if they discover your immortality they keep you as a slave.

“Human trafficking?” They froze and turned to you horrified. You knew the second language too. You pull out your tactical whip and hit the one with the gun. You took the gun and turned it on them.

“Take me to your hideout.” You demand. You will take all the artifacts they have stolen back. They slowly took you to an abandoned warehouse at the end of the city. They tried to take the gun back but your whip took good care of their attempts.

It hurt like hell and it culled their attempts to fight you. You knocked out both men, with one hard punch and tied them up with the rope you carried in your bag. You enter the abandoned warehouse. It was mostly empty, besides the shit tone of guns, but you didn’t care for that.

“Damn, what is this? An incels’ wet dream?” You mutter staring at the boxes of guns.

You walk around taking in all the stuff. Most of it was military, not your problem. You found your artifacts all in a single box with little care put into it. You deer in frustration. You pull out your phone to call in the stolen items and the military-grade gun.

“Hello, police?”

“Price over here.” Your voice does as you slowly lookout to find those four military men. You end the call and stand up.

“Hey.”

Bang!

“Hey, these pots are old!” You yell back trying to protect the box.

“What are you doing here,” mustache man roars in anger.

“Stolen museum pots!”

“How can we trust you?” They all had their guns pointed at you. You roll your eyes.

“I’m an archeologist first, a historian second, and a bitch lastly. I don’t give a shit about your damn mission only these pots!” They turn to each other. Was she for real? They look at you. Yes, she is.

“Alright you're here for pots, how did you get here.”

“Two looters try to steal my temple pot.”

“How did you take out two men?”

“Tactical whip,” you hold up your metallic whip. Soap sighed and the mustache man simply covered his eyes.

“Does it work?”

“Very well.”

“I’m going to call the police—“

“No, we’re going to call the military.” Mustache man interrupted you. You sigh and stretch your arms.

“Alright, when they get here just tell them that box is historically important.” You pick up your stuff and begin to leave.

“Where are you going?”

“You guys got this handle, and I still need to report another problem.” You wave your hand.

“Let’s not meet up again.” You state as you leave the warehouse.

You called in the temple pot theft and your colleagues explained the frustrating situation. Looters are the first enemy of knowledge and history.

Bang!

You fall forward and your world turns black.

Immortal Shenanigans

Chapter 2: Bullets and Pots

pt.1 pt.2, pt. 3

You stare at them. And they stared at you. You grow and twist your arms until the rope becomes loose. You really had to remove the bullet from your head. You violently dislocated your shoulder and pulled your left hand free.

You throw your head forward dislodging the bullet in your head. You reach into the hole pull out the bullet and drop it onto the ground. You rotate your neck before freeing your other arm.

“You know it’s impolite to shoot someone from that distance.” You hum as the hole in your head begins to close. “Next time shoot me up close, so the bullet doesn’t get stuck.”

You reach down untie your feet, stand up, and walk toward the group. “What with those expressions? It seems like you're seeing a zombie—“

Bang!

Another bullet hits you point blank in the face. You fall backward as they lay more bullets into your body. They quietly stare at each other before leaving, your eyes open and you stand up in the empty… where were you?

It didn’t matter you picked up your bag and left. As you leave the large room you hear a low voice talking. We’re they still here? Might as well scare the shit out of them.

“Hey,” you round the corner as a bullet hits you in the heart. You stare down at the hole in your chest. “That’s not very nice.” You look up shaking your head.

“How the fuck are you still alive?”

“I’m immortal.”

“We killed you.”

“You tried.”

They stared at you with horror in their eye. You were still alive. I looked down at their map, they were planning something.

“Mmh, colonizing shit, you make your ancestors proud.” You look up at the British military men. They give you a cold look.

Ghost raises his gun, “Don’t waste your bullets on me.” You say not looking at him. “We both know it won’t work.” He slowly lowers his gun and looks down at you.

“Why are you here?”

“I’m Egyptian…. I’m from Egypt. This is my home territory.” You’d rate the obvious.

“How old are you?” Soap folds his arm curious about the answer.

“About 5,000 years old.” You casually stare looking down at your ruined clothes. “I was born a little after Egypt was unified. So about 5,000 years old.” You looked him in the face.

“How are you still alive?”

“I don’t know.”

“How don’t you know?”

“We didn’t have science back then!” I shout at Soap.

“I’m older than your Goddamn country, show me some respect!”

“You act like a bratty child.” Ghost hums looking at you with annoyance.

“I am still 20, there’s a dichotomy, between my age and my mental age. I’ve been through a lot and processed it like a 20-year-old.” You explain. The mustache man nods somewhat understanding.

“You do act your age.”

“What you guys doing?” You stand on your tippy toes trying to catch a glimpse of what they're doing. They move to block your view.

“This is private information.”

“Geez ok,” you put your hands up, “it’s not like I’m gonna retain that information. It’s not important to me.”

“Why do you wanna know then?”

“Because I’m nosy,” you shrug. In this decade you decided to be the most immature person ever, to truly act your mental age. A little dumb and completely insufferable.

“Anyways I need to head back… I’m thinking the lady I’m staying with is looking for me.” You begin to walk off, humming a tune so old it was ingrained in your very soul.

“Where do you think you're going?”

“Back to my Airbnb,” you turn around spreading your arms to the mustache man. “Don’t worry I won’t mention you, all four of you aren’t worthy to be remembered.” You give them a bow and Waltz out.

You have rented the Airbnb for a month. you open the door and set your bag down. If the police are looking for you, you're going to have to call in and clear up the misinformation. You take a shower and change to less damaged bloody clothes.

“Hey is this the police?… this is yn… I wasn’t missing just went on a spiritual journey without my phone… sorry for the inconvenience… of course, I’ll tell someone next time.” You hung up, bored and slightly numb.

You should call in that temple site, and get your pots in a museum; not the British Museum, but a local one. You found the right phone number of an old colleague.

“Hey is mister Renfield there? Yes, this is Sofia, Mary’s daughter. Me and my mother stumble across a hidden temple.” News travels fast and you soon we’re back in your temple this time willingly and unstuck.

“Sofia,” you look up.

“Look at these pots, they are your specialty,” Benjamin said. He was an archeologist from America helping with the dig.

“These are in great condition,” you hum, of course, they are. Nobody touched them but you. “These artifacts might tell us more about this temple.”

“This site gonna be a new tourist attraction.” You smile but deep inside you hate the idea of random people ruining your sacred temple.

You walk the street at night. You didn’t need sleep, you didn’t need food, you didn’t need water. But you like those things, they make you feel more mortal more human. You found it ironic you wanted to be human again when for many years you’ve seen yourself as a god amongst men.

“These pots look expensive.” You froze and looked to your right.

“We can sell this to the British Museum.”

Hell no!

You begin to walk down the alleyway, those pots— must have come from your site. Those were your pots, nobody else but yours. You found three men packing them into boxes.

“What do you think you're doing with my pots?” You coldly asked in Arabic. They turn to you like deer in headlights. One pulls out a gun and threatens to shoot. You stare at them coldly arms folded.

“Back off bitch!”

“Why?” You walk closer and they frown. They turn to each other and begin to speak another language.

You could understand them. They were talking about your looks. They could sell you. Or harvest your organs. You frown if they discover your immortality they keep you as a slave.

“Human trafficking?” They froze and turned to you horrified. You knew the second language too. You pull out your tactical whip and hit the one with the gun. You took the gun and turned it on them.

“Take me to your hideout.” You demand. You will take all the artifacts they have stolen back. They slowly took you to an abandoned warehouse at the end of the city. They tried to take the gun back but your whip took good care of their attempts.

It hurt like hell and it culled their attempts to fight you. You knocked out both men, with one hard punch and tied them up with the rope you carried in your bag. You enter the abandoned warehouse. It was mostly empty, besides the shit tone of guns, but you didn’t care for that.

“Damn, what is this? An incels’ wet dream?” You mutter staring at the boxes of guns.

You walk around taking in all the stuff. Most of it was military, not your problem. You found your artifacts all in a single box with little care put into it. You deer in frustration. You pull out your phone to call in the stolen items and the military-grade gun.

“Hello, police?”

“Price over here.” Your voice does as you slowly lookout to find those four military men. You end the call and stand up.

“Hey.”

Bang!

“Hey, these pots are old!” You yell back trying to protect the box.

“What are you doing here,” mustache man roars in anger.

“Stolen museum pots!”

“How can we trust you?” They all had their guns pointed at you. You roll your eyes.

“I’m an archeologist first, a historian second, and a bitch lastly. I don’t give a shit about your damn mission only these pots!” They turn to each other. Was she for real? They look at you. Yes, she is.

“Alright you're here for pots, how did you get here.”

“Two looters try to steal my temple pot.”

“How did you take out two men?”

“Tactical whip,” you hold up your metallic whip. Soap sighed and the mustache man simply covered his eyes.

“Does it work?”

“Very well.”

“I’m going to call the police—“

“No, we’re going to call the military.” Mustache man interrupted you. You sigh and stretch your arms.

“Alright, when they get here just tell them that box is historically important.” You pick up your stuff and begin to leave.

“Where are you going?”

“You guys got this handle, and I still need to report another problem.” You wave your hand.

“Let’s not meet up again.” You state as you leave the warehouse.

You called in the temple pot theft and your colleagues explained the frustrating situation. Looters are the first enemy of knowledge and history.

Bang!

You fall forward and your world turns black.