The Revolutionary Heroes / Rising of the Shield Hero

Life ain't slow down after the crash, no matter how bad I wanted it to. Nah, the world just kept turnin', like it didn't even care, and I had to learn to keep up. Mornings was for school, nights was for Gramps' shop, and somewhere in between, I was just tryna hold it together, ya feel me?

School, though? Man, that was somethin' else. Kids ain't know what to say, so they just stayed quiet. Teachers looked at me like I was made outta glass or somethin'. They'd talk all slow, like one wrong word would break me. Hallways? Too damn loud. It felt like the world had moved on without me, and I was just some ghost tryin' to catch up.

But home? Home was different. Gramps ain't baby me. "You still breathin', ain't ya?" he'd say, handin' me a wrench. "Then get to work. Guns ain't fix themselves, boy."

Every day after school, I'd head straight to his shop. That place? It was like steppin' into another universe. Smelled like oil and metal, walls lined with tools, gun parts everywhere. Some of those guns? Looked like they'd seen more fights than a bar bouncer.

"You get that homework done?" Gramps would ask, squintin' at me like he could see right through my lies.

"Yeah," I'd say, knowin' damn well my math book was still in my bag, untouched.

"Good," he'd grunt. "Then grab this rag and clean them barrels. And don't half-ass it neither."

At first, I hated it. My hands cramped from all the scrubbin', and Gramps? He had me doin' the same thing over and over. "Do it again," he'd bark, like a drill sergeant. But after a while, somethin' about it clicked. The rhythm of it all—the scrubbin', the smell of gun oil, the hum of the machines—it started feelin'... I dunno, right. Like I was puttin' my mind somewhere it couldn't hurt so much.

School, though? Still a warzone. Some kids would try to be all nice, like, "Hey, Aaron, how you holdin' up?" But they'd bounce as soon as things got awkward. Then there were the whispers. "That's the kid whose whole family died," they'd say, loud enough for me to hear. Real subtle, huh?

One day, after a real bad day at school, Gramps handed me this busted-up revolver. "Fix it," he said, his voice all gruff, but not mean.

I stared at it, turnin' it over in my hands. "Why?"

"'Cause it's broke, and you can fix it," he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "That's what we do, Aaron. We fix what's broken."

Man, that hit me harder than any speech ever could. Fix what's broken. I couldn't fix what happened to my parents or my little brother. Couldn't undo none of that. But this? This, I could fix.

So I learned. I learned how to strip a gun down, clean it, polish it, put it back together like it was brand new. Gramps taught me precision, patience, all that. And while I was fixin' guns, I started feelin' like maybe, just maybe, I could fix myself too.

Gramps ain't one for sugarcoatin'. "Life don't wait on nobody, kid," he'd say, watchin' me fight with a stubborn bolt. "But you're a Freeman. We don't quit. We don't stop. We keep movin', no matter how hard it gets."

---

Time passes, right? Like, blink, and I'm walkin' across that stage with a degree in hand. Engineering, of all things. Me, Aaron Freeman, the kid who could barely hold it together a few years ago, now out here makin' somethin' of myself. Ain't that somethin'?

Gramps was there, of course, sittin' in the front row, lookin' like he was about to fall asleep any minute. He probably thought I was gonna drop out or get distracted halfway through, but nah, I made it. Not for anyone else, just for me. And for him. He needed to see it. He needed to know I wasn't some broken kid. I was a man now.

As the ceremony wrapped up, all the graduates struttin' around like they won the damn lottery, I felt the usual rush of pride. But then, something hit me.

Outta the corner of my eye, there he was. That guy. The same raggedy clothes, the skeletal face. My stomach dropped, like I had just swallowed a damn rock. I froze right there in the middle of the crowd. People were laughin', celebratin', but all I could see was that figure off in the distance, standin' under a tree, just watchin'.

I tried to shake it off—like, nah, not today, not now. This was my moment. But my feet wouldn't move. My heart started poundin' in my chest.

Who the hell was he? And why was he always showin' up at the worst times?

I wanted to run, but I couldn't. The memories, the fear, it was all hittin' me at once, crashin' down like that damn semi truck again. The world felt like it was slowin' down, the noise around me disappearin' as my eyes stayed locked on that guy.

Gramps noticed, though. He saw the way I stiffened, the way my body tensed up.

"Aaron?" he called, his voice sharp. "What's goin' on?"

I didn't answer. I couldn't. My throat felt tight, like I was bein' choked by my own damn breath. The guy didn't move. Just stood there, his face a mask of death, like he was waitin' for me to come to him.

And for the first time since the crash, I felt that old fear rise up. That fear that maybe I wasn't done with whatever the hell had happened back then.

---

But I couldn't stay stuck there. I couldn't let the past pull me back. I felt Gramps' hand on my shoulder, firm but steady, like he'd done so many times before. It was like he knew something was wrong, but didn't know exactly what.

He didn't say much at first, just stood there, giving me space but not letting me slip away into whatever dark place my mind was racing toward. He could see it, I guess. He could see me fallin' apart without a single word. He always knew how to read me, even when I didn't know how to read myself.

"Boy," he said, his voice low and steady, like a quiet storm, "you're still standin', ain't you? That means you ain't outta the fight. You can't let this stuff drag you down, not now."

I swallowed hard, tryin' to shake it off, but my chest was tight, my head a mess. That damn face, that guy, still stuck in my head. I couldn't stop seein' it. But Gramps, he didn't need to know that. He didn't need to know about the ghosts that were still haunting me. He just needed me to keep movin'.

"Come on now, Aaron," he said, his hand on my shoulder firmer now, pulling me back from wherever my mind had drifted. "Whatever's in there," he motioned vaguely toward my head, "it ain't got no place in here," he tapped his chest, "unless you let it."

I couldn't speak. Words wouldn't come, 'cause I didn't know how to explain it. I didn't know what I was feelin', what was breakin' inside me. But I felt Gramps' hand on me, warm, solid, unmovin', and it made the storm inside me slow just enough to breathe.

"You don't gotta say nothin'," he said, his eyes steady, "but I know that look. You been fightin' somethin'. I don't know what it is, but you don't gotta face it alone. Ain't nobody stronger than a Freeman, boy, not even you."

It wasn't magic, it wasn't gonna fix everything, but it was enough to keep me from fallin' apart right there in front of everyone. I wasn't fine. I wasn't cured. But I wasn't alone.

"Let's go," he said, his hand still on my shoulder, guiding me forward. "One step at a time, kid. You're walkin' through it, not runnin' from it. Ain't no shame in that."

I nodded. And for the first time in a long time, I took a breath. Maybe it wasn't all over. Maybe I didn't have to fight it alone. And with Gramps there, maybe, just maybe, I could keep walkin' forward.

---

After that day, things started to settle into a strange new rhythm. Gramps, who'd spent most of his life teachin' me everything I knew, eventually had to hang up his apron. His back wasn't what it used to be, and the weight of years of hard work was takin' its toll. The man who could bend steel with his bare hands now found himself strugglin' to even stand for long periods of time. But he never let that stop him. He just did it slower, quieter.

He handed over the keys to the shop to me one afternoon, the old man with a tired smile, his hands shaking slightly as he passed the mantle. "It's yours now, Aaron," he said, his voice steady, but there was something in his eyes that said he knew he wouldn't be around forever to help fix the broken things. "You've got this, boy. You've learned what you need."

I took the keys, but I wasn't ready to let go of the old ways. I wasn't ready to take full responsibility yet, but I did. Every day, I worked in that shop, runnin' the gunsmith the same way Gramps taught me—precise, steady, with a lot of grit.

Gramps didn't vanish, though. He couldn't, not completely. He still came by sometimes, shufflin' in with his cane and that old stubborn glint in his eye. He'd hobble to a workbench and watch me work, his quiet presence a reminder that even when you can't do everything, you've got a duty to show up and keep goin'. He didn't say much, just "You missin' something?" or "That piece doesn't look right."

And when the pain was too much for him to stay long, he'd nod and slowly shuffle out, his footsteps heavy and slow, but still firm, like he wasn't ready to give up yet.

The shop felt different with him gone all the time. But whenever I felt lost or unsure, I'd remember his words: You've got this, boy. You've learned what you need. It wasn't just about guns anymore. It was about life, about picking up the pieces and carryin' on.

He might not walk the same way anymore, but Gramps was still my rock. And I wouldn't have made it this far without him.

Time has a funny way of catching up with you. After years of workin' in the shop, my world came crashing down again. One day, Gramps didn't show up. I thought nothin' of it at first, but then I got the call. He was gone.

Old age finally caught up to him, even though he'd been fightin' it for years. My steady rock, the man who'd taught me how to survive, how to keep goin', was gone. And I was left alone. Alone in the shop. Alone with the weight of the world pressin' down on me.

I don't know how long it took before I really felt the emptiness. The days passed in a blur. I kept workin', kept doin' what I knew, but it felt hollow. I was just goin' through the motions, and no matter how hard I tried to fill the silence with the sound of tools or machines, it never felt loud enough. It never felt right.

And then it happened.

One night, while I was workin' late, I heard it. That familiar grumble of Gramps' voice, low and steady. "What are you doin' up so late, boy?" It hit me like a punch to the gut. My heart skipped, and I froze, lookin' around the shop, my breath caught in my throat.

I knew. I knew it wasn't real. My mind was messin' with me. But somehow, part of me was relieved. It was like... like he was still there, still watchin' over me. And yeah, it scared me, but I was happy to hear it.

I kept workin', pretendin' I didn't hear it, but the voice kept comin'. It would tell me to slow down, to eat something, to stop stressin' over the little things. It was the same as always. "Don't make me come over there and slap some sense into you."

I knew this wasn't normal, knew this was some sort of mental illness. My therapist had warned me about stuff like this, about how grief could mess with your mind. But still, I didn't mind it.

Maybe I was just that broken, I don't know. But it wasn't just about hearin' his voice—it was the comfort of it. The feelin' that, for just a moment, everything could be the same again. It didn't matter that it was a figment of my imagination. It was Gramps, and that was enough for me.

And yeah, maybe it wasn't healthy, but when the world felt so damn heavy, I took what I could get. Even if it was just a voice in my head.

Oh and I didn't post it on tiktok like a fool

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