There is, in countless variations of the gunslinging mythos, found scattered all over the galaxy, a recurring archetype. It is the "Bullet with your name on it."
They've got the Captain! Open Fire!!
They're shooting in there!
We're being attacked! Return fire! Return fire!
Hundreds of bullets fly right now: Only one of them has an inscription, written by the hand of destiny.
So, while the mercenaries and the foodservice commandos unload clip after clip of ammunition at each other, we will meet this archetypical slug, this chambered round of fate, this ballistic dum-dum of doom. . .
Cease fire! Cease fire!!
It begins as an ordinary bullet, sitting on a standard gunfoam� propellant casing.
Stop that! It's really annoying!
To the naked eye, it is no different than any of the ninety-nine other rounds it was packaged with.
(Schlock diving) LUNGE
But to those with psychic sight, or a really nice UV lamp, it is startlingly, no, frighteningly different.
Back at'cha, baby!
Fair reader, can you read this psychic inscription? Do you dare scry the bloody hieroglyphs?
Get down! Get do--
Get help! They've shot
Certainly you saw this coming. . . Now tune in tomorrow.