[url=https://www.bungie.net/en/Forum/Post/246624086/0/0]Table of Contents[/url] One of the guards fell flat on his back, dead. “Light!” Charity cursed, dropping to the ground. Fargo followed suit, diving to the side of the road. Another shot rang out and he heard the bullet whizz by. He rolled in the dirt until he bumped against the side of a house, then frantically checked his surroundings. Charity was lying on the ground a couple meters away, pressed flat against the dust. The dead gunman was between her and the edge of town, keeping her safe from the unseen assassin. The remaining guard was on the opposite side of the street, mimicking Fargo. The guard stuck his hand under his leg and yanked out his revolver. He waved to Fargo and pointed to the woods as he hollered, “We gotta-“ Another shot was fired and the guard cried out, curling up to clutch at the bleeding hole in his stomach. Fargo swore loudly and pushed himself backwards with his hands and feet, keeping his head down and coughing as he inhaled dust. He reached the corner of the house and quickly scurried behind it as yet another bullet embedded itself in the ground, sending up a plume of dirt. Charity was still pinned behind their fallen comrade. A bullet nailed the carcass with a sickening thunk, shifting the limp weight. Charity looked around and spotted Fargo peeking out at her. She glanced back out to the forest, but neither of them could see anything in the trees. Everything was silent for a few moments, then Charity pushed herself up to her elbows. Another round flew over her and she bolted to her feet. A second shot immediately hit her, and she screamed as the impact of the round knocked her back down. She rolled onto her side, revealing the hole that had been punched through her thigh. Fargo scooted farther into his shelter. Charity had fallen with her torso and head exposed. The corpse wouldn’t save her now. She let out ragged breaths, trying to crawl farther but recoiling from the pain of her wound. Her eyes met Fargo’s, just a couple meters away. “Fargo,” she gasped, reaching out to him in desperation. He didn’t move. Trying to help would be suicide. “Plea-“ Another discharge. Charity shrieked when the shell pelted the ground near her head, spraying gravel on her face. “Please!” She wailed, renewing her efforts to drag herself to Fargo, “Help!” Fargo couldn’t think of anything to say or do. He just watched as she pulled herself closer inch by inch. Tears rolled down her cheeks and her lip quivered uncontrollably. She was so close. “Help!” She begged, “Help m-“ A bullet slammed into her chest and she rolled over. Fargo stared at her. He could still hear her breathing; sucking in air. She barely moved. He thought of running down his little alley and into the next street, but scrapped the idea. He’d be seen. So he sat against the side of the house, listening as Charity’s breaths became increasingly shallow. A curtain shifted on the other side of the street, revealing a face for an instant. None of the townsfolk left their houses. Charity stopped breathing. Fargo fumbled with his holster, drawing his pistol and holding it against his chest. The other guards would come and fight off the attack. He’d be rescued. Sure enough, he didn’t have to wait long before three gunmen barreled around the end of the street. But Fargo could only watch in horror as a volley of bullets hit them. Two fell, and the other hopped back to cover. He pointed his gun around the corner and fired back. Fargo peered around his own corner and uttered a string of curses. Dozens of people were rushing out of the woods, all armed. Some slowed down or stopped to exchange fire with Fargo’s compatriot. They were already too close. Seeing no other option, Fargo heaved himself to his feet and fled. His heart pounded in his ears, nearly drowning out the sound of the gunshots. He was in the open now, the next street, sprinting for his life. It took mere seconds for bullets to start zipping past him. Terror seized his body, propelling him forward faster. Pain blossomed in his back. All the wind in his lungs was knocked out. He stumbled. Tripped. Collapsed. Small rocks scraped his face and arms as he skidded on the ground, coming to rest on his stomach. His mouth opened. Stayed open. Closed then opened again. No air came. Fargo’s eyes widened and he began to move, but the pain in his back spiked through him and he stayed where he was. He kept up his fruitless attempts to inhale. More gunfire. Footsteps coming closer. Fargo squirmed. They were upon him. “Hey, I think he’s still alive!” A man called. “Well then shoot ‘im again,” another spat. Fargo tried to turn his head. Tried to see. More footsteps. Closer and closer. There was a horrible pressure in his chest. “Lady Avery said not to waste bullets,” a third reminded as shadows crossed the ground in front of Fargo’s face. “I’ll take care of it,” another volunteered, planting their boot right by his nose, “Traveler above.” The volunteer seemed surprised, and he knelt next to Fargo as he covered up the reaction, “Great shot, Saul. All o’ you wait at the next corner. An’ remember what I said.” “Stay low an’ close to the buildin’s,” a woman droned. “Yeah,” the volunteer muttered, “An’ don’t get killed. Go on.” The third man spoke up again, “Hey, can’t you just leave him?” “Trust me, Derik,” the volunteer assured, “Just gonna ease his passin’. Let ‘im rest. It’s the least I can do.” “C’mon already,” the second man urged impatiently, and the crowd jogged away. Fargo was in so much pain. The air wouldn’t return to his lungs. His whole body burned and it felt worse every second. Dirt grinded against his cheek, stuck to his lips, clung to his eyelashes. The volunteer waited until the others had put some distance between them, then addressed the dying man, “Fargo Louse, the self-proclaimed Great Tactician.” A chill ran down Fargo’s spine. The man knew him. And the skeptical spite in his voice wasn’t a good sign. “Name’s Brenon.” Fargo closed his eyes for a moment as he remembered. Brenon was Avery’s right-hand man. They had met several times. “You got shot in the lung, by the looks of it,” Brenon observed, far too casually, “You’ll probably pass out in a minute. Must hurt a lot. Avery told me ‘bout asphyxiation. Every cell in your body screamin’ for oxygen.” That was definitely what it felt like to Fargo. Every part of him was on fire. The world was starting to get a little fuzzy, though the anguish he was feeling didn’t seem to lessen in the slightest. Brenon sighed, “Honestly, sorry. I hate your guts, but no one ought to die like this.” He sounded sincere enough, though that wasn’t any comfort to Fargo. Brenon stood and cleared his throat. Fargo wished he could see more than the scout’s boots and legs, but it was becoming too hard to think. Traveler, he wanted the pain to stop. “Stroke o’ luck that I was here to see you off,” Brenon said, “Avery probably had some choice words for you. But, seein’ as she’s not here…” Brenon paused, and Fargo could only guess that he was either searching for words or savoring the moment -though he currently wasn’t in any condition to care about something so trivial. “We’ll see you in hell,” Brenon finished, his voice tinted with an emotion Fargo couldn’t bother to identify, “May the Darkness take you.” The scout walked away, leaving Fargo alone. His vision was so blurry at this point that he couldn’t have seen anything even if he’d had the strength to keep his eyes open. His mind raged as all sensation left him, leaving him with a few final thoughts before it all went black. How could this have happened? Was it poetic that the first battle he ever lost was the one he died in? Hadn’t Brenon said he would ease his passing? That would be nice. He didn’t want to die. Thank the Traveler, the pain is going away... [b]END[/b]