The night lay still over the mountains, cold and pale beneath a thin wash of moonlight. Snow blanketed the forest, the narrow road cutting through it marked only by old tire tracks and the faint crunch of something new passing over them.
A car moved there, quiet as a thought.
Its electric hum barely disturbed the silence as it climbed deeper into the hills, headlights carving a path between the trees. Inside, two men rode in the dim glow of the dashboard—one steady at the wheel, the other taking up more space than the car seemed built to allow.
Frank drove without speaking, eyes forward, hands relaxed but precise. Everything about him was controlled, economical—no wasted movement, no wasted attention. Beside him, Bruce sat folded into the passenger seat, far too large for it, knees pressed high, shoulders crowding the door. His clothes were worn, his vest patched, his sunglasses crooked despite the dark. Across his lap rested a rifle plastered in old stickers, his hand idly running along it as if it needed calming.
They didn't talk. They didn't need to.
The road stretched on through the trees, the car gliding over ice and gravel—
Then something flickered in the headlights.
Frank saw it.
Bruce reacted.
"W-WOAH—STOP—!"
He lunged forward, one massive hand slamming against the dashboard as if he could halt the world himself.
Frank exhaled through his nose and braked.
The car slid briefly on the ice before settling.
In the beams of light, a rabbit stood frozen—small, fluffy, fragile, caught between motion and fear. For a heartbeat it didn't move.
Then it ran.
A blur across the road, gone into the dark.
Silence returned.
Frank eased his foot off the brake, unimpressed. "You yelled like we were about to hit a kid."
Bruce leaned back, still staring after the trees, his voice softer now, almost relieved. "H-he made it… you s-saw that, right? Little guy made it."
"It's a rabbit."
Bruce shook his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "Yeah… but still, it might have had a little rabbit family, you know."
Frank didn't answer, already pressing the car forward again.
Bruce glanced out into the forest once more before settling back into his seat, satisfied.
The car rolled on, swallowed again by the quiet of the mountains.
Soon enough the road opened into a wide clearing, and the mansion revealed itself at the far end—a sprawling three-story lodge rising out of the snow, its dark windows catching faint traces of light, its long porch stretching across the front like something waiting in silence. It might have seemed peaceful at a glance, almost asleep beneath the winter sky, were it not for the yard before it.
Cars filled the open space—too many, too close together. Blacked-out SUVs, low sedans, muscle cars with no plates or the wrong ones, all scattered without order. Even from a distance, something felt wrong. When Bruce cracked the window, the cold air carried it in—smoke, alcohol, something chemical and sour beneath it.
Frank slowed and eased the car into the shadow of the trees, killing the engine. They sat for a moment, watching.
"That's it," he said quietly. "Has to be."
Bruce nodded, eyes drifting across the yard—then stopping.
Along the side of the mansion, hugging the wall, sat a long fuel tank. Rusted. Marked. Too close.
Frank reached for the radio. "We call it in, wait for backup, and—"
Bruce caught his arm. "W-wait."
Frank didn't look at him. "No."
But Bruce was still staring at the tank. "Y-you see that, fuel tank?"
That made Frank pause, if only for a second.
Bruce leaned forward slightly, voice low but certain. "One spark… and it's over. No standoff. No lawyers. No one slipping away."
Frank's expression hardened. "That's not how the law work's."
"Yeah, I know. But they won't stop unless we stop them," Bruce said. "You know that. If we bring this in clean, they're back out in months. Maybe weeks."
Frank frowned, "That still doesn't give you the right to just blow up a building."
Bruce hesitated, then quieter, "I know Frank, but think about what would Jesus do."
Frank finally turned to him. "What, did you say?"
Bruce didn't answer right away. He just kept looking at the mansion, then at the tank.
"…yeah, let's do it for Jesus," he said.
Frank just shook his head once, already turning back to the radio. "Nope, we do this properly and that's it."
Bruce reached for the door.
"Don't," Frank warned, sharp now.
Bruce paused—but only for a moment.
"I'm sorry."
The door opened, cold air spilling in as he stepped out into the snow.
"Bruce, if you go, you're on your own," Frank said, voice low and dangerous. "You understand me?"
Bruce gave a small nod, not turning back. "Thats ok. Just tell your wife Sarah, and the kids that I'm sorry."
Then he stepped out fully, closed the door and started sneaking across the yard.
Frank stayed still just long enough to swear under his breath before moving. He was out of the car in an instant, grabbing his rifle from the trunk, slipping into motion like habit more than thought. He cut through the parked vehicles and dropped behind a black SUV, steadying himself, eyes already tracking Bruce's broad silhouette moving out in the open—far too visible, far too exposed.
Frank keyed his mic. "Bruce, can you hear me. I'm covering you from the—"
Silence.
Frank closed his eyes briefly.
"…you forgot your radio again."
Of course he did.
Bruce crossed the yard with heavy, crunching steps, each footfall loud upon the frozen snow, his breath spilling before him in thick, rolling clouds that faded into the night. Whatever hope there had been for subtlety was gone the moment he left the shelter of the trees; now there remained only urgency, a quiet, desperate race to reach the tank before any watchful eye might fall upon him.
It rested along the side of the mansion, long and low against the outer wall, its dark shape half-buried in shadow. From afar it had seemed promising; up close, it appeared almost too perfect, as though waiting. Bruce approached it and exhaled softly, a fragile note of satisfaction escaping him. "Y-yes…" he murmured, circling to its nearer end where the metal valve jutted outward—old, weathered, faintly rusted with time. There he stood concealed, the mansion wall close at his right shoulder, the line of parked cars stretching away to his left like silent witnesses. A good place, he thought.
He seized the valve and twisted. Nothing answered him. His brow furrowed; he shifted his grip and tried again. The metal gave a faint groan but refused to yield. "…c'mon…" he urged under his breath, leaning harder into the motion—then stilled, as though some distant thought had at last reached him. "…wait."
Fire.
The word seemed to echo in his mind. He blinked, then hastily dug into his hoodie pockets, drawing out a small handful of lighters. For a moment he only stared at them, his expression faltering, uncertainty flickering across his face. They were not truly his—not meant for this. They had been meant to be gifts for Frank's children. Cool little things he bought from a convention, with the little money he had left after Amber had once again taken his credit card.
He turned one over in his hand, studying it as though it might answer him. "…they're not g-gonna like this…" he whispered, and after a brief pause added, softer still, "…s-sorry."
He chose two: the Vader one, and the ring. Crouching, he set them carefully in the snow a short distance from the tank and flicked them alight. Click. Click. Two small flames sprang up, wavering weakly in the cold air. He nodded once, as though sealing the final decision of some grand plan. "My little timers." It would have to be enough.
Rising again, he returned to the valve and twisted with greater force. This time the metal screamed—a long, sharp grinding cry that tore through the stillness of the night. Bruce froze at once, dread striking him cold. "…oh no."
From within the mansion came sudden movement—a door slamming open, a voice breaking out into the darkness. "Hey! Who the hell is scratching up my ride?!"
Light spilled across the porch as a figure emerged, half-dressed, scanning the yard with quick suspicion, one hand already resting on a pistol. Bruce pressed himself tightly against the corner of the mansion, his heart pounding hard against his ribs.
The man stepped down from the porch and moved past the parked cars, muttering under his breath as he went—toward the road, toward Frank. Bruce's eyes widened in alarm. "…n-no." His thoughts raced, colliding and tangling over one another—stealth, distraction, the memories of games, and half remember internet videos, until at last he acted.
Leaning just enough to be heard, he cupped his hands and called out in a low, urgent voice, "Moo! M-moo! H-hey! O-over here, y-you gangster cow!" A pause followed, thick with uncertainty. Then, with sudden, misplaced conviction, he added, "Y-your mother was a hamster!"
For a moment there was only silence. Then: "…the fuck?" The footsteps halted, shifted, and began to turn toward him.
Bruce stayed still behind the corner, waiting patiently for the footsteps to come closer. And then just as the man was about to fall upon him, he stepped out of cover, but instantly faltered.
"…oh."
The man was a small dwarf, barely reaching Bruce's chest, wiry and tense, his eyes sharp with suspicion. "Who the hell you calling a cow, freak?" he snapped, his hand already diving for his gun.
Bruce did not think. He lunged.
They struck the ground hard, the impact driving the man into the snow beneath Bruce's weight. The smaller man fought instantly, twisting with surprising speed, struggling to break free, but Bruce forced him down, pinning him with brute strength. "J-just—stay—still—!" Bruce gasped, pressing a hand over his face, trying to subdue him, to end it cleanly—knock him out, that was how it worked, just—
The man bit down.
Hard.
"AH—!" Bruce recoiled, jerking his hand back as pain shot through him, sharp and immediate. In that instant, instinct overwhelmed intention. His fist came down with full, unthinking force.
A dull crack broke the struggle.
The body beneath him went still.
Bruce froze.
"…h-hey…" No answer came. The man lay limp in the snow, eyes open yet empty, all resistance gone. Bruce's breath caught in his throat. "N-no…" He shook him gently at first, then with growing urgency. "H-hey—wake up… c'mon…"
But nothing stirred. The cold seemed to deepen around them, pressing in, heavy and unyielding. "I-I didn't mean—" he whispered, staring down in dawning horror as panic crept over him, slow and suffocating, like the night itself closing in.
Voices rose from within the mansion, breaking the stillness like cracks in ice—sharp, uncertain at first, then quick with alarm. Someone called out, another answered, and footsteps followed, hurried and uneven, rushing toward the door. Bruce lifted his head at the sound, panic surging through him too late to be contained.
The door burst open and light spilled out across the snow in a harsh, sudden flood. A man stepped onto the porch and halted at once, for there, at the edge of that light where shadow and moonlight met, he saw Bruce—huge, hunched over the still form in the snow. For a moment the figure did not seem like a man at all, but something heavier, stranger, a shape ill-fitted to the world of the living.
The man's breath caught, his mouth opening to shout—but the night answered first.
A single shot rang out, clean and absolute, cutting through the air with finality. The man's body snapped backward, the cry dying before it could be born, and he fell upon the steps with a hollow, wooden thud that echoed briefly before silence reclaimed it.
Bruce flinched and turned, and from the darkness beyond the parked cars came Frank's voice, sharp and urgent, cutting through everything else. "Bruce, move. They're waking up."
And as if summoned by those words, the mansion stirred fully into life. Voices rose in anger now, no longer confused but certain, spreading from room to room like fire through dry timber. Doors slammed, boots struck wood above, and the quiet mask of the place was torn away in an instant.
Then the floodlights came.
White light blazed across the clearing, devouring every shadow, laying bare the snow, the cars, the walls of the lodge. Windows shattered outward, glass scattering into the night as dark figures filled the frames, weapons already raised. The first bursts of gunfire followed at once, tearing across the yard in violent flashes, and the silence of the mountain was broken beyond repair.
Frank moved as the storm found him, the vehicle he had taken for cover splintering under the impact of rounds that punched through metal as if it were paper. He rolled clear, snow spraying beneath him, and came up behind another car in one motion, returning fire in tight, measured bursts that forced the figures at the windows to fall back.
But Bruce saw little of this. He was already moving.
He stumbled along the side of the mansion, boots slipping in the churned snow, until he reached the tank once more. His hands found the valve again, numb and clumsy, yet driven now by something deeper than thought. He wrenched at it, and the old metal resisted with a long, tortured scream before at last it yielded.
With a sudden force the valve broke loose, and fuel burst forth in a heavy stream, spilling into the snow and spreading outward in a dark, glistening tide. The smell struck him at once—sharp, choking, real—and he staggered back, staring as it crept toward the small, flickering flames he had set.
For a heartbeat, something like hope crossed his face. "It's… working…"
Then a door slammed somewhere behind him.
Bruce turned, and the moment shattered.
Men poured out into the cold—half-dressed, hurried, some fumbling with their weapons, others already aiming, but all of them fixing upon him with the same sudden certainty. Their voices rose, harsh and furious, and the words scarcely mattered before the gunfire followed.
Bullets struck the tank with sharp, ringing impacts, sparks snapping from the curved metal as others tore into the snow at Bruce's feet. He dropped hard against the side of it, pressing himself to the freezing surface as rounds hammered into it again and again, too close, far too close.
More footsteps came. More voices. They spread around the back of the mansion, circling, taking positions among the cars and along the walls, closing in with the patience of hunters.
Bruce dared a glance and saw them moving—shadows within the light, three or four at least, advancing, tightening the distance between them. Then he drew back again, his breath breaking, and looked down at his hands.
Blood.
Not his.
The memory struck him then, sudden and heavy.
"I… I messed up…"
The thought had scarcely formed before another burst of gunfire tore past the edge of the tank, close enough to rip the air beside his face. He squeezed his eyes shut for the briefest moment, then looked down.
The rifle lay in his hands.
Happygun.
The stickers caught the light—Yoda, the crooked bunnies, bright and stupid against the darkness.
"Happygun…" he whispered, his voice thin, barely holding together. "Please… you're my only hope…"
His grip tightened.
"I… I don't wanna kill anyone else…"
Another volley struck the tank, louder, closer.
Bruce shook his head, as if trying to push the weight of it away. "No… I didn't kill him," he muttered, almost pleading. "Y-you did… right…? So… do it again. Please…"
The gunfire did not relent. The men were drawing nearer with every passing second.
Bruce drew in a breath, deep and shaking—
and then he leaned out.
One of them broke from cover, rushing out from behind a car, shouting something lost beneath the gunfire.
Bruce pulled the trigger—yet in his mind it was not his doing, but the will of the weapon itself. Happygun roared to life in his hands like something eager, alive, the recoil hammering through his arms as the man dropped mid-stride and vanished into the snow.
He turned, firing again—left, then right—short, frantic bursts guided more by instinct than aim. Another man jerked and fell. Another rose too late, the shot catching him high and folding him where he stood, his body collapsing in on itself without sound.
Voices rose in anger from behind the cars, curses thrown into the night as they tried to push forward, but Bruce had already drawn back behind the tank, his breath breaking, his hands trembling.
"I'm sorry… I didn't mean to…" he whispered, the words slipping loose and desperate. Then, as if correcting something within himself, he shook his head. "No… no, it wasn't me. It was Happygun. Y-yes… Happygun is doing it…"
From the front of the mansion, Frank's rifle answered again—sharp, measured, unyielding—its rhythm cutting through the chaos as he held the shooters at the windows at bay. The clearing had become two battles now, divided by distance and necessity: Frank at the front, moving with precision and purpose; Bruce at the side, pinned behind the tank, caught in something far less certain.
Between them, the fuel spread silently across the snow, dark and glistening, creeping ever closer to the small, stubborn flames.
Time was slipping.
Bruce risked a glance, and through the flashes and movement he caught sight of Frank—low to the ground, shifting from car to car, firing in tight bursts, never still, never exposed for long. There was something almost unreal in the way he moved, as though he belonged to the violence, shaped by it rather than threatened by it.
Bruce didn't.
He looked to his right.
The nearest car stood there, perhaps ten meters away, its dark frame offering cover that might as well have been a world apart. Ten meters of open snow, bare and merciless.
For someone else, it would have been nothing.
For him, it was too far.
Too slow.
Too exposed.
He would be seen, tracked, cut down before he reached halfway.
Bullets snapped past again, forcing him closer against the cold metal of the tank, his breath coming apart in uneven pulls.
"I… can't just run…"
His eyes dropped, drawn to the fuel pooling at his feet, spreading wider, closer, alive in its own quiet way. Then he lifted his gaze again to the distance.
Ten meters.
That was all.
Frank would have crossed it without thought.
For Sarah—
Bruce blinked, and for a moment the world shifted.
She wouldn't have run at all. She would have moved differently—lighter, faster, barely touching the ground, swinging through it as if it belonged to her.
And just like that, his mind slipped away from the gunfire, from the cold, from the danger—
to Sarah.
He saw her again in his mind, moving as she always had—light, effortless, as though the world held no weight for her at all. He remembered watching her once, live, seated in the front row with a half-eaten hotdog in his hand, unable to look away as she spun through the air and landed like gravity itself had chosen not to touch her. And later, at home, the same image flickering across the television in the quiet of night, Bruce sitting cross-legged on the floor like a child, watching her again and again, trying to understand how someone could move like that.
She did not collide with the world. She passed through it, over it, around it—like water finding its way.
Bruce did not.
He crashed into things. Doors, tables, people—it made no difference. When he moved, things moved with him, or broke beneath him. Sometimes it was on purpose, most times it wasn't.
"She m-makes it look easy…" he murmured, almost in awe.
He had tried, once. Sarah had shown him, patient and smiling. Just a roll, she had said. Start simple.
He had rolled. Then attempted a cartwheel. Then something that might have been a handstand.
The chair had not survived.
"…yeah… that didn't work…"
Gunfire cracked again, closer now, dragging him back. Bruce blinked, the memory slipping away as he looked down at his hands—large, rough, clumsy things. His whole body felt like that. Too much of it. Too heavy for the world he lived in.
People never walked toward him. They moved away, crossed streets, watched him with guarded eyes as if he were something waiting to happen.
He never understood that.
He dressed like the men in movies—black hoodie, sunglasses, the kind that were supposed to look cool. Those men didn't scare anyone.
But when Bruce ran at night, people screamed.
When Sarah ran, people smiled. Waved. Called out to her.
That didn't seem fair.
He had tried smiling too.
No one smiled back.
They only grew nervous.
Bruce frowned faintly, a quiet confusion settling deeper within him. He wished, not for the first time, that he could be like her—built that way, moving that way, belonging so easily to the space around her. Frank had once joked about her chest, said they weren't muscles but something else, though Bruce had never quite seen the difference. They moved with strength all the same, perhaps even more. Maybe women were simply made better, and no one said it out loud.
He considered that, just for a moment.
…maybe if he had been one, things would have made sense.
Maybe people wouldn't look at him the way they did. Maybe Amber wouldn't have looked at him like that, years ago, when they first met.
That memory never settled right.
She had been outside, asking strangers for money—twenty dollars, she said, to "have fun." Bruce hadn't had twenty, so he had offered something better, or so it seemed to him. A place to stay. A bed. Food. Safety. No time limit.
That should have been enough.
But she had wanted something else.
A kiss.
He had never understood why.
What did that even mean? Holding hands, kissing—it all seemed strange, unnecessary, messy in ways that didn't make sense. Too close. Too many germs. And somehow, that mattered more than everything else he had offered.
He had never understood that either.
In truth, he did not understand most things.
Life simply seemed to work for others in ways it never did for him.
Bruce tightened his grip on Happygun, grounding himself in the one thing that did make sense.
"No… focus, Bruce," he muttered under his breath. "You got this… just… believe in yourself…"
He leaned out and fired in short, uneven bursts. One of the men dropped behind a car, and a voice immediately shouted back, mocking and sharp, though the words themselves barely reached him through the noise.
Bruce shouted something in return, the words clumsy and ill-placed even as they left his mouth, and the moment answered him not with silence but with more gunfire, forcing him back behind the tank once more.
He pressed himself against the cold metal, breath ragged, heart racing, and forced himself to listen. Through the chaos, he caught it—a shift in the rhythm, subtle but there.
Reloading.
His head lifted.
This was the moment.
"P-please…" he whispered, voice thin and trembling beneath the noise. "J-just this once… Jesus… d-don't let me be clumsy…"
He lowered his weight, trying to steady himself, picturing—just for a second—how Sarah would move. Light. Controlled. Effortless.
Then he moved.
He threw himself forward, and for a moment the world stretched, sound dragging behind him as if it couldn't keep up. His boot slammed into the snow, heavy and loud, his body lagging a fraction behind, too big, too slow—but he forced it anyway, dropping his shoulder and rolling.
He hit the ground hard, snow bursting around him as momentum carried him through. It wasn't clean, wasn't controlled—but it was enough.
Gunfire caught up.
Rounds tore past, snapping through the air so close he could feel them without fully understanding it, and as he came out of the roll, scrambling to his feet—
something ripped through his face.
There was no pain at first, only a violent, disorienting absence. His vision flashed white, then red as blood flooded into his eyes, blinding and hot, but he didn't stop. He couldn't. He forced himself forward, one step, then another—
—and the next shot took his knee.
Pain exploded through him, sharp and deep, something inside his leg giving way as it collapsed instantly beneath him. He hit the ground hard, the impact driving the air from his lungs as his body slammed into the snow, his sunglasses spinning off somewhere into the dark.
It didn't matter.
His right leg still worked—barely—and that was enough.
He dragged himself forward, fingers digging into ice and gravel, rifle scraping beneath him as he pulled with everything he had left. The car was right there, so close, just a little more—
Then another hit came low and brutal, a heavy impact above his hips that didn't bring pain, only absence.
Everything below him went still.
Gone.
His legs dragged uselessly behind him, no response, no weight he could control—just something dead and distant attached to him.
Bruce choked on a breath, confusion flickering for half a second—
but he kept moving.
He pulled with his arms alone now, muscles screaming, fingers slipping in the snow as he dragged what was left of his body forward until he finally hit the car. He grabbed onto it, hauling himself into the narrow space behind the rear wheel, collapsing against the cold metal, half-hidden beneath the chassis.
For a moment, he just stayed there.
Breathing.
Or trying to.
Each inhale scraped in thick and wet, never enough, his chest hitching as blood filled his mouth and throat. His ears rang loudly, a constant, piercing tone that drowned everything else, leaving the world distant and hollow.
He tasted blood.
Warm. Metallic.
Too much.
Then the cold began to creep in, slow and heavy, replacing the heat that had carried him this far, settling deep into his limbs.
Bruce looked down.
"…o-oh…"
His leg didn't look like a leg anymore. The knee was gone—shattered, torn apart, what remained hanging wrong and unstable, something barely held together.
His stomach turned.
Slowly, he lifted a shaking hand to his face.
There was nothing where his nose should have been.
Just wet.
Just heat.
Blood ran freely down his lips, into his mouth, thickening every breath.
"…d-damn it…"
His voice barely came out, thin and distant.
"I… messed up…"
He slumped back against the wheel, staring forward without focus as his body trembled, strength draining from him in quiet, steady waves. The world narrowed to ringing and breath, both slipping further away with each passing second, until there was nothing left but noise and the slow, creeping weight of cold.
Then, faintly, sound began to push back in—shouting, boots grinding through snow, voices closing in.
Bruce blinked hard, dragging his vision into focus. The fight wasn't over. Frank was still out there.
He couldn't stop.
With a strained breath, he rolled onto his stomach, the movement clumsy and disconnected, his lower body dragging uselessly behind him as he forced himself into position beneath the car. Happygun slid with him, settling into the snow as he braced it low, angling the barrel outward.
All he could see were legs—shapes moving fast, closing in.
He fired.
Short bursts.
The recoil jolted through his arms, weaker now but still enough. Bullets tore into shins and knees, and one man's leg snapped backward at the joint with a wet crack, bone punching through fabric as he collapsed mid-step, screaming as he hit the snow.
Bruce didn't stop.
He adjusted automatically, breath hitching, vision narrowing.
Lower first.
Then higher.
As they dropped, he raised the barrel and fired again—quick, controlled, finishing it before they could move.
One of them tried to crawl, dragging himself through the snow, hands slipping—
Bruce's next burst caught him high.
The man's head snapped violently to the side, the motion wrong, too sudden, and he dropped without a sound, body folding into the snow.
The rifle clicked empty.
The figures beyond the car hesitated, then pulled back, retreating into cover.
Bruce rolled onto his back, gasping, hands fumbling for a fresh magazine. His fingers were slick and unsteady, the metal slipping once before he forced it into place. The empty mag disappeared back into his vest out of habit, even now.
Training.
Always training.
He racked the charging handle.
The sound cut clean through the ringing in his ears, snapping something inside him back into place.
He rolled forward again and fired.
Another burst.
A man broke cover, shouting—Bruce caught him mid-stride. His leg gave out instantly, collapsing under him as he hit the ground hard, clutching at it, screaming.
Bruce raised the rifle and fired once more.
The sound stopped.
Silence followed—not complete, but enough.
Bruce's arms trembled as the rifle lowered slightly, his grip weakening. The world began to blur at the edges, distance creeping in, everything pulling away from him.
His gaze drifted.
Past the snow.
Past the bodies.
Then, back to the fuel tank.
Gasoline spread slowly across the ground, dark against the white, creeping through the snow toward the small flames flickering where he had left them.
Almost there.
Bruce watched it for a moment too long.
And understood that there was no way out.
Either the fire reached the fuel, or he didn't last long enough to see it.
Either way, this was the end.
His chest hitched as he tried to breathe.
Nothing.
Just blood.
He coughed, choking, thick liquid filling his mouth as he dragged in air through his teeth in short, wet gasps that never felt like enough. Each breath scraped raw, shallow and broken, his body trembling uncontrollably as the cold began to creep in, replacing what little warmth remained.
Shock.
Blood loss.
He knew it, even if he couldn't think it clearly.
Then, through the ringing that filled his ears like a distant echo of battle, a voice reached him—faint, strained, yet unmistakably familiar.
"—BRUCE!"
Frank.
Still out there. Still fighting.
Bruce's head shifted weakly, his vision swimming in blur and pale light, unable to grasp anything clearly, yet it no longer mattered. He did not need to see. He knew. And at that knowing, a faint, crooked smile touched his lips, fragile and fleeting.
"…g-good…"
His body would not answer him now. His voice would not come. Yet the knowledge alone—that Frank still stood, still fought on—was enough to quiet something within him, something that had been breaking apart.
The strength left him then, not all at once, but gently, like warmth slipping from the world. His arms gave way beneath him, and his head fell forward into the snow beside Happygun. His breath came shallow and uneven, each inhale weaker than the last, each one a little farther from the one before, until even that fragile rhythm began to fade.
And slowly he let go.
And as the cold settled deeper into him, his thoughts began to loosen, slipping quietly from the present and drifting backward through time, carried like snow upon a distant wind to a winter long past—Christmas, and the memory of a small second-floor room, dim and cold, where frost clung to the window and snow fell softly beyond. There he sat upon the bed beneath a thin blanket, small despite his size, his hands clenched tight as his father stood over him with bottle in hand, shouting as he always did, his voice filling the room without mercy or end.
Bruce had heard of other children, how they spent such nights laughing, opening gifts, sitting close to parents who smiled and spoke gently to them, but he had never known such things. All he had known was the finger—hard, accusing, striking into his chest as the words came again and again: You, deformed. A shove followed. Useless boy. Another. You ruined everything. You hear me? Everything! Each word fell heavier than the last, sinking deeper than any blow, until even the air itself seemed to press against him.
"You did this," his father had said, his voice thick with something Bruce had never understood. "Because of you, she's broken. Can't have any more. You're all we got—and look at you. It would've been better if you were never even born."
Bruce had tried to understand—he truly had. "I-I'm s-sorry…" he had said, his voice trembling. "I-I'll be better…" But nothing ever changed, and nothing he did was enough. Then came the smell—sharp, burning—alcohol soaking into his hair, running down his face as it was poured over him without care, while the shouting went on, relentless and unending. He had not moved, too afraid, too confused, with no one ever explaining anything, for they either shouted—or laughed.
So he had learned to be quiet, to stay out of the way, to take up as little space as he could.
For a moment, even now, he saw the doorway. His mother stood there, watching—not angry, not shouting, only distant, tired, as though looking at him alone brought her pain. And then she turned—and left.
Even now, that hurt the most.
Yet life had not been only that, and the memory shifted, softened, warmed, and there was Frank—always Frank. A hand reaching out where none had been before, a voice that did not shout, a presence that did not wound. He remembered being pulled up, steadied, told that things would be alright, even when nothing felt like it could be—and somehow, in time, they had been.
A home followed. Not perfect, but real. Days without fear, meals shared at a table, voices that did not cut. School had been hard, everything had been hard, but Frank had been there, and later Sarah, and the three of them had built something strange and fragile that somehow worked.
Time moved on, and Bruce saw himself older now—road trips, late nights, games he did not understand but played anyway because it made Frank laugh. And then the children.
His expression softened, even as he lay in the snow.
He remembered the first time he saw them—so small, so light, so impossibly fragile that he had been afraid to hold them, afraid that something in him might break them. But Frank and Sarah had insisted, and when he finally took them in his arms, those tiny hands had wrapped around his fingers without hesitation, gripping him as though there had never been anything wrong with him at all—like he belonged.
A weak breath escaped him, almost a laugh. "They were so small…"
But now they were not. Now they ran, laughed, called him Uncle Bruce, and the thought struck deep, tightening painfully in his chest. "I was gonna…" The words faltered as his thoughts slipped, drifting toward the lighters still in his pocket. "I was gonna g-give those… for Christmas…"
Silence lingered, long and heavy.
"…s-sorry… I don't think I'll make it this year…"
His gaze drifted down to Happygun, clinging to it as though it might anchor him for a moment longer, his grip tightening faintly. "I tried to be good…" he whispered, and that hurt more than anything else, because he had tried—again and again and again—and still it had never seemed enough.
His eyes shifted, searching the chaos one last time.
Somewhere out there, Frank was still fighting. Still alive. Still okay.
A quiet, fragile peace settled into him.
"…y-you'll make it… you always do…"
His body felt distant now, heavy and cold, as though it no longer belonged to him, and for the first time, he did not fight it. "Maybe…" he breathed weakly. "Maybe it's better… if I'm not there… if I'm not… such a burden…"
Tears slipped from his eyes, warm against the cold. "…I d-did okay… right…?"
His gaze fell once more to the spreading fuel, watching it creep slowly toward the flickering flames, quiet and almost peaceful.
I guess this is it…
His breath faltered, blood filling his mouth as his strength finally gave out, his grip loosening, his head lowering—
And then something seized him.
Hard.
The back of his vest snapped tight as his body jolted violently across the frozen ground, pain flaring as the world came rushing back in.
"Bruce! I got you!"
Frank.
Even through the ringing, through the fading—
he knew that voice.
Bruce coughed, choking on blood as his head lifted weakly. "W-what are you— s-stop… Frank…"
But Frank did not stop. One hand locked into his vest, dragging him with relentless force, while the other fired in sharp, controlled bursts over the car.
"Don't talk—just breathe!" Frank snapped. "Stay with me!"
Bruce's body scraped through the snow, his legs trailing uselessly behind him, pain distant beneath the weight of shock. "It's… t-too late…" he forced out.
"Shut up," Frank said. "You're not done."
"Th-the tank… it's gonna—"
"I know!"
"Then l-leave… you have to—Sarah… the kids—"
"No."
No hesitation.
"We go together. Always."
The words struck deep.
Bruce shook his head weakly. "Y-you promised her…"
Frank pulled harder, his voice low but unshaken. "I made you a promise first."
"…w-what…?"
"When we were kids," Frank said, glancing down only briefly, "we said we'd stick together. No matter what. Wherever you go—I go."
Bruce's breath caught.
That stupid, childish promise—
…never forgotten.
"…y-you idiot…"
"Yeah," Frank muttered.
Gunfire closed in. Footsteps followed. Time ran out.
Bruce saw the fuel—almost there.
He looked at Frank—still fighting, still dragging him, still refusing to let go—and something inside him broke, then hardened.
If he gave up—
Frank died.
"…f-fine…"
He forced himself up, arms trembling violently as he raised the rifle. "I-I'm still here…"
And this time—
he meant it.
He fired, short uneven bursts beneath the car, striking legs, movement, anything that came too close. Men dropped, screaming, then fell silent. It felt wrong—it always did—but it was all he could do.
Frank leaned out, firing hard into the advancing group—then groaned, dropping to one knee, clutching his shoulder.
"…F-Frank…!"
But he did not stop. He grabbed Bruce again, dragging him further, firing one-handed now, even as another impact slammed into him, forcing him sideways before he pushed himself up again.
Their ammunition was running thin. The enemies were closing in.
Bruce's vision blurred, strength slipping, and still Frank pulled, stubborn as ever, refusing to let go.
Then Bruce saw it.
The fuel caught.
The flames burst to life, racing along the trail like something alive, rushing across the snow toward the tank.
His breath caught.
Frank saw it too.
And in that same instant, he stopped.
There was no hesitation.
He forced Bruce down and threw himself over him, shielding him completely, his arms wrapping tight, unyielding, his hand pressing firmly against the back of his head.
"I've got you, Bruce."
And then came the light.
The world vanished into it—blinding, absolute—followed by a distant, hollow sound that seemed to belong to something far away. Bruce saw none of it. He only held onto Frank, the one who had never let go.
Then came the heat.
The cold vanished. There was no pain, only the sense of being undone, of something tearing him apart faster than thought.
And then—
nothing.