They were a sea of faces. The remaining free peoples of the world represented in a singularity of humanity. They had once been farmers, grocers, police officers, doctors, chauffeurs, soldiers, delivery boys and politicians. They had once been disparate; they were now rendered equal. And they were all watching her.
The snow was downy and soft as it alighted on her skin, prickling it into goose flesh, nesting in her hair. Her breath steamed out in front of her, turning her into an olive-skinned dragon. She paced slowly back and forth, looking into their faces, remembering. There, the soldier who found a puppy in the shattered remains of Go City the week before. Behind him, the woman who had given everything she had in order to help feed them all. To the side, the man who had taken the bullet meant for her. They all watched. And waited.
She cleared her throat of cold-induced rust, and she began.
"She was a hero. There is no better way to say it. Even before the Upperton Incident put her center stage, before the drama, she was a hero."
"I knew her before she went that day. But it is to my shame that I never called her a friend. Maybe it was out of petty jealous, teenage rivalry, insecurity, angst. I was focused on me, she was always focused on others and I berated, belittled and ostracized her for it. She was the better person."
The words are soulful and proud, exhaled on an exhaust of breath that belies the passion with which they are spoken. "At first, in the beginning, she was more focused on helping those who were in need after the Incident. There were thousands, tens of thousands of refugees from Go City and other afflicted cities, towns. But when the first counter-stroke from Global Justice was decimated, she knew she could no longer afford to shirk her given role, her destiny."
"I remember finding her sitting in the high school library the night before she went, staring out through the bay windows. The high school itself was then being used as a staging point for triage and other necessities. She had snuck off, maybe to prepare herself, maybe to get away from the oppressive weight of human tragedy. I remember seeing her from behind, her red hair partially hiding her face. Responsibility had settled on her shoulders, and it weighed on her. She saw me in the glass and turned to face me. She was not afraid."
Her eyes tear slightly, trying to clear themselves of an offending snowflake that isn't there. "I asked her why she had to go, why her? She smiled at me, that shy half-smile. She said to me, 'Bonnie, that's exactly why I have to; because everyone's thinking the same thing, 'why me?' Unless they're crazy, no one wants to die. They'd be much happier if this had never happened, if Drakken, Killigan and the rest were to be snuffed out like so much smoke.'"
"'But what if they all said, 'Oh gee, good always wins over evil, why don't I let someone else go and fight, and die?' No one would fight, would they?'"
"We were both quiet for a moment after that; she to her thoughts and me to my growing understanding of precisely why so many people viewed her as a hero. But still, I asked: 'Why?' Her face was serious this time, no smiles, no twinkling green eyes, no humor. There was only responsibility and duty, honor and integrity in her face, manner and soul when she answered."
"'I go out there, Bonnie, thinking I'm fighting the good fight; that I represent the forces of good and justice and to protect the innocent, those who cannot protect themselves. Well and good. When it comes down to it, that's precisely why I'm there.'"
"'But when the death rays are blazing, and the plasma is flying, and maybe I'm bleeding and my friends are hurt, that's not why I do it.'"
"'I do it for my mother, my brothers, my sisters that never were, my daughters to be. My boyfriend, my teachers, my father, and my husband I never had. I do it for my friends and my enemies alike.'"
Her voice is furry now, emotional, but she refuses to be silenced as a hero walks in memory. "She said, 'But most importantly, Bonnie, most importantly I do it for the man beside me. I do it for the GJ agent in the ditch down a ways, with plasma blasts landing all around him. I do it for the policeman to my right, facing an unknowable evil all by himself. I do it for the friend who spotted me five dollars when I was hard up.'"
"'You fight and, if necessary, you die, so they won't have to. You fight, desperate and confused though you may be, in the hopes that all the others might make it.'"
"'You fight for the agent to your right, the soldier to your left, the commander in front and the civilian behind. You could die, sure – you might.'"
"'But if you do…they might not. And that's a cause worth fighting for.'"
Her will is a palpable thing to the assembled throngs, her self-control iron-girded and dreadful. "I had never heard anyone talk like that, and I haven't since. Those were her words, and then she went out and they killed her. When day breaks tomorrow fight for what you will, but remember those who came before." She stepped down off the make-shift stage and disappeared into the still crowd, chased by a haze of snow and the oncoming dark.
II.
Bonnie Rockwaller nestled in the ripped, frozen mud of the trench and clutched her rifle tightly to her chest. White nestled in the nooks and crannies of the weapon as she watched.
She squeezed her eyes shut, feeling the blood pounding behind them, the adrenaline. She clenched her hands tightly, the remains of her manicure drawing blood from her palms.
She knew.
Reaching into a pocket, she withdrew a miraculously dry slip of paper and a battered grease pen. She hurriedly laid it on the plastic stock of her rifle, smoothing out its wrinkles with hectic effort, and scrawled her own epitaph.
Finished, she put the slip of paper back in her pocket, took a breath, and hiked herself out into the fire.
III.
They looked on as she was buried. She had led them to victory, a hero in her own right, finally grown into the woman she was supposed to be.
Hundreds of roses lay on the rough fiberboard casket, where they came from no one was sure. Her rifle lay over them, holding them down and out of the grasp of the icy wind. A slip of paper was wedged into the weapon's action.
"For Kim."
It began to snow.