It happened in the blink of an eye, the thunderous crack like the sound of winter ice splintering underfoot.
One second, he was standing tall, proud, untouchable, the next, writhing in the cold mud, mind clouded in a halo of pain. Thin lips opened to gasp for breath; his ears rang with the sound of the gunshot that had brought him to his knees like just another stray dog. The pain was intense, incredible; with one hand he clawed at the air, like a drowning man praying for salvation. The other hand scratched at his heart, trying vainly to dig into the flesh to pull out the tiny iron nugget lodged deep within his life's blood.
Dimly, he realized that his fingers were wet with his own blood, the only indicator the searing warmth against his icy skin. He felt cold, colder than the ice that covered his Alps in the winter; he sucked in great lungfuls of the unforgiving, rain-soaked air, but it was not enough. It was never enough, he thought as his breath became a deathman's rattle in his chest. Deep magenta eyes rolled, the pupils blown wide with terror. It was never enough for him, he who made and broke the world.
Wings of pure black began to fan in the corner of his vision. Hell's angels were coming for him-he could see their shadowy forms, watched as forked tongues darted to lick shining razorblade teeth. They were watching him, eyeing him greedily; several landed, silent barbed wings fluttering closed against their backs. Their horselike nostrils flared, smelling the sweet tang of his blood; he was practically coated in the stuff now, the dark crimson covering his military metals, wiping his life's achievements into nonexistence. Lying broken in the mud then, he was a personification of not war but of fear and agony, a slate wiped clean by one of the most animalistic emotions.
There was nothing left of Luciano Vargas.
And it was with this thought in his mind that he finally closed his eyes upon the light