Gawl stood on the roof with his face to the sky, alone and out of place in the thin morning sun-light that glittered across the metal and glass of the bright city all around him. The buildings rose sharp like a set of knives in front of him, and they stretched out behind even further, like a regimented school of fish or a geometrically perfect field.
Ryo's death wouldn't be for nothing. Kouji wouldn't want that, and no matter what was threatened, surrender was not an option. Kouji'd said that getting caught was the same as death, that if one of them was in prison the others had to leave them to their fate. They'd promised him that.
Gawl hadn't believed in his own promise back then. Long-suppressed excitement - the thrill of a newborn rebellion - had made all three of them fierce with hope. They'd planned, they'd wanted to fight and (at the time) he really had believed in their victory. (Had the other two? Kouji knew this kind of thing: maybe he'd realised what the chances were...) It was only now, with the wind blowing in cold gusts and tossing Gawl's too-long hair and shivering across the back of his neck, it was only now he wondered about that. And it was only now that the promise he'd made then gained significance: he decided he'd obey the strategist's last wish.
It had always been Kouji that won arguments for them; Gawl would trust him to win this last battle here.
He was silhouetted against the pale sky, a rangy figure cut out dark against the background. The only movement in the scene was his hair, which was blown around by the wind. He'd turned his back on the world he knew, and the sun-lit spires cut the sky around him. From behind, armed men rushed out from the stairwell access to the roof, their guns sighted on him. With them, at one remove from the security forces, were two blank-faced figures of no obvious gender, a crimson light flickering on the chest of each. The attacking force worked together, despite the segregation. They ranged itself against him and settled in place, shadows stationary on the white roof surface. They wore helmets, that and their body armour made them homogeneous; the row of men was unified and unmoving as they faced Gawl's back.
"You have one chance to surrender to us, Generator. Just one."
When Gawl moved it was slowly: he turned to face them.
But he didn't speak. Tanned hands shifted, his chest rose as he took a deep breath, letting his features settle and set and harden; his eyes became alert and his eyebrows lowered as he prepared for the very last battle he'd face.
He would fight and win, and he'd tear this whole foul city down.