A ringing sounded in his ears, and even Boone's heavy steps were in slow motion. They rang through his ears like the last of the gunfire. So much carnage, and he was still alive. How?
The sun illuminated Cottonwood Cove, firing off the water so brightly that everything around Boone was white. His delicate eyes couldn't filter any other color except red. Red on the ground. He'd killed so many...since the woman left on the boat toward the Fort. But that was forever ago, it seemed.
He'd chosen to come here, die fighting as he was meant to. And at least a hundred blood-red-clad warriors had fallen under Boone. But the battle wasn't over. He pursed his blood covered lips and looked to the top of one of the buildings. Facing the sparkling, pure white water, nothing but a black silhouette could be seen.
It was the Centurion. A hero in battle, a bloodthirsty killer. The man was nothing but a great shadow as he rose to full height there on the rooftop. His large helmet fanned out over his head, a large throwing spear held upright in his hand. He didn't speak, but loomed over the illuminating light as though he were Death itself come to life. This was the only creature to ever challenge Boone just by appearing. His mere presence urged the man to move, stirred feelings in Boone that no one else ever could.
Boone threw his sniper rifle over his back, and moving so slowly, his legs like lead, lifted the shortsword he plucked from a corpse earlier. Now he ran at the Centurion. The latter rose to met the challenge, floating up into the sky, soaring down off the rooftop to land on his feet. But no warrior, no matter how he glorified killing, could match the agony of Craig Boone. There was no battle.
The Legion sword pierced the armor of the tall Centurion, causing him to freeze in place and gasp as Boone withdrew the sword, stabbing again. He never even looked into the Legionarie's hidden face; it was masked in shadow still. When the soldier withdrew the blade a second time, he backed up, a grim smile on his face. He wasn't happy to be alive. He was happy to kill, and to watch this man die.
The Centurion staggered in place, his large helmet bowed, hand clutching his seeping leather armor. Boone backed up another step, waiting for the victorious moment when the great hero would fall to his knees and succumb to death. Although the brightness behind them hid the man's face from view, Boone had enough imagination in his wrecked brain to savor the supposed look of horror.
One step, then another waver backwards, but the man held his ground for his last few moments on earth. Then something strange happened; in this slow, false-reality time speed, the hallowed whiteness on the battlefield dimmed, as though instant nightfall had hit. What happened instead were huge blue-grey stormclouds, filling the sky, hiding the sun.
This happened instantly, and Boone blinked in the sudden lack of light, the Centurion now showing as a man in red and gold, not a shadow of black. His arm was up, masking his face. With one hand, the tall yet slouched figure pushed the heavy gold helmet off his head, the signature headpiece falling so deliberately to the ground. Underneath, the face that stared at Boone had no grimace of horror. Instead, it was a beseeching look, one that asked, Why.
Under the helmet was a golden head. The sweaty hair framed the face of the Courier, blood now spilling from her mouth. The helmet finally hit the ground, and the girl fell to her knees, letting go of the throwing spear. It too clattered away, and still holding both hands over the sword wounds in her chest, she agonizingly, haltingly fell facefirst into the dirt. She was no more, and the world turned black with Boone still in it.
He snapped upright, sweating all over. The room was still black, stormclouds and blinding sun gone. Amid shudders, perhaps even a subdued sob, Boone realized that for the first time in seemingly as long as he could recall...he had dreamed of something besides Bitter Springs.