He was cold. Gods knew he'd been cold before, how about half his lifetime when he'd been on the streets. Warmth wasn't an option down there. Not without a house, a home, a family.
Who gave a shit whether one more piece of gutter trash died anyway?
Maybe they were right. No good, worthless, barely even worth the effort to keep alive, let alone save from death.
But he was so cold.
They said so many things about him.
bastard, arrogent, uncaring, unfeeling, heartless, cruel. self absorbed, reckless, danger to himself, death warrent to others.
That one was true, at least. All of them, T'seng, Elena, Rude. All of them were gone.
Because of him? Maybe. Who cared?
worthless selfish bastard.
If only it wasn't so cold.
Tired of running, tired of fighting. Too many enemies to be fighting off himself. If only T'seng was there...
There were voices, but they were fading. Fading with the pain, the caring. But not the cold.
Cold as Rude's dark glasses, cold as T'seng's hidden gun, cold as Elena's hard eyes.
Cold as the steel imbedded in his chest.
He would be the last one, for whatever that was worth. T'seng the first, then Elena, foolish girl. Rude went soon after, taken down from the inside.
And then there was one.
Idiot to the last. Died where he was born. Lying in filth and trash again, how ironic. He'd always lived a circle, and now he was going to die one.
He wasn't so cold anymore. The cold just seemed to recede. He wasn't warm, either. He wasn't anything. He could feel anymore, but it didn't worry him. He wondered if he was going to see T'seng again, or Rude or Elena. He'd find out pretty soon.
As false dawn rose over the slums, it shone upon the still body of Reno, last of the Turks, a gang knife sunk to the hilt in his chest.
And then there were none.