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Grim Wolf
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The Very Best
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The gun the gun the gun!

The gun, that could snuff out his life with a single pull of the trigger. How was he not dead already? His head burned. There was blood on his face. How was he not dead? How, when he had-

When he-

The body was beneath him somewhere. He had shoved this shelf down on top of her. After her only crime had been-

No no no no no the gun the gun the gun

He lashed out, hammered one fist into his jaw, felt his teeth click satisfyingly beneath his knuckles. He didn't see the other man's legs kick out: he didn't see the gun falling like a scythe, slamming into the same aching part of his skull so fire exploded down into his temples and black stars spasmed across his eyes. He pitched backwards, cracked the back of his head. Stunning, reeling, losing his mind inside and out, but

the gun the gun the GUN!

Dizzy, half-mad, he kicked out himself, angling for the knees of the man with the gun. He stumbled to his feet, head still reeling, nausea boiling in his stomach and racing up his throat, clawing over the man in front of him.

Where was the gun? He didn't know. He could barely see. He could barely see, and that gun was somewhere, and all his muscles and all his training, all his fitness and all his special belief in his own destiny would not change the fact that one bullet could end him.

Over the shelves, running all out, trapped by the tall shelves around him, by the painful darkness on the edges of his vision, by the thought of the fallen woman he'd cut open behind him and her nameless avenger with the gun in his hand.
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Tara Behzad: "They don't get to decide how I die."

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AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH · The Storehouse