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Mike struggled and gasped as the guy grabbed him by the face and jerked him to his feet. He had no choice but to follow along, though, not if he didn't want his face mangled by the guy's hand. Mike stumbled, paused, righted himself. He was vertical again. It was time to run. Time to get out of here. Right now, he didn't care about the plan. He didn't care about much of anything except getting away as quickly as he could.

The scythe, though, put an end to that.

The swing came from an angle he hadn't expected, and more quickly than he had been prepared to deal with. He actually leaned into it a bit, just from some misguided reflex. He heard the tip ping off of his collar, and was worried for a second that it was going to explode. Then, an instant later, as the scythe slashed into his upper neck and the soft area under his chin, he wished he had been blown up. It would have been so much easier.

He knew right away that he was dead. He couldn't breath, as blood flowed down into his windpipe. The scythe hadn't gone through to his brain, though, stopped by the bone in his head. It wasn't much of a consolation. He gurgled, clawing at the handle of the weapon, trying to wrench himself free. It wasn't doing any good. The world was going black, from pain and oxygen deprivation, the latter greatly exacerbated by the fact that he had been struck mid-exhale and was not panicking and rasping, drawing more and more blood into his lungs. He wanted to ask why this was happening. He wanted to know who was killing him. He wanted to scream at this guy, to tell him he was being stupid, tell him he could have escaped, but now he was doomed. Nothing came out, though, and, after a couple of seconds of rasping, Mike's eyes drooped closed and he slumped forward, no longer able to support himself.

B068, Michał "Mike" Maszer: DECEASED
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Endings & Beginnings · The Felled Forest: South