Sir Lurksalot — Roleplayer Guild

@Liferusher@Skepic@Lunarlors34

While outwardly he remained calm, the second Duncan oh-so-carefully removed the remains of Winters' vest, webbing and uniform and saw what lay beneath, his mind began to scream.

That was out of his league.

That was, by some twisted irony, something he'd really need the Doc for. 

"This isn't good. I know someone who can help if you wish?"

His eyes snapped up to his left; he'd been so caught up in his own thoughts that he'd not even heard the silver-haired woman approach and, immediately recognizing her as the exact same silver-haired woman he'd seen hand-wave a street back together less than half an hour ago, spent a few seconds just staring at her, trying to figure out if this made him the luckiest man alive or if the powers-that-be were just preparing to deliver the mother of all hypothetical kicks to his metaphorical balls.

Still, she had a solution. And, given the circumstances, what with someone who'd pulled his ass out of the fire and then stitched it back together more than a few times and a young girl lying burnt and dying in some scorched street, he was pretty damned fine with whatever she had in mind.

"Right." He replied to Vesta with a small nod halfway between affirmation and gratitude "Just give me a minute to get her stable and we can-"

It was at that exact moment that Duncan's eyes caught sight of the corpse behind them, which had suddenly come down with a case of 'bloated and glowing'. Some primeval instinct in the back of his brain began screaming into his psyche that that was a very bad thing.

"GET DOWN."  

And he was right, for not a moment later the street erupted in another fireball that just barely missed them.

"You alright?" Duncan finally asked Vesta, raising his head to look at her once the fire subsided, before turning to the catgirl "How 'bout you, Kid?"

Said catgirl was lying on the ground, curled up in pain.

"Kid?" He repeated, a hint of worry (the first twinge of actual emotion to make it through his professional calm throughout this whole ordeal) evident in his voice as he reached out to check on her. "Kid...?"

Weakly, she reached out to him, too. Her arms pulsing red... and bloating.    

"H-help me..."

Very abruptly, Duncan felt the wind leave his sails. There was no panic, no screams, no cries or anything like that... just simple, flat acknowledgement of what was about to happen.

"Oh hell."

His world got very loud. And then very dark.

---------

Hazily, the world came back to him, though darker than before.

It took him a moment to realize that this was because there was suddenly a roof over his head, and when the thunderous ringing left his hears and he could focus, he noticed the rubble around him, surmising that the blast must've propelled his body (unbeknownst to him, held together solely through his divine protection) through the wall of one of the nearby houses. He also noticed the seared stumps where his hands used to be... attached to his seared arms... attached to his seared everything. And then he smelled burning meat. And the pain set in.

He would've swore, had he still had the lips to form the words.

He would've screamed, had his lungs the power for it.

Instead, all that escaped him was a tortured, miserable groan as he twisted slightly on the floor of the ruined house, a skeletal thing covered in burnt remnants of muscle and ligament that was once a person animated solely by some primordial contempt for death as he dragged his own remains across the ground toward the opening he'd made in some insane, futile effort to survive.

The more he moved, the more it hurt. The more it hurt, the less he cared about it. The instinctual need to find someone, anyone and get help overrode his desire to stop. Grunting and growling with effort, he slowly crawled his way closer to the breach, finally heaving himself over the threshold with one final snarl and landing on his back with a moist 'Thud!'.  

All he found was empty street, scorched houses and open sky.

Something like a sigh escaped what was left of his throat. No help was coming.

Staring up at into sky, an odd sense of ease came over him, something that he hadn't known in a very long time. He wasn't dodging bullets and running into harms way like he was in his youth, he wasn't being dragged around like a walking publicity stunt by some slimeball politician... he was just.... here. With the sky and the wind and his end.

He was tired... so very tired...

Too tired to fight the cold numbness that spread across him, quelling the pain that wracked his body. Too tired to worry as the world around him began to lose colour and darken. Too tired to dwell on the many, many regrets of his short, unusual life. Too tired to care at all. 

And so, on an empty street in some foreign land, Duncan MacAiden finally allowed himself to die.
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