Once more into the fray;
Into the last good fight I'll ever know.
Live and die on this day.
Live and die on this day.
     The last rays of the setting sun illuminated the brilliant azure sky, threads of it’s tangerine glow blending into mauve as the fiery red orb slowly sank beneath the rooftops, lulling the decaying city to sleep. The ardent full moon had not yet risen in the sky for tonight was the night the wolves came out to play, but behind the darkening clouds the ghost of it’s arrival shone through, thin shards of silver trimming the sky. Below, a ominous black haze hung over the forest surrounding the outside of the fence, the only sound to break the haunting silence was that of fearful footfalls pounding the earth. The ripped muscles of her legs burned as her feet pounded the ground at a fierce pace, running with no signs of stopping. They were closing in on her. She had strayed from the pack -- the safety of her group -- and now she would face the wrath.
     When the supplies had started to run out people had began to get agitated, snapping at each other's throats like wild beasts hungry for flesh and bone, so Six had evaded it all and sought comfort in the sanctuary of the woods. But the woods would provide her no comfort, now. The woods were no longer her savior, they were her enemy.
     Ragged clothes snagged on the skeletal fingers of the trees who tried to clasp her in their unforgiving hands, blood dripping onto the dried bracken underfoot as she hurtled blindly through the woods, one thought consuming her: Run.Â
     A cacophony of screeches pillaged the empty quiet as the little mute girl ran for her lonely life as fast as her feet would carry her, the wild wolves closing in on their prey. They were the foxhounds and she was the hunted, their howls like vicious battle cries as she beat on through the woods towards the beckoning burrow, back to the security of camp where the radio still worked, the campfire spat, and living, breathing people of her own ilk with hallowed hearts cared if hers ceased to beat. She had to warn them. She couldn't let them die in these woods; she had to save them from the hell that lurked beyond unbeknownst to them.
     And then the splintered fragments of her mind fell into place like missing pieces of a jigsaw which had suddenly been slotted in to complete the haunting puzzle of her brain. They didn’t have to die. She wouldn’t let them die. Her feet stopped pounding the earth. Her muscles stopped crying out in pain. Her whole being became still. Like a lamb for the slaughter the little mouse turned and raised her voice. "Come on then! Come and get me! I'm not afraid of you! I'm not afraid of... dying."
     The hounds closed in -- circling her like a pack of rabid dogs hungry for blood and she dropped to her knees, her hands scraping the dirt as if all the fight left within her had suddenly been drained from her being. She couldn't do it any more: she couldn't go on. Someone had die in this wood -- that someone would be her.
     Then she saw him. The Prince of Darkness, perched on the rock that served as his throne, cloaked in fur as black as damned souls and clothed in the fear of his victims. He was beautiful destruction, regal as he lifted his snout to howl at the mourning opalescent moon. The grey-backed wolves gazed at him for guidance, their Alpha, their King, the leader of this whole organisation. Without the ring leader they were nothing. Without the puppeteer, the puppets had no strings. Her breath hitched as she clutched at the dirt, hauling a large rock into the palm of her hands, the sharp edge glinting under the moonlight.
     "Come on! I'm not afraid! Come on!"  Her voice hitched as she hauled herself to her feet, hands pale under the moonlight and trembling, and stumbled into Death's empire, each of the grey-furred supporting cast staring in awe as the dictator made his way down from his perch, shoot-out at the Wild West Saloon.Â
     Before she had made the decision her legs were moving beneath her, arms pumping, adrenaline rushing as she lifted the rock and felt the edge hit home, the beast crumbling before her, it's talons ripping her skin as it pulled her into the brawl, fangs slashing, an abundance of pain engulfing her as her mind began to blur. The beast stilled, it's head caved-in as the blood-soaked rock fell from her trembling hand. Six felt the breath leave her aching lungs, a strangled gasp escaping her throat and glanced down at her chest where the bloodied fang of the beast protruded from her heart.
     For a moment it was as if time itself had stopped. It was the shock, rather than pain, that caused her eyes to fill with involuntary tears as she stared, motionless, at the tooth piercing her chest. She had never before imagined how she would die — but dying to save those whom she now viewed as her family seemed like a good way to go. Sacrifice was heroic, at least. The daughter of Erudite crumpled to her knees gasping for breath and wiped the tears from her cheeks, streaking her own blood across her haunted face.
      Each of the Wolves in turn moved their stare from the fallen body of their alpha to the little toy soldier with bloodstained hands. One by one they lifted their snouts, howled at the moon and departed alone, no longer a pack but a fraying string of exiles. The spine of the pack had been severed and now the wolves, like Six, were alone.
      She could feel herself slipping away, an intense desire to sleep overwhelming her mind. Not yet, she pleaded with herself. I’m not ready. But she had to be brave. For Liz, and Oliver. For Reed. For Miles, James, Hunter. Laurie, Annabelle, Emmett, all those whose lives she had touched. She had to be strong for them, now, more than she had ever been. Six had always been a nihilist, abandoning her inhibitions in the belief that life was meaningless, but now in her last moments on Earth she wished more than anything that there was more to life than this -- that she could go to a beautiful land in the sky, or be reincarnated as a winged creature riding the skies but perhaps such thoughts only existed in storybooks.
     Pressing the communication button on her wristband she left the final bar to the symphony of her swan song, choking back the tears that threatened to fall from her eyes. ”Don't cry-- No matter what you feel, don't cry. I'll be okay. Because I'm a fighter, that's what I am. I’m happy now. I’m happy.” Her breath hitched, her chest convulsed, a lump rose in her tightening throat, and in a sudden hurricane of emotion she realised that she didn’t want to die alone. The fresh emotion ripped out of her fragile soul and dragged her down like a wave convulsing over her body, carrying her out to sea as fresh tears spilled from the ghost of her dying face. The pain in her heart began to fade, her trembling lips quirked into a smile, and squeezing her the fallen wolf's paw, she slipped away into the abyss with nothing but the souls of the damned to lull her stilling form to sleep. Life’s puppeteer cut her fraying cords, the last strings tethering her to life snapped and Viola Hastings' lifeless body fell limp. Somewhere deep in the woodland, a nightingale began to sing.Â
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