Dying isn't such a strange thing.



You knew that death came for everyone, even you. Of course, you didn't expect it to come so early, but such is life.



Losing, though? That's strange.



You remember tearing through the medieval horde that bastard vampire had summoned, remember the men and women under your command sacrificing themselves to clear a path for you. You remember jamming the Nail into your heart and the smell of dead flesh burning as the thorns consumed your foe.



You remember him ripping your heart out and crushing it in his hand.



How you're alive, you don't know. For some reason, though, you feel at peace. You fought with everything you had and more. You have no regrets.



You hear a cough, the fake sort one uses to break awkward silences. You crane your neck, pretty much the last part of your body you can move. He's standing near you, shuffling his feet in the universal signal for not knowing what to say.



"I'm sorry for all the pedophile jokes," he finally says. "They were uncalled for and they got old fast."



You figure that's about the closest thing to a genuinely kind statement he's capable of making. You laugh through lungs reduced to powder on the blood-soaked London streets and smile with your half-broken face.



"Just be sure you kill those Nazi twats. I'll gut you myself if you die before pulling that off."



He laughs at that, a real laugh. He'll miss you, you realize. You'll miss him, too.



Your men are gathered around you, tears in their eyes. Heinkel and Yumi are having trouble even looking at you, as though the idea of you dying is so alien to their minds that they refuse to acknowledge it. You never did manage to find an Italian; guess they'll have to settle for being the Post-1943 Axis of Righteousness. Doesn't have the same ring to it.



You're still smiling even as the quiet wind carries more and more of you away. You assure the remnants of Section XIII that it will be alright. The sun rises, untarnished by the carnage of the night. It's beautiful. You look at it with your one remaining eye and breathe out a final prayer.



And then that little cuntwaffle butler crushes your head.



--



"Ahh, you've found yourself a hunter."



A voice stirs you awake. For a second, you think it might be Jesus, but even accepting that there were a few liberties taken with the translations, you're fairly certain Jesus wasn't an Eastern European woman. Your eyes snap open and you look about wildly, your body whole and unbroken.



Heaven is a lot drearier than you expected. There's just one house and the ground is a lot less cloud-ish than you'd been given to believe. There is a gate, but it's not very pearly.



You get to your feet so quickly you nearly launch your glasses into the sky. You look about, catching sight of a figure and fixing your gaze on it. And then moving it up. And then a little more.



Fuck, she's tall.



It takes you a second to realize that the reason her hands are bothering you is because they're ball-jointed. There's a giant doll talking to you. Why is the moon so big.



What the fuck.



She tilts her head, seemingly confused by your reaction.



"Good hunter? Are you alright?"



[] "What the fuck."



[] "What the fuck."



[] "WHAT THE FUCK."



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