The Rifters are stock still, frozen with apprehension, despite Oscar’s orders. They’ve gone from expecting(or hoping) to see me come back to their ranks, to watching me kill their hostages, to Oscar turning on me again, with one of his errant bullets taking out one of their comrades.

The Curly-haired woman from before looks to the fallen Rifter, then to Oscar, then to me. There’s a metallic snap as she pulls back the hammers on her double-barreled shotgun.

Nope.

I unfurl, refurling on top of a support beam on the edge of the square, just in time to hear the shotgun blasts go off in the street below. Bits of the beam start to shred apart from gunfire as I set my eyes on an alley below, out of sight from the market square. I teleport, hitting the ground running. I alternate between capping off the ammo of both revolvers with fast, practiced motions.

My Action Skill is still charging, but they can’t get me, not as long as I stay on the move. Oscar knows that. He’s trying to distract and keep himself out of the line of fire. All I have to do is get the Glock back. That, or take his Dart away. Or just shoot him. That’s an option for me, too. And he doesn’t want that. He doesn't—

There’s a rush of hot air behind me. I glance behind in time to see a stream of flame running down the alley in my direction. Turning down another alley, I unfurl. As I furl, boots skidding on alleyway dirt, I slam into something. It’s Oscar.

He slams into my shoulder, knocking me backward. At the same time, his arm lashes out like a snake, fingers closing around my Black Dart, dangling from it’s necklace as I fall backward.

He pulls. The string pulls tight against the back and sides of my neck, digging in. All at once, the threads snap.

I try to shoot him midfall, but his boots dig into the ground and he shoves forward into me, unfurling us, our surroundings disappearing.

Stolen story; please report.

When everything comes back, we’re still hanging in the air, falling. Behind Oscar, all I can see is the sky, like a massive blue ball marbled with white.

He kicks me, somehow pushing me further down, accelerating my descent.

“WE’LL ALWAYS HAVE THE MEMORIES.” He yells. “WELL, AT LEAST I WILL. GOODBYE, WINTER.” He gives me a stern salute.

I bring up both revolvers, but he’s already gone. It’s just me, and the sky, and the whistle of the wind in my ears, the flap of my clothing, like flags on a pole.

I turn, revolving in the air so I can face downwards—

My right shoulder and side slams into a slanted roof, which immediately gives way underneath me. Below is an attic floor. I crash through that as well, boards snapping and splitting, beams creaking at the joints. I flip in the air, back crashing against the floor.

For a few horrible seconds, it feels like I can’t breathe. I’m motionless on the floor, staring up at a hole in the ceiling looking more than a bit like a rip in a picture book. Dust falls like ashes around me.

Miraculously, I still have the revolvers, fingers wrapped so tight and taut around the handles that it feels like they’ve been fused to my body.

I jump to my feet, dust swirling around me. I’m on the bottom floor of an abandoned, ransacked house. The only thing that remains is an ugly, floral-print couch in the corner, sitting on a dusty, hardwood floor. I glance down and see my silhouette in the dust, like a snow angel, along with some spider leg cracks in the hardwood.

There’s a loud bang from just outside the building. A gunshot. A Rifter signaling I’m here, in this building? I can hear dozens of pairs of boots clattering on the street, coming close.

He has the Gun. He has the Dart. That means it’s over, doesn’t it?

Maybe. Perhaps it’s just the inevitable playing itself out, at this point.

Tanya. I can see her collapsing on the ground, writhing, blood welling on her chest, running down her neck and into the dirt.

My jaw clenches. It’s gonna play out, all right. All the way.

I quickly snap open the cylinders on my revolvers, topping off one then the other with bullets from my ammo belt.

He doesn’t want to face me. Wants his lackeys to dispose of me. Once I’m in the real, he’ll do the same. He’ll want to give me some speech, maybe even offer me some chance at redemption. But he won’t want to pull the trigger. He’ll leave the room. Maybe drive off, first, out of earshot.

I know it’s true because if the roles were reversed, I wouldn’t want to pull the trigger, either.

Perhaps a bit too much credit to give to Oscar—or this version of Oscar—at this point, but it does seem like one likely explanation.

I flick the revolvers, snapping the cylinders shut, just as the shots start.