So much yelling. But this was different from the time before. There had been yelling then, but they had been gruff male voices; not female screams of rage and desperation. There had been rain, moist grass, hard ground; not dark, gritty hallways.

There were similarities - or one in particular. It was always his downfall, the way he cared so much for everyone else. Had to see to Cloud, had to make sure his friend was okay. And now, when he could have stood his ground and fought until the girl could no longer strike back, he had instead retreated, to see the others, to make sure they wouldn't worry.

He was paying for it again. Not bullets this time, but a sharp, hot tip, rusted and pointed. The throw, whether planned or not, was perfect. It stuck into him right at the back of his neck, the metal forcing in to the top of the vertebrae, right near the brain stem and all sorts of important nerves and veins.

In other words, whether she had meant it or not, she had thrown a bullseye.

His nervous system kept him moving for longer than he should have; even as the brain shut down, his legs kept straining. Eventually there were no more signals being sent and the body collapsed. There was no will or strength or being behind the flesh that hit the floor. That weapon stood starkly up out of him, a flag that marked one's victory and another's defeat.

Even here, history repeated itself.