He awoke to the ringing blur of a debris-strewn field.
This wasn’t the plan. This wasn’t the plan at all. Oh shit, this really, really wasn’t the plan. The electric stench of ozone filled his broken nose.
Bryan slowly pulled his distant head out a puddle of cooling blood. Where was Steve? Oh Shit. How long had he been out? Shit. Where the fuck was Steve!?
Bryan was numb and strangely buzzing with vim and vigor by the time he found what was left of Steve.
Reflexively, he turned his head to wretch, but nothing came up. He blinked and stared at the incredible trail of bright red blood he was leaving in his haphazard wake. At a rough estimate there had to be at least 20 liters, soaking into the dirt and dead grass.
He realized he wasn’t breathing.
He looked slowly down at his blackening hands; a charcoal grey sheen slowly slipped up his shaking arms. He began to hear the vibrating songs of the less distant stars, a twinkling and ominous staccato vibrato. It was like breaking glass whispering crystalline secrets.
Oh fuck, that gypsy was right.
The bright and cold blood continued to pour from his crown. The blood already on the grass began to flow heavenward, hundreds of thimble-thick streams falling up into the sky. A great violet phosphorescence rained down from the too bright and newly broken moon.
That gypsy was totally right. Bryan wryly sneered moments before the end. He was destined for greatness.