It's not a race, brat. [Qilby laughs; it's something acrid, the wheezing noise that comes from his throat. Got him. He's about to snipe in another remark with what strength he has left, but he doesn't get the chance to.]
[The bullet strikes him clean between the eyes. His glasses, those 'four eyes,' shatter. Qilby doesn't get even a scream out before the bullet lodges itself in the left hemisphere of his brain. There's a sense he gets, every time he's died, of his soul separating like an egg; this time is no different.]
no subject
[The bullet strikes him clean between the eyes. His glasses, those 'four eyes,' shatter. Qilby doesn't get even a scream out before the bullet lodges itself in the left hemisphere of his brain. There's a sense he gets, every time he's died, of his soul separating like an egg; this time is no different.]
[Then, there's nothing to feel.]