Lars was not a coward. He was simply smarter. He had been in enough fights to see that look in Liam's eyes. The division leaders didn't think they were going to make it. The division leaders thought he, and everyone else by extension, were handouts.

Lars Cohen was noone's c**k-sucking b***h, please and thank you.

And so, when the mist hunters filed, one by one, to endeavor to the task, those hard workers, those ants, lemmings who would fight to the very end to be the first to fall off the cliff, the Mist Hunter simply decided he had had enough. This had nothing to do with him, this was not the good fight, and most of all, he was a survivor. He was smarter than everyone else, after all.

His weapon merely encouraged it. They were both fighters and survivors. They would both outlive the godforsaken apocalypse. They both wanted the apocalypse to happen, to see everything - everything - fall so they could walk the streets amidst the chaos and revel in it.

And so, it was not his fight. He stepped away, just like the missions prior. It was simple. It required no effort. Hide and then report himself as a survivor, because it was exactly who he was.

Which was why, when the black wings sprang from the ground, when mottled feathers and the sense of decay embraced him, he simply toppled forward-

- legs gone. They were <******** gone, that bitchfaced creature had ******** ate his legs. His weapon was out in a flash, a bow, attempting to strike the creature down, the creature who would deny him his exit, his survival -

- she stared back, all yellowed eyes and hunter and skeletal ribs, licking her lips as she took a few steps forward. The first arrow struck her in one eye, true to its aim. Always go for the eyes first, always impair, disable. His weapon growled in approval, always ready for more.

There was no more, the apparition took to the skies, groaning and crying feathers scattering. Leaving him here.

Lars Cohen could not walk. It was over and that b***h had taken his freaking legs, he couldn't even stop the bleeding, ******** that blood everywhere, ******** ******** ********, ******** THIS ALL IT WASN'T SUPPOSED TO ******** BE LIKE THIS-

*

"Please. I can do this. Please." Roy Benson was fresh newbie, a Fear Hunter who right after being initiated as a trainee, had gotten his weapon. Lars hated people like that. Self-entitled idiots. Clumsy. Blind and stupid. A weapon did not make them survivors.

"Please." Roy Benson repeated, one hand holding his weapon, the other attempting to pull himself forward belly-down on the ground, bleeding, broken. "Please, help me-" His mouth gushed blood as he pointed one crimson finger towards the portal. The exit. Safety.

Lars might have saved him. That was duty, and that was what being a Hunter entailed. He knelt next to Roy, held Roy's arm, and realized in that second how much he hated Roy. He hated Roy for being so entitled, for jumping into the fray like some knight, and for most of all, having something he did not have -

- He was a survivor after all. He held Roy's arm, twisted it, and took the other's weapon for himself.

*

So this was how it would end for him, dying with his weapon in indignation, dying without seeing the world ******** burn. He could hear it, footsteps of people rushing past him, trying not to stare, could hear it, the sound of thousands of other survivors but not him. Not him, why the ******** not him, it burned that indignation, he wanted to <******** live, where were the screams, the cries, the ******** bloodshed and massacre he loved-

- somewhere, in his haze of confusion and chaos, he heard a pair of light footsteps stop. Someone had stopped to stare at him, a little girl even, stare at the survivor and outlive him. Outlive him, out survive him, out do him-

- he shifted his arm, his free arm, where his weapon, Alu'alathar was seated. Survivors. The footsteps came a step closer. Curiousity. Lars simply broke into one last feral grin. "Come here little girl, come here, I have a present..."