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Grace clutched at blades of bright green grass, trying to wriggle his way out of the holds of three very determined men.
Not a single one of them held empathy to his cries, unhesitant to deploy a syringe filled with god-knew-what into his neck, unapologetic as he yelped at the sting. As soon as the fluid entered his system, his grip on the Earth loosened, fingertips growing numb, senseless.
A mockery of comfort stretched out across the sky, the rainbow persisting even as his own perception of it steadily faded.
One final hope entering his vision, Grace fought to rally his diminishing strength as he cried, “Carl! Carl, please, I can’t do it!”
His friend, little more than a silhouette against the fading sunlight, remained just as stone-faced as Stratt’s henchmen. “You know who you are. You’re gonna do great.”
Grace tried to give one last protest, deliver a plea that would finally make them change their minds, but he couldn’t even feel his spine anymore, let alone command his vocal chords to make anything but dying whimpers.
Unable to hold on to everything he held dear, Grace fell into a lonely darkness, and knew the world no more.