“It was an honor and a privilege.”
The Brujah, his purple headband whipping back and forth in the wind of the approaching death, clasped hands with Dust, the Rogue Tremere that San Marcos had helped to harbor since the Free City was founded. He felt the sorrow in sharp pangs as he accepted that Dust—Alabaster Jones—was going to die a death he did not deserve. The wall of wind, slashing through the night like so many well-honed blades, moved closer.
He desperately scanned the area for Kass. He needed to see her. Needed to make sure that he told her, if it was the last thing he ever did. What he found was Ollie, and the fury that sang in the blood of all Brujah came to a boil. In that moment, he wanted nothing more than to hate the young Ventrue that had dared come into his quiet life and offer him the hope that he could fight the good fight and still go home to the woman that he loved. As he cast his glance away, still seeking her, he spared a thought for Ollie and hoped it showed on his face:
Was this fair? Is this justice?
The wall of wind moved closer, bringing with it the acrid smell of death.
Finally, his eyes caught sight of the thing he wanted to be looking at when he died. Kasserine Powell was more than just his latest girlfriend, more than just a lover. Kass was the person Flynn wanted to spend the rest of his existence with and that was exactly what he was going to do, even if that existence was to be measured in seconds.
I love you.
He mouthed the words to her, and took the sight of her in. She was everything in that moment, the sum total of his existence defined by the desire to make sure that before it was ended, she knew that he loved her, and it was not enough. It was not enough to simply mouth the words.
So he ran to her. He screamed at her. The barrier that separated those who would live from those would die burned between them, digging into his flesh, and still he pushed against it.
“I love you, Kasserine Powell!” His voice broke past the howling wind. “I will always love you. Do you hear me? You think this is gonna keep us apart? You’re not rid of me yet! I will love you from whatever is next. I will love you until I see you again.”
It was all that could be said, in the moments he had before the vortex of death, the screaming weapons of the Tal’mahe’Ra, descended upon him. Then everything was white. He had expected black—expected the swirling maw of the Abyss below him that he had seen the first time that he had died. Instead, what lay before him was an endless expanse of white and a single imposing figure standing calmly.
Everything about this creature was dark, from its immaculately-tailored suit to its sharp, discerning eyes. Its voice, when it spoke, was calm yet somehow held a dangerous crackle of thunder within it.
“Hello, Mr. Flynn.”
The creature—the Ferryman—nodded. “Momento Mori.”