"The Dead March"
By: Kevin "Ramiel" Schmidt
Beta Reading and Demonic Dialogue by Christina Gasko

***
"Oh, beat the drum slowly, and play the fife lowly
 And play the dead march as you carry me along 
Take me to the green valley and lay the earth o'er me
 For I'm a poor cowboy and I know I've done wrong"

 We beat the drum slowly and played the fife lowly 
And bitterly wept as we carried him along 
For we all loved our comrade, so brave, young and handsome 
We all loved our comrade although he done wrong "
--The Streets of Laredo

***  


"You have a lot of nerve calling me," said the red haired man.

His contact quietly answered.

"My partner is horribly amused by this whole affair, as am I. 
Neither of us liked your associate and I don't think we have to
give you..."

His contact hissed out a sentence.

"We..."

The red haired man was interrupted again.  He frowned, but the
barely audible words of his contact kept him from leaving.  "Why
should either of us..."

The contact hissed sharply.

"Very well, it amuses him to go ahead with this travesty.  He liked
both of you far more than I ever did.  I cannot for the life of me
see why though."

Another word silenced him.

The red haired man lit a cigarette.  The ember glowed brightly for
an instant as did his eyes.  "Very well, but in order to have a
funeral, you need a corpse.  And you'll not find me doing your
grave robbing."  With that, Jason Blood took a long drag from his
cigarette and walked out the door of the sleazy bar.

***  

"Yeah, we're still cleaning up the site itself, it's a bloodbath."

"Well, yes, Director... I know the President expects..."

"I don't care what he thinks, this was a major screw up and it's
going to take time to clean.  You had the CIA running a black op
involving the creation of Metahumans right under the DEO's nose on
American soil."

"I know it makes us look bad."

"Here's where we stand: the site itself has been sealed off and the
remnants of the public fight have been cleaned up.  There are still
some witnesses to track down, the girl who started the whole thing,
but the FBI has all that under control."

"Witness Protection, most likely."

"Truman is dead, thank god, and so are his Metahumans.  We've got
samples of his experiments and... yes sir.  We've got the bodies of
the two locals he killed too.  One's a Meta.  Right, the Thomas
Monaghan file.  It's part of the Bloodlines dossier."

"Yes sir, the bodies will be in New York in cold storage in hours. 
I'm in the hangar with the remains, right now.  Security's tight, I
don't even think Batman could get in here."

"Yes sir, I remember; `Never underestimate the Batman'."

"I'll see you shortly Director, this is Chase, signing off."

Cameron Chase, agent of the Department of Extranormal Operations,
turned off her slim Nokia phone and slid it back into her coat. 
She adjusted her sunglasses and watched various DEO agents secure
the hanger full of evidence for transport back to DEO headquarters.
She frowned as a sealed aluminum coffin was prepped for loading
onto the plane.  There were many of the coffins, too many.  Most of
them, as far as they could tell, contained the remains of various
soldiers exposed to alien DNA in an attempt by a rogue CIA
operative to create superhumans.  Two of the coffins, however,
contained not the victims of Agent Truman's grotesque experiments,
but instead the bodies of the men who tried to stop him.  Thomas
Monaghan and Nathan Walls.  

She ran the names through the DEO computers and while Walls was
simply a two-bit hood and hitman, Monaghan turned out to have a DEO
file of his own.  Attacked years ago by the same alien whose DNA
was the source of Truman's experiments, Monaghan became a Metahuman
hitman.  The DEO director wanted the corpse for study.  Cameron
closed her eyes behind her glasses, and sighed; sometimes she felt
like a ghoul.

Most of the other DEO agents were wearing bright orange biohazard
suits; Cameron was too frustrated with the whole affair to bother. 
She disliked this part of her job, cleaning up after the dirty
secrets of other agencies and playing glorified bodysnatcher.  

She walked over to one of the coffins and rested a hand on it,
musing on the nature of the organization she worked for.  What the
CIA was doing here was little worse than some of the affairs she
had heard about from other DEO agents who were too far into their
drinks after hours.  The CIA had tried to create their own
superwarriors and were only opposed by a couple of damn hitmen and
a rogue FBI agent.  Cameron always thought that that was the sort
of thing the JLA was out there to deal with.  That or actual
non-powered government agents.  People who were in theory out there
to protect the people of this country.  She sighed, "I'm getting
too bitter for this job."  

Suddenly she felt something hard and round press into her back.  A
voice, muffled by the biohazard suit, spoke, "Well, Agent Chase,
I'd be happy to at least give you the evening off.  Maybe you could
work on your resume or go home and feed your cat or something.  Oh,
no fast moves by the way."

Chase stood still, not moving a muscle.  The voice sounded slightly
feminine but it was impossible to tell.  "Can I speak?"

"Quietly, no more than a whisper.  And no funny business.  I'm on a
timetable here. "

"Okay, what do you want?"

"The bodies, Monaghan and Walls."

"Are you insane, there are so many guards around here you'll never
get away."

"I've done riskier.  Besides, you're going to escort me out. "

"I am?"

"You are.  I'm going to take the bodies and no one is ever going to
see them again."

Chase felt the object press harder into her back. Her assailant
spoke in a slightly amused tone, "Let's get those onto dollies,
okay?"

***  

"Christ, am I early or have I missed the show?"  The Englishman's
voice rung out in the nearly empty neighborhood bar.  He looked
about and frowned.  A few drunks were asleep on the floor, but
otherwise there wasn't anyone else visible in the bar.
 He walked over to the counter and stubbed out his silk cut.  Just
as the blonde Englishman was about to help himself to a bottle of
Bushmill's behind the bar, a blur errupted out of nowhere and
interposed itself between the man and the liquor.  

The blur resolved itself into a bizarre misshapen form.  There were
two arms, two legs, a neck and a giant mouth but the other details
were hard to make out.  "Do you require moisssture?"

John Constantine pulled back slightly from the demon bartender. 
"Baytor?  That's your name, right?"

"Baytor!"

"Gotcha mate, lissen set me up a..."

The demon flew into motion and set up two shots on the bar.  John
noticed they were from one of the cheap bottles.

"Ey, why not the good stuff?"

The demon somehow glared at John Constantine and went about
cleaning the bar.  The Englishman shrugged and had a seat at the
bar and waited.  From the back room came a voice.  "It's not
fair, you know?"

John turned to see a large man with a beard and close-cropped
mohawk walk in from the back room.  He was wearing a somber black
suit and was struggling with a tie.  "Dammit.  Why didn't I just
get a clip on?  The last time I went to one of these things Natt
tied it for me, now... oh hell."  The man sat down next to
Constantine and grabbed the other shot.  He quickly downed it.  
"Jesus, Baytor, what is this shit?"

"Piiissssssss."

"Right.  Figures.  We've got to save the good stuff for the
funeral, right Baytor?"

"Baytor!"

John offered a hand to the man next to him.  "You're here for that
shindig too, eh?  What's the name, Squire?  I'm John."  

The man offered his pink prosthetic hand in return.  "Oh, I'm
Hacken, not Squire.  I don't think I ever met you.  Friend of
Tommy's?"

John shrugged and took his hand back.  "No, never met the fella. 
But someone told me that there was something of his he wanted me to
have.  So here I am.  You the fella sending out the invitations?"

"Not me.  I'm glad people are here though, I thought there wasn't
gonna be no one here.  He didn't have many friends anymore."

Constantine smiled bitterly.  "I can sympathize, mate."

***  

Chase slowly drove the white nondescript van out of the airport. 
Behind her, the body thief gave very explicit directions on where
to drive, keeping the cylinder in her back at all times. 
Eventually, once they got out of the airport with no signs of
pursuit, the body thief worked a hand out of her biohazard suit and
pricked Chase's neck with one of the sharpened nails on her gloves.

Cameron struggled briefly but felt the nail's poison working
quickly in her bloodstream; she was too sluggish to stop the body
thief from pushing her out of the way and taking the wheel.  She
couldn't even raise her gun.  As she lay there in the passenger
seat, she watched the body thief remove the suit's mask to reveal
another mask underneath.  This one was a black latex fetish mask
that bore the ears of a cat.  

Catwoman waved the cylinder, actually the end of her whip, at her
paralyzed passenger.  "Sorry, but no one's getting these bodies."

Chase's lips were unable to echo the "Oh shit" that rang through
her mind.

***  

In Noonan's Sleazy Bar, the crowd began to get bigger.  John,
Baytor and Hacken were joined by a few others.  Most of them were
locals, many of them having been helped out by Tommy once or twice.
A few of them were from out of town.  The Cauldron was an insular
neighborhood, sectioned off from the rest of Gotham City by a
strong ethnic heritage and overwhelming poverity.  Bonds of
community lasted a long time around here and half the neighborhood
owed something to Tommy.  The few that started out, drinking and
swapping tales, turned into a crowd.  Soon the bar was alive with
conversation and drinking and John found himself looking out at a
sea of faces he didn't recognize.  

Well, that wasn't exactly true.  He recognized the bastard in the
far corner who was coolly analyzing the crowd.  He was surprised
that Jason Blood would show up here of all places.  "Must be some
unfinished business."

Once the bar was filled to capacity, Baytor suddenly stopped
serving and opened up the door.  He silently headed out into the
warm Gothan evening, not saying a word.  Slowly the crowd began to
trickle after him.  They walked as a group, some talking, some
remaining silent.  Some were dressed for a funeral, others weren't.
In the end it didn't mater.  A beat cop watched the procession
approach him, and as it got closer he turned and joined it.

This was a neighborhood thing.

***  

Hacken sat alone.  As the others left, he sat and looked at his
reflection in the bar.  

"Why'd you do it, guys?"  He spoke to the empty room.  No one
answered.  

Hacken looked around, certainly not crying, and took in the silent
bar.  He imagined the voices he'd never hear again.

"Why'd you leave me alone?"

There was still no answer. 

The pictures behind the bar remained silent.  The taps that old
Sean Noonan used to polish with a religious fervor were just as
bright under Baytor's care.  He imagined he could smell the old
man's cigar smoke but it was just a remnant from a butt one of the
patrons had left.  In his mind's eye they were all gathered in the
bar, sitting around a table playing cards.  Natt the Hatt trying
his best not to curse when Tommy beat him at another hand.  Ringo
coolly playing and not caring about the money.  Sean not minding
when Tommy couldn't cover his debts.  Everyone treating Hacken like
the slow little kid brother.  But that was just it.  Even when he
thought they were treating him like an outsider, they were always
trying to be square with him.

They were family.

Hacken stood, checked his shoulder rig, wiped some dust from his
eyes and walked out the door.  

***  

The van reached the graveyard shortly before the funeral procession
did.  Agent Cameron Chase was sleeping soundly in the back of the
van and Catwoman had changed into somewhat less conspicuous street
clothes.  A nondescript man with light brown hair, in a plain gray
suit and a trenchcoat stood waiting as the van pulled up.  "Ms.
Kyle?"

Selina Kyle stepped out of the van, ever alert for an ambush.  "My
name's John.  John Jones.  A friend sent me to help you out."

She gestured towards the back of the van.  "So help me out, Mr.
Jones."  Together the two of them easily got the two coffins out
of the van and into the already dug holes.  Selina, who was in
perfect physical condition, was surprised at how easily the
nondescript man was able to move the coffins.  "You must work
out."

"You have no idea, Ms. Kyle."

"So, why are you here, Mr. Jones?"

"A friend asked me.  I also met Tommy once.  Sponsored him for
membership in a group I was in despite my friend's wishes."

"Ah, did Tommy join?"

"No."

"He probably wouldn't have gotten along with your group anyway. 
Whatever it was."

"So why are you here, Ms. Kyle?"

"Tommy and I saved the world once."

"Really?"

"Yes.  He wasn't at all like most killers I've known.  He...  He...  
I wish the 'killer with a heart of gold' wasn't such a cliche."

"But that described him, did it?"

"Yeah.  And he was cute."

They stood in silence, their work done, as the funeral procession
arrived.

***  

Hacken walked with his head down.  He walked in a different world,
his mind asking questions that no one could answer.  He cursed and
pulled at his undone tie and tossed it into the street.  "Dammit,
I'm just going to look like a fool anyway."

Then he heard the scream. It was faint, it could have come from a
TV or a radio except it didn't.  Anyone who has made a living from
the deaths of others can tell the difference between a stage scream
and the scream of someone in mortal fear for their life.  Someone
was screaming like they were about to die.

Hacken kept walking for a moment and then stopped.  He listened
intently and heard the scream again.  It was coming from down a
nearby alleyway.  

"It's not any of my business."  Hacken began to walk onwards
towards the funeral until a nagging voice stopped him in his
tracks.  "What would Tommy have done?" 

Hacken turned and ran towards the alley's dark entrance.

***  

"If ya'all give me your attention for just a moment.  I'd like to
get this service underway.  Bear with me, I'm not technically a
man of the cloth anymore, but I was asked to do this by an old
friend of mine and couldn't say no.  So this might be a bit
non-denominational since the Lord and I ain't on speakin' terms,
but I reckon it oughta be fine."

Constantine listened to the preacher's thick southern accent. 
"Jesus, where the hell did they dig up this cracker?"  A lanky
red-haired man in a "Sgt. Rock" tee shirt answered quietly.  "He's
one of mine.  A friend and all that, John."  The man spoke with an
overpowering Irish accent.

John cast a careful glance at the Irishman.  "Have we met?"

"Sure we `ave, John."  The man extended a hand.  "Name's Garth.  We
met a while back, you were involved in some pretty heavy shit back
then.  So ya probably don't remember me."

Constantine shook the offered hand.  "Can't say that I do, Squire."

Garth shrugged.  "It happens.  You know, I think you would have
liked Tommy.  He had a bit of the bastard about him too.  Doomed
from the start though.  I'm surprised he lasted as long as he did. 
Just when nobody seemed to be looking and then *BANG* his story's
over."

"You saw this coming did you?"

"Sure, from the moment I laid eyes on Tommy, I knew how he'd end
up.  I just wish there had been a chance for a few more of the good
times before it was over, you know?"

"Yeah."

"You think the preacher up there is doing a good job?  I mean he
really shouldn't be here, I kind of interrupted his honeymoon, but
I thought Tommy deserved it."

"Yeah... not a bad sermon for a cowboy."

***  

Hacken ran down the alleyway, drawing his gun, a massive .44 magnum
revolver, and looking for any signs of trouble.  He heard the
scream again, it was a woman's quite obviously; this time coming
from above him.  He looked up to see a fire escape ladder that
someone had already lowered.  He tucked the gun back into its
holster and began to climb.  He made his way laboriously up to the
6th and final floor of the run down apartment building and peeked
in.  Inside, he saw a young woman, blood oozing from gashes on her
arms and legs, cowering in the corner of a room.  A man was
approaching her carrying a boning knife.  

Hacken couldn't see his face, just the back of his expensive
Italian suit and the gleam of the wickedly carved knife.  Hacken
charged through the open window, issuing a mighty bellow and
smashed into the man.  He went down under Hacken's weight and
struggled to strike at Hacken with his knife.  

Hacken blocked his strike with his prosthetic hand and delivered a
series of vicious headbutts into the man's skull.  Sounds erupted
from the lower levels of the condemned building.  Hacken looked
over at the girl.  

"There's more of them, and they're coming!  They killed Johnny and
now they want to kill me.  They're Italians... Mafia I think."

"Shit, come with me."

Hacken grabbed the girl with his remaining hand and dragged her
along behind him, hunting for a way out.  As he bolted for an
access ladder to the roof, the hallway was ripped apart as a line
of bullets snaked its way towards him.  Hacken thrust the girl up
through the roof hatch and rolled for cover.

He dove into another room and looked for some type of protection.  
Meanwhile voices taunted him.

"Looks like the little whore found herself a hero, eh?  You beat up
one of my men and expect to live?  Whoever you are, Mister Hero,
you have no idea what you've gotten into."

***  

Kyle listened to the southern minister give the sermon.  As he did
so, he made his way over to where John Jones was standing.  "I'm
surprised to see you here," he whispered.  

"Kyle, it's good to see you.  I didn't realize you knew the man."

"Yeah.  We... it was complicated and a bit embarrassing.  Still, I
figured, since his father left a message on my answering machine."

Jones arched an eyebrow.  "His father is dead, Kyle."

Kyle fingered the green ring he wore on one hand.  "Then who...?" 

He was interrupted as a match was struck close to his ear.  The
match burnt down to nothing and the man who lit it dropped it to
the grass and stepped on it.  "Thanks for coming," the man said. 
"I'm Matches Malone."

***  

The Death of Killers watched the firefight in the abandoned
apartment building with a mixture of interest and casual
detachment.  He knew why his perceptions were now here, why he was
needed.  Someone was going to die and he had been called to
collect.  Still, the Death of Killers that had once been Ringo
Chen was disturbed to see his former friend Hacken embroiled in the
fight.  

He watched as the team of highly trained killers spread out and
toyed with Hacken, letting him escape to the roof to protect the
young girl.

Ringo remembered minutes earlier as the hitmen killed her pimp and
set her to running through the streets.  They meant to have their
fun with her and rape her just as the family they represented was
going to rape the Cauldron.  

He watched their leader, a Metahuman, order the six of them onto
the roof.

He watched as they fired into the maintenance shed that Hacken and
his charge were using for cover, shredding it with automatic
weapons fire.  He watched as the seven killers spread out in a
semi-circle around the shed.

The Death of Killers could only watch.

***  

Eventually the sermon ended and people began to filter out of the
cemetery.  Most of them would find their way back home, and some
of them would end up back at Noonan's where the drinks would flow
till dawn.

A few, however, stayed.  

"Hey, are you Constantine?"

John watched as the amazingly beautiful woman approached him with a
bundle under her arm.  "Yeah, that's me, love."

"I'm told you stole this a long time ago.  Well, I stole it later
and gave it to Tommy.  I figure it should go back to you."  Selina
handed the long, heavy package to Constantine.  He began to open
the brown paper wrapping and then stopped when he saw what was
inside.  "Shit, the Ace of Winchesters."

"Don't say that too loud with Mr. Demon person over there."  She
pointed to Jason Blood.  "He and his buddy get kind of testy around
it.  Guns that kill demons make them nervous, I guess."

John smiled and nodded.  "I'll find a place for this somewhere,
love.  Say, this whole funeral experience has been kind of
stressful.  How about you and me go someplace with a bottle of
whiskey and talk about Tommy."

Selina Kyle arched a brow.  "It's a funeral, Constantine.  Don't
make me kick your ass.  Besides, I've got a DEO agent and a stolen
van to dump someplace safe. "  

With that, she walked off towards the van, leaving Constantine to
survey the stragglers.

***  

Baytor poured the bottle of Bushmill's over the caskets where they
laid in the bottom of their graves.  First Tommy's and then Natt's.
"Goodbye, boyssss."

He joined up with Constantine as they walked for the exit.

"So, Baytor, I'm wondering why the hell Blood showed up.  Not that
you'll ever answer..."

"Closssure."

John blinked.  "Pardon?"

"Jasson Blood was there at the beginning, he had to be there at the
end.  It was closssure."

"But didn't he hate Monaghan?  Why'd he come?"

"Ssssooome think that ssimply becassue one isss mad that one
forgetsss thingsss or is struck dumb.  I may no longer be the King
of Demons, John Constantine, but my memory is long and even the
soulless can be blackmailed."

Baytor shrugged and gestured down the street towards the bar. 
"Moisssture?"

John stared slackjawed at the bartending demon.  "Yeah.  Lots of
it."

"I am Baytor!"

***  

Jason Blood sneered at the grave of Tommy Monaghan.  "Well, you've
gotten what you deserved, you arrogant little piece of gutter
trash.  You abused me, cheated me, thought yourself more clever
than I and placed yourself in opposition to my goals you little...
little...  Bugger... No..."

"No I won't!"

"..."

"Fine.  My better half wants to see this personally."

Blood looked about and seeing no one, raised his hands in the air
and began to chant.  "Gone, Gone O Form of Man!  Rise the Demon
Etrigan!"

There was the howl of Hell's winds and the roar of flame and
suddenly Blood's form was gone in a cloud of swirling smoke, only
to be replaced by the yellow-skinned demon Etrigan.

"Oh Tommy, Tommy, Jester and Fool.  
You used the Gun as your Greatest Tool. 

Tommy, Tommy you emotional wreck.  
Often I dreamed of breaking your neck.

Now I stand here at your grave. 
And from the Stygian Shores you wave.

Though you robbed what was rightfully mine. 
I'll salute your death with hellbrewed wine.

I can say this now you've met your End. 
I always considered us deadly friends.

And so to ensure your corpse gives no gain. 
I'll ruin your body with a pillar of flame!"  

With that the demon bellowed a gout of flame into the grave,
incinerating Tommy's body.  As the flames in the grave roared,
Etrigan faded away into the darkness.

***  

Hacken tried to wipe the sweat and blood from his eyes.  His face
had been scratched by shrapnel and blood was trickling all over it.
He held his revolver and reloaded the chamber with a speed load.  
He had six bullets left to take out seven hitmen.  

He knew Tommy would have done something smart right about now.  He
always seemed to know what other people were thinking or where to
go or what to do.  He talked under his breath.  "Tommy and Ringo
were never afraid of anything.  I gotta be smart."

"Oh Jesus, stop talking to yourself.  Those guys are going to kill
us!"  The girl looked at Hacken, completely terrified.

The leader of the hit squad grinned.  "No, we're going to kill your
hero there.  Then we're gonna take turns fucking you to death."

Hacken roared, "Just get the fuck out of here.  Go on!"

The leader chuckled.  "You ain't got no idea.  We're here to make
sure you little shitstains in the Cauldron get under heel all nice
and proper-like now that your big bad hitman buddies are dead. 
Without Chen and Monaghan around to save your asses, the
neighborhood is ripe for the picking.  So I'm here, we've got the
firepower, and I AM firepower.  What's a guy to do?"

Hacken growled, feeling something strange.  A calm descended over
him, putting his manic thoughts to rest.  He imagined this is how
Ringo felt before a big gunfight.  He still felt scared, but it
didn't matter anymore.  

"I'll tell you what to do.  If you were smart, you'd run."

Hacken charged out from behind the shed firing the .44 wildly.  He
hurled himself straight at the attackers.

***  

And the Death of Killers could only watch.  He couldn't intervene
as his former friend rushed headlong into death, only trying to do
what was right.  

He couldn't...  He couldn't believe it as Hacken fired, shot after
shot, dropping the hitmen as they fired wildly all around him with
their submachine guns.  Hacken ran, firing once into each gunman
in quick succession.

One by one, in the space of a couple heartbeats, they all died.

And Hacken was still running.

The gun held tightly in his bloody hand kept clicking empty.

But he kept running.  Directly at a Metahuman hitman who could kill
people by concentrating on them.

And all Ringo could do was watch.

***  

"So, Mr. Malone, why did you do this?"

"Do what?"

Kyle, John Jones and Matches Malone walked down a silent Gotham
city street.

"You organized the funeral.  Why?"

"Yeah, why would you care if a killer died in your city?"

"He was a killer and he was scum, Kyle.  There's no doubt about
that.  However... Gotham owes her life to that killer several times
over and the least I could do for him was see to it that there was
a funeral.  That's why I told my... associate where to find his
corpse.  Monaghan will take his secrets to the grave."

Soon the trio parted ways.  One flew, wrapped in a sheath of
glowing green light, into the night sky.  Another flew off,
becoming something larger and green before becoming invisible.  
And the third melted into the shadows.

***  

The Death of Killers could not directly intervene.  

***  

Hacken rushed the leader of the gunmen who squinted at him and
raised his empty hands towards him.  He could almost see the nimbus
of power erupt around the man's hands.  He knew on a gut level that
the killer was far more than he seemed.

Power danced along the man's hands and Hacken knew he was still too
far away.

And then Ringo Chen cleared his throat from behind the killer.  

He spun a fraction of an inch, startled by the sudden noise.  The
blast meant for Hacken hit the concrete inches from Hacken's feet.

Hacken charged forward and swung his pistol at the killer's head. 
The hitman fell and Hacken reversed his grasp on the gun and began
to bash the assassin's brains out.  He smashed the butt of the gun
into his head over and over until the killer's skull caved in.  
Soon Hacken and his unconscious charge were the only people alive
on the roof.

He looked up at Ringo from where he had fallen onto his knees. 
"Ringo?  Am I dead?"

Ringo shook his head.  "No.  You're not dead. "

"Did you save me?"

"Not exactly.  Let's hope that no one was watching, shall we?" 
Ringo offered Hacken a hand up.  Hacken dropped his gun and
accepted the hand.  Then, without warning the giant of a man swept
Ringo into a bear hug.

"I've missed you too, Hacken.  But I can't stay."

"Because you're dead."

Ringo nodded somberly.  "That's right."

Hacken put him gingerly down and then sat down on the
blood-spattered rooftop and began to cry.  "Why'd you all go and
leave me?"

Ringo looked down at his friend.  "Because it wasn't your time yet.
It's not because we wanted to leave you.  We didn't.  You're our
friend and none of us wanted to see you get hurt."

Hacken stared up at him bleary eyed.  "But I never even got to say
goodbye.  And now I missed the funeral."

"Of course you got to say goodbye.  You think just because you
can't see them anymore that your friends leave you behind?  We're
your friends, Eugine.  And we're always going to be here for you. "

"You mean that?"

For a moment, through eyes filled with tears and blood, the rooftop
almost looked like the inside of a bar.  Eugine Hacken almost heard
a voice. 

"Of course we do."

And for the briefest of seconds, Hacken was reunited with his
family.  

Then he looked about, stood up and wiped the tears from his eyes. 
He made sure the battered young woman was all right and then began
to make his way down to the street and the rest of his life.  

"Goodbye, guys."