Simon sat amidst the jellied remnants of the Man in Black, sobbing. The part of Simon that was still the primal, endless Avatar of destruction gloated over the carnage.

But that part of him was ebbing, coiling, locking itself away within the dark corners of his soul.

What was left was just Simon; a 21-year old kid who loved his Mom and who was devoted to his girlfriend, Angela. A kid who could quote Big Trouble in Little China word for word; who had seen every episode of every Star Trek (even Voyager) at least half a dozen times.

Just Simon: mortified by what he had done.

There was just Simon, all alone.

Blake was dead.

Simon wanted to join him.

“Simon,” a voice called. It was small, as if calling from a great distance.

“Simon, please,” The voice called again. It seemed closer now. Simon thought he recognized it, but ignored it all the same.

Simon felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked up.

“Angela?” he said softly.

“Yeah, baby, I’m here,” Angela answered, her face wet with tears. “I’m here.”

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