Page 198 of Victorious

He drew back the hammer on the gun.

“I don’t want to kill you,” he said, “but I will. Do you believe me?” He let the muzzle rest against the young man’s skin. “Or do you need convincing?”

The pilot’s shoulders slumped. He shook his head.

“Good,” said Victor, nudging him forward, onto the plane.

7TERMINATION

INOW. THEN.

THE END

VICTOR stood before the metal door.

The one that led into EON.

He knew what lay beyond the threshold. What was waiting for him there.

Death.

And the doctor.

And Sydney.

The door was unlocked, but as Victor brought his hand to the cold steel he paused, and drew the inhaler from his coat. He held it to the light, studying the violet liquid in the cartridge, calculating how much he’d need. How much was left.

Enough, he told himself, pocketing the drug.

“Hey, Vic,” said a voice in his ear. “Are you ready?”

His mouth tugged into a grim smile. Of all the ways this could have gone. All the paths and permutations.

How ironic, thought Victor Vale, that in the end, he’d chosen to be a hero.

“I’m ready,” he said, pushing open the door—

—and stepping out onto the roof.

Eli chuckled when the door smacked against the wall, the metal ringing like a bell.

“By all means, tell the world we’re here.”

Not that anyone cared.

Once upon a time, the building’s roof door had actually been locked. But the latch had been hacked at, picked, and forced so many times that facilities finally gave up, settling for a stern sign pinned to the door that said NO ACCESS so they’d have plausible deniability if and when the residents did something stupid.

And they probably would have, but the building was only three stories tall.

Which wasn’t high enough to jump from.

These days, the sound of the door crashing open was an unofficial call to other seniors in the building. They’d flock, with beers and cigarettes and joints, afraid of missing out on some impromptu gathering.

Victor swore and guided the door shut.

The last thing either of them wanted right now was an audience.

No, this was a private pilgrimage (Eli’s words, of course). He crossed the roof with the grim determination of a penitent, and Victor followed, the ghost of the hospital bracelet still on his wrist, compliments of his own failed attempt at transformation. It was Eli’s turn tonight, the ice already melting in the bath downstairs, but he’d insisted on seeing the stars one last time, in case something went wrong.