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He was running down the hallway. Running from death itself, or so it seemed.

The nightmares he saw, the terrors he faces, the doom that was unleashed.

"Snap out of it. Keep moving." He muttered to himself, trying, and failing, to encourage himself to go on.

He ran out of fear, out of anger, out of the desire to kill the damn commander of this fucked up mission.

Run human, run from death, run from the oblivion your race is destined for. Then there was the voice.

It screeched, it yelled. It ranted and raved about doom and death. It flowed into his mind like water and swept its corrupt thoughts within.

How much more pain does take human, before you loose your grace?

But he refused it, denied it. All out of the vagrant belief that there was hope somewhere within the depths of hell.

Ahead, the door that held back evil was beginning to break, and he still continued on his frenzied rush. He planted his feet and readied his rifle, ready to fight.


And when the evil came, he looked it in the eye and fired.

And fired.

And fired.

You will die. All will die. You will die, for we demand your souls.