One step. It's agony, but she takes it anyway.

Two steps. Three, four, five. She pauses, raises the gun, and sends her thoughts into the uncaring void. 'I'm sorry'.

The recoil of the shots is negligible - or rather, it used to be. Right now, with her vision swimming and her fingers slick with her own blood, each shot threatens to rip the pistol from her hand. But she is not a Marine for nothing, was not forged in the hottest fires in the galaxy just to drop her gun when things get tough.

'I'm sorry,' she thinks - prays - again. And again and again as each shot echoes around her, as the first explosion booms and she flinches away from the heat. She's moving again, although she doesn't recall taking the first step, and suddenly her gait is strong and steady, determined. Eyes forward, soldier. More shots, more explosions, and more apologies as familiar faces - some gone, some not - flash across her mind. Her aim begins to wander as her body begins to fail, so she brings her second hand up to steady her grip. It's not enough, but it will do until she gets close enough to make missing impossible.

One final face, one final apology, and one last breath: "I love you."

She will not back down, will not pause, cannot stop. All she can do is pull the trigger over and over and walk into the explosions, into the end of the world.

And its salvation