His blood, liquid silver, was a warm puddle beneath him. His legs were drawn close to his chest, his arms sprawled nearby. His wings were flexed in a weak attempt to move, the feathers splayed and in thin supply. His breaths came ragged, and with wide, husky eyes, he knew;

This was the end.

He was no angel in his life time. Many a friend had died by his side while he lived on to wreak havoc upon the rest of the world. His father never spoke to him, dark as they both were. His mother left him at the small age of five. He lived alone.

And he would die alone.

Like a fish flung from his deep below home, he gasped. His eyes shut; a bright set of headlights on a once strong sports car winking out with a spark. He could feel himself lifting away, being carried down by Styx and brought home.

And on this, Reeve drew his final breath, and was contented for his last moments.