Gunshots sound off like summer fireworks, bullets blazing trails of heat through the salty air. The world is dark, and he is a shadow, and the only lights are the moon and stars and the brilliant white flashes of gunpowder fire all around. They reflect in the windows of the warehouses and the choppy waves of the ocean, stars above and around and below.

His partner is solid at his back, a single constant in the chaotic world of the final confrontation. Thick muscle and slow, patient intellect, a respectful voice and a steady hand, one of the only people he's ever truly liked. Vodka won't survive this; even if the bullets don't find his steady heart he'll kill himself before he lets them take him. Either way it will be fast, and that is all the hope Gin holds for him.

And for himself, less.

(There is such a thing as immortality, Ano Kata once said.)

His gun is hard and steady as he slides another clip in. It's an extension of his arm, of his body, like his hand was made for it. He fires off two more shots, and sees a distant figure fall back. Not dead; the fall speaks of an impact, not a puncture. A bulletproof vest, then. One more shot while the man is down, and the movement ceases.

He would grin, but he already is. His smile hasn't faded since the trap sprung around them, appeared at the first sound of firecracker-gunfire. His heart is beating fast, keeping quick time in his head, for all the world like a man in love. His nerves are alive with electricity, his limbs are quick and fast, and his mind is awake like it so rarely gets to be.

It's adrenaline. But that doesn't mean it isn't wonderful.

(The dream of all mankind, to be free from the fear of death.)

A single shot cracks the air in front of his face to bury itself in the shipping container next to them. He doesn't flinch, but he does draw back, flattening the length of his smooth hair against Vodka's coat.
"Aniki?"

"Cover. Someone's got a shot on us."

Vodka doesn't argue, and the only acknowledgment he makes is a soft grunt as he jumps off the shipping container they'd climbed onto. Gin follows him down.

In the space between the shipping containers, there is more wind than starlight. It makes the weight of his hair pull out like a flag in the ocean breeze. Vodka turns to face one way, and Gin the other. The movement is precise and instinctive, the product of a long partnership that ends tonight. They scan the world in front of them with something solid at their back.

Gin raises his arm and fires a single shot. Vodka fires four. Their enemies fall around them, and the blood reflects the stars more placidly than the waves.

(This dream, this ultimate goal, is within our reach.)

They will not escape; there are no boats or cars remaining. The damn silver bullet saw to that. If they run, they will be hunted, interrogated, humiliated. The only option they can accept is death.

(And we will take it.)

Korn is dead. Chianti is dying. Vermouth is in a stand-off that she will not win.

The others have gone ahead to prepare the way. All that can be done is to take their enemies with them to the grave.

But that is all Gin has ever wanted to do.

He will soon get to do it, so he smiles.

Their enemies – their true enemies, not the soon-to-be-corpses of nameless police and FBI – are to the east, the source of the wind. Gin leads and Vodka follows, a fast, silent run, black coats through shadows, the movement of hair and clothing doubled by the wind. Bullets run ahead of them, clearing a path through corpses that don't know they're dead yet.

They shoot one a second too late.

Vodka falls.

He goes down with a muffled sound of pain that Gin could ignore from anyone but his partner. He's not dead, but he's dying – blood pours from his chest onto the ground around him, a dark, still sea on the white cement. He has just enough strength to look up at his partner.

It will be fast, and that is all that Gin can give him. He raises his gun to shoot.

Vodka smiles.

And Gin kills him.

He does not smile, for once.

(There is such a thing as immortality, Ano Kata once said.)

But Ano Kata is a fool.

Gin whirls and his hair spirals around him like a whirlpool, and he runs, fast and silent and once again grinning. Two more men meet their deaths at the end of the gun his hand was made for. He loads another clip and keeps going. Bang, bang, bang, punctuation at the end of lives, the fireworks to his own summer festival.

And Gin laughs, as he runs and shoots and kills, because he knows something Ano Kata never understood, and none of the men he has killed do either. There is such a thing as immortality.

To be free from the fear of death.

And there, finally, the enemy he sought. He lies atop a stack of shipping containers, peering down through a scope that shines like a star. His dark wool cap doesn't fit the summer air. The barrel of the gun is pointed at Gin's head, and the hands behind it are too steady to miss.

He is going to die.

But Gin has never feared death, and neither has his enemy. They are immortals, both of them, facing off at last in this world of stars and summer air reflecting off of blood.

Gin raises his gun to shoot.

He smiles.

(His heart beats fast and his nerves are wired, his limbs are quick and fast and he is awake and aware and alive like he so rarely gets to be, and he couldn't stop smiling if he tried.)

One last shot, one last summer firework.

And the sniper kills him.

A.N: Apologies for the overdramatic style. This was sort of an experiment in metaphor and I'm not sure how it turned out. Let me know what you think!