norton can switch between the forms
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Summary
He had survived so far, the revolver showing mercy on him each night, cold metal and no gunfire, an intact head. Men to lead, the next morning. Except, of course, now he had none. There was no one left, no one that would miss him (except maybe— but no, she had surely forgotten him, as he had intended her to), nothing but high command and another gun, a bayonet if they felt fancy, another order, another face that looked far too like his own, gunned down.
The gun pressed harshly against his head. His thumb flexed upon the hammer. A one in five chance. He pressed down and—
—Click.
He breathed out, a warm stream of air, fogging in the crisp cold of the night. Nothing. His head remained, his brain inside, snug, his life hanging on. He refused to open his eyes. The gun still pressed against his temple. The barrel was cold. His thumb lifted, slowly, and he heard the hammer snap back into place, the next chamber lined up. His let his thumb down again, resting lightly on the hammer. Fuck. He was the only one left. His eyes squeezed. A one in five chance. Another one in five chance- or, he supposed, a one in four chance, now that one had proven useless. A one in four chance. He pressed down and—
Series
- Part 3 of fables of the fallen