Clenching his sword beneath his coat he looked onward towards the war-torn city. The bullets battered his senses as the guns of his opposers used up their final rounds. The clatter of armour surrounded him as he realised the situation he was in. He needed coverage and where he was, the closest thing he could see was deep beneath the rotting corpses scattered across the, once busy, suburban motorway. Stranded in the median of the great bridge, connecting Orroway to Benevaar, he began to scribe down strategies in his mind of some way to get out of his situation, but nothing lead to him safely returning to where he yearned to be.
Launceston.
For years he had wished to return to his rightful place in the headquarters of PCB, the Protectors of the District Boundary. He had abandoned his job as head of the PCB to aid his allies in the battle against those who called themselves 'WRACC'. No one has yet discovered what this anagram means, if it actually is an anagram or if it even has any significance to the clan at all.
A loud echo shattered his thoughts and the crack of a wire sent the bridge into a series of slow swaying motions. The WRACC were snapping the huge metal ropes holding the great suspension bridge in place. The sword strapped to his thigh held no use to him at the moment and the chance of him getting out safely were slowly slipping as time passed. Another crack filled his thoughts and the bridge began to tip further towards the deep blackened, oil filled water, which would definitely be a ghastly death, not no mention a horrible end to the city. He fingered the rough glass object in his hand, ran his fingers around the thin metal coil circling the great object. The flame stored inside began to burn his hand and the metal coil had burnt a parallel collection of thin lines across his left thigh.
The artifact he held in his hand could not break. That would end in a horrible, disgusting, obscene way, as the flame inside the great glass orb was no ordinary flame. It was a myth, which a few weeks ago was believed to be untrue, but this object went against all the logic in the world's inhabitant's minds and defied all the quotes from the world's great scientists. It was proved to be a legend by over one thousand different geographic and chemistry professors and until now, the object was forgotten. What our brave man held in his hand was the last of the eternal fire, which was claimed, by legend, to be destroyed by dark magic centuries ago. When this flame set something on fire it spreads like normal fire, except there is only one known thing that can destroy it, and one known person who has the knowledge to perform it, although, he died over three hundred years ago.
Another crack echoed through the air and the bridge pivoted towards the oily pool below. The bridge crumbled and a huge crack ripped through the concrete supports, breaking the bridge across the middle. He dropped down onto his stomach and narrowly avoided the huge spiral of metal rope that sliced past the air above him.
The bridge creaked to the left and began to fall downwards towards the Marlton River below, sending a cruel shiver down his spine. The feeling of death overcame him and he realised that this may be the end of him.
NO!
He yelled out and scanned the area. His breathing became hoarse and he looked for something that could carry him away safely. There were a few broken cardboard boxes that looked like they were used for an old supermarket and there was an overturned shopping trolley, although that slid over the edge. Not that he needed it. The flame in is pocket was growing warmer for some reason and he moved it into the scabbed area, which had already had it's fair share of heat, and felt little pain in that area. Maybe the object could sense the rising possiblity of death...
The bridge had dropped down further, and he was surprised it was taking so long, but it had now begun to pick up speed, so he grabbed hold of a broken granite stump, which had once been the support for the huge ropes holding this now doomed bridge up for it's mere fifty years of service. He huddled against it and watched the black liquid devour the side of the bridge, which had severed itself from the side he was on and was now metres away from the water. The tip of the bridge dipped beneath the motley water and he clenched his eyes and grasped the concrete stump with all his might.
The end is now, echoed through his mind as he felt the oil trickle into his right boot.