Several feet away, another little kid crawls from the wreckage that surrounds him, his vision choked by smoke. With his costume in tatters all over him, he's basically a pile of bloody rags at this point, interspersed with patches of burnt and charred skin. He might even be mortally wounded, although he doesn't feel any of it. There's little else to guide him forward but his own delirium, a desperation that lingers even as grasping onto his surroundings proves to be impossible.

A shard from the mess is clutched tightly in one hand, shrapnel that's still hot and smoking a little. Kenny can barely walk, but he limps his way toward the finish without even really registering who else might be there, waiting. Her body is prone on the ground now, the girl he'd been gunning after. All it takes is one slash, one swift blow, and it will be over. For her, for him, for everyone here.

He collapses to his knees when he's nearly there, gasping for breath a little, but proceeds to inch forward in a half-crawl with the makeshift weapon brandished and ready.