• It's the same game they've been playing for years, really.

    A thousand empty threats, a thousand times their fingers rested on the button that would trigger the end of the world. Every time they got word of something incoming across the skies, they were pulling that trigger down, and every time there was that same empty click when it turned out to be nothing at all.

    But not this time.

    This time the skies are on fire outside the bunker, a million brilliant shades of blood. This time their cities are crumbling and they are crumbling with it as missiles are traded back and forth, the hammer hitting the bullet time and time again.

    And inside the bunker, Russia and America play one last game together.

    America spins the barrel, staring down at the gun. "I could fire this at you," he says contemplatively, adjusting his cracked and pitted glasses. One lens is smeared with blood, obscuring the eye behind it. "Pow, pow. I'd know that the last thing I did was get rid ofyou, you commie."

    "But this is not how the game is played," Russia replies with a small smile. He idly presses one hand to his chest, where his blood is staining his coat a brilliant red. Moscow fell long ago, after all, but he can survive a little longer without it. He has before. "And little one does like games, doesn't he?"

    "Heh. Yeah." America presses the gun to his head, grinning defiantly. "Bang."

    He pulls the trigger, and the revolver spins with nothing more than a hollow click.

    With a sigh (almost one of regret, maybe), America tosses the gun to Russia. "Well, I can't pull the trigger on you, but you can do it to yourself. Your luck's out."

    "So is yours," Russia observes, reasonably. "So is everyone's. The world is ending for both of us."

    America shrugs a little, wincing at the pain of the movement. "If I die as the sole hero, I'll count myself lucky."

    Russia shrugs and spins the barrel, listening to the clicks. "A hero unremembered is barely a hero at all. But no matter. It's my turn." He presses the cold metal against his forehead, pulls the trigger.

    A click, and nothing more.

    "Guess your Commie luck lasts a little longer," America says with a laugh, and he reaches out his hand for the gun.

    Russia passes it to him, and another round begins in the last game they'll ever play together.