[ WP ] You were a soldier in a future conflict , until your heroic death . Now you face the battlefield of the Ragnarok of Nordic myth , with your full war kit .

It's a long distance from pretty watching Thor die. His hammer falls to the ground and from it a quake ripples along an entire continent that rearranges the entirety of mountains. The aftershock is so loud it my heart skips and it leaves a ringing silence in its passing. My pulse rifle left a cavity in his torso, hot with smoke. It stinks of cooked flesh. 
 
 It's a free for all, and whoever survives gets to create the next era of man in their image. I look into the reflection of Thor's breastplate, and let me tell you, mine is spitting. 
 
 Not long ago, beneath my feet was every failure. Among them included the second mightiest man to have ever lived, his knuckles still tight on his pulse rifle. From every advancement of man creates gods relative to their ancestors, and I am the last of the last, the final war on Earth came down to me and and the tight knuckled man. Call us stubborn, but the only acceptable death for either of us involved glory. I sat there on a mountain of the dead with a wounded heart from his final shot. If any man had a right to ascend and match celestial brethren, it was me; I was the final centurion. And now, to live that life twice? 
 
 What a blessing. 
 
 A shock grenade splinters through even the mightiest of Norse warriors. I wrestle down Odin with cybernetic enhancements. Loki is no match for a boot to the skull. It's all so easy. A man with a musket and a good eye, likely the proudest man to free the United States from the tyranny of British rule stands before me. He fires a single bullet. I am impervious. I strike him down just as he would want. A second death, swift and marvelous, befitting of a true patriot. The men in camouflage are next. Dozens of them stand, then dozens fall. It grows more and more tiresome. My only disadvantage is having similar endurance to my kin. I tire and gasp for air, sweat rains down my face. 
 
 The last man is like me. Well equipped and from the last of times, before the Earth came to ruin. He tightens his knuckles and we fire at the same time. I feel the searing heat, my arm rips away and tumbles lifelessly like a dead worm. I grit my teeth before screaming through them, and then my jaw loosens. It hurts. Goddamn it hurts. 
 
 But the tight-knuckled man is dead, an I am the last standing. A beam of light engulfs me. What they said was true, that two in my image will populate the Earth when green sprouts from gray, when the skies part from ashen skies to a bright blue. In the future, one-armed men walk the Earth and carry my greatness forward.
