A Last Stand.

He’d always known it would end this way.
The Wall lies broken. Another takes its place, a triple line of men. Shotgunners crouching in front. Riflemen. Munitions.
You emptied your rifle. You handed it back, still smoking. Another was passed forward. Repeat. They die. Or you do.
A last stand. He’d known it would come.
You don’t live on the Wall. You only delay dying.
Reaper empties his rifle. Empties his rifle. Empties his rifle.
The darkness sweeps them away.
The gunman lowers his hand from Reapers forehead.
“That,” he says, “is what happens if you don’t let me pass.”