Authors Note: This is a preview/test piece for MuRangers set roughly 3/4s of the way through and seperating the last two story arcs. The main storyline should be more action and plot heavy with less unbridled angst. As always, criticism is welcomed.

No-one else came to her funeral.

It wasn't the driving rain or the freezing winds that kept them away. It wasn't the lack of a priest, despite her fierce belief. It wasn't even the backwoods grave I'd been forced into digging for her because none of them had the balls to sell me a proper burial plot. It was fear. Fear of all the strange things that followed the five of us wherever we went. Fear of becoming just another line of the thousand page report that was the collateral damage in our lives. Fear of them. And above all, fear of us.

So here I stand, the rain pummelling down and soaking the both of us. At least she's long gone. She doesn't have to feel the sheets of half-frozen water pelting down. She doesn't have to watch the sleet soaking the shallow, rough hole that's about to become her final resting place. Thank God for small mercies.

I resisted the urge to look at the corpse beside me. It wasn't a pretty sight, not that you could see much thanks to the tarp she was wrapped in. What I could see was bad enough, her face a crushed mass of torn flesh and shattered bone. The tarp was for my benefit: I couldn't bear to see what the impact had done to her, but I couldn't just put her in the ground without saying my goodbyes and goodbyes can only be said to someone's face.

The rain continued to beat down and the wind kept blowing, the heavy pine trees around us bowing under the continued onslaught. It took all the strength I had just to look in what was left of her eyes, barely visible beneath the ruddy brown of dried blood.

"It isn't finished. As long as one person remembers, it will never be finished". The strangled words escaped me, barely uttered before I broke down sobbing.

Time tears blending with the harsh downpour as I fought to compose myself. Just trying to fight back the pain was the hardest thing I've ever done. I don't know how long it took before I pulled myself back to my feet, leaning hard against the cheap shovel I'd used to dig the makeshift grave.

With a cry, half of effort and half of pain, I dragged the tarp-wrapped figure from its resting place beneath a nearby tree into the now-sodden grave. The impact made a soft splash against the waterlogged soil and I began reciting the only prayer I've ever committed to memory.

"Domine, Jesu Christe, Rex gloriæ, libera animas omnium fidelium defunctorum de pœnis inferni et de profundo lacu. Libera eas de ore leonis, ne absorbeat eas tartarus, ne cadant in obscurum; sed signifer sanctus Michæl repræsentet eas in lucem sanctam, quam olim Abrahæ promisisti et semini ejus. "

All that remained was to shovel earth back into the hole.