What he sees play out is like something from a nightmare — another one, again and again, so many nightmares of unspeakable violence and he'll never be free of them — a man screaming, fire spreading and engulfing, a body slumping to the ground after its impalement.

Even after all that he's seen and witnessed, the sight and sounds and smells make Little sick. He feels himself heaving from the inside out, from a place way down deep within him, stomach convulsing. He turns and gags towards the snow, but nothing comes up as his body dry-heaves a few times, as though desperate to purge itself. But it can't. It won't.

There's a loud sound against the snow beside him as his gun is thrown down, and the ammunition it's been cleared of. Shuddering, he looks up ato the man glaring down at him with something that almost feels like hate — anger in every fibre of his being, every word he speaks. Little's almost stricken numb, feeling himself caught in that same fog of dissociation, the one that pulls him out of himself and leaves him strange and dazed, but before he realises he's doing it, he starts speaking. Words quick and quivering, almost desperate.

"I can't do it, I can't— I can't, not again—" He's heard Raju's hard instruction but hasn't processed it, can only spill the words out almost like a confession. The more they come, the more panicky he feels, heart pounding, mind spinning out of his control. He's not breathing properly, not swallowing inbetween the words, saliva pooling and dripping from one corner of his mouth down to the snow as he rambles like a trembling child.

"I can't kill him, couldn't kill him— I can't do it again!"