Without warning, a hand closed around his throat from behind, lifting 11 off the ground and turning him toward the owner of the hand. It was a Trueborn Mog; the others were Vatborn, cannon fodder, grown to die. This one would have been esteemed as royalty by his companions, had there been any more to esteem him. He looked furious, his hatred clear in his sneer and the tight grip on 11's neck. Spots swirled around his vision and he struggled to draw a breath. Is this it? The last Mogadorian and I fail at the very end? Cruel. The Mog opened his mouth to say something, but before he got a word out, a hiss sounded from 11's left and something pierced the Mog's head, killing him instantly. His vision darkening, 11 looked at the object in the Mog's head as it let go of him and fell to the ground. An arrow? And then: nothingness.