It hurt, she thought idly, watching the arterial blood pulse out. "Crimson" was not the word for it. It was darker than crimson, more intense.It's the color of life, she thought, and life is always darker than you expect.And here, at the critical moment, it was most definitely dark. The new generation grows up, gets stronger and smarter; at the same time, the older generation gets slower, feebler. Eventually the young ones get impatient, and words like 'revolution' are tossed around like Molotov cocktails igniting insurrection in like-minded hearts. The old ones resist. They took their own places long ago, by dint of strong arms and fast reflexes, and exulted when they crossed from inconsequence to power.This cycle repeats endlessly, she thought, watching the blood soak down to the floor. As the pulsing jets grew weaker, the struggle for each breath increased proportionately. The gasping sounded like it was coming from far off, far beyond her, as her mind detached from the painful reality in front of her. Each new generation stands on the bridge and attempts to cross over, she mused. And eventually they succeed. They must succeed. And as one of the older generation, she had had her turn. It was time for the young ones to cross over to positions of power, and push her back, away, into irrelevance.But not today, she thought gently, reaching out to close the young man's eyelids, holding her sleeve clear of the mess at his throat.