A/N: Hey, thanks for reading. Ironically, this was inspired because September is Suicide Prevention Month. And, for the record, just because suicide makes for a good story, I hope you never consider it. If you ever struggle, talk to someone, anyone, please. I'd talk to you, I don't care if I know you or not, if you sent me a message, I would listen to you.

Okay, mini rant over. Sorry guys. Review and tell me if you like this oneshot!

Disclaimer: I don't own Star Wars.

The weary officer in the grey uniform quickly keyed in the code that led to his chamber.

Kriger Reku removed his cap off of his sweaty head once the doors closed behind him and sat on his bed wearily.

He was exhausted.

It was not that the day of work had been demanding, it was that his soul was tired. Of life.

He'd been one of the few to enlist in service of the Galatic Empire as it emerged from the rubble of Republic.

Eager to avenge the damage that had been done to his homeworld, Kriger was eager for justice to be exacted, and he had believed the new leader, Emperor Palpatine, was the right person to do it.

He wanted to be on the winning side, so he quickly signed up for a role in this new government, and in a few years, he'd found himself in a higher position than he'd anticipated. Major Reku.

The name sounded absurd, and he laughed aloud, a pathetic attempt to allay the despair that clutched his being.

In spite of the benefits that came with rank, he found he wished he had never enlisted.

Because, with his high rank, his eyes had also seen more gore than he ever expected. And he had been angry about his homeworld?

Kriger could only imagine the rage that must flood the people of countless planets. So much death...so much devastation...and he'd played a hand it.

Curse him.

Suddenly, before his eyes, he saw it all again.

Young men lay in unnatural positions on the floor, bleeding from almost everywhere. Arms splayed out awkwardly, legs moving in one last desperate attempt to stand and fight. As the struggle to stay alive thundered in their eyes, the last thing they directed their eyes toward was Kriger, the officer who stood bye. And their looks were filled with hate, pure hatred for the man who had called for their lives to be cut off.

Women sobbed, rushing about and trying to avoid the soldiers, but when they ventured too close, they were shot, ruthlessly.

Some of them were brave enough or foolish enough to challenge the soliders, and a few actually made some headway. But, of course, they stood no chance. Grenades were thrown and they found themselves in the same situation as the men.

Young scurried ran around, and even while they cried to the officers to help them, trying to find relatives, if they were too close, they were taken out, mercilessly.

Kriger gasped, and the vision faded. He fought a sob, and found he held his blaster in his hands. He looked down at it, pressing the cold metal into his skin.

Why not?

He wouldn't be missed. Any young soldier could easy replace him.

Besides, he deserved it. He had sat by and watched, no, sometimes ordered the carnage that plagued him so. He'd shot down some of the children himself.

Yes, he certainly deserved it.

Did he really want to live in a world where everywhere he turned, he was greeted with corruption and slaughter?

No. He didn't think so.

He didn't think so at all.