Title: Saving the World

Author: Hawk Clowd

Disclaimer: you guys know the drill. They aren't mine.

Blood Type: sugar water. Because having sugar water as a blood type would just be plain weird.

Warnings: I don't know yet. This is another one of those spontaneous "hit the new topic button and go from there" fics, so we'll see what we get. Expect everything. Want nothing. Rawr.

Word Count: 500

Author's Notes: this has not been looked over by a beta--please excuse any and all spelling or grammar mistakes--and it's really only my sad little attempt to kill a plot mongoose before November first comes around. Stupid novel month. Rawr.  (extended note: I was going through my collection of completed stories and found this one nestled in there.  I don't remember when I wrote it and I've never done anything with it before now.  I wish I knew why.  May 31, 2004)


When I got back home earlier tonight, after what seemed like hours, every inch of me was sore and fatigued; all I wanted to do was fall sleep. But I had to keep up the idea that nothing was wrong, so I showered and dressed myself in clean clothes and then fell into bed. And even then I was kept awake. The faces of those people I had just killed only a short time before haunted my dreams every time my eyes began to shut, and when I kept my eyes open I could hear their screams echoing through my mind. That always happens to me after a mission.

It had been one of those missions that seem to go on forever. The kind where the blood never stops spilling and where everyone's faces seem to run together to create one awful Picasso work, only to sort themselves out and play constantly throughout your dreams for weeks afterward. It was the sort of mission where you could forget who you were and submit to the battle, to the fight--where you could get lost in the war and then never find your way out. One of the hard ones.

I often lay awake at night, staring up at the ceiling and listening to the final screams and prayers of a hundred people echo through my mind. And the images were worse; I could see their faces whenever my eyes slipped shut even for a moment. Some of them were crying. Some were scared. Most of them, though, were already caught up in the blood lust and were crazy with the need to spill the blood of an enemy. My blood.

The only thing worse than the images were the emotions; I could imagine how frightened those people must have been just as the final blow hit them. That must be the hardest thing about my job, I think, is the way things seem to come back to me later on. After there's nothing I can do to fix it, and how they torture me even after everything is finally over and there's nothing left to be done. I imagine that they torture everyone like me in this same way. There are others who do work like I do, after all. I know that for a fact; I've met them. And it always amazes me when I see any of the smiling.

I smile too, of course. I have to smile. There are people counting on me to keep on smiling and to leave the dead behind, after all, and I can't let them down. But that's different, really. I can't let myself believe that it isn't.

Sorry, I'm not really making a lot of sense. You'll have to excuse me for that; sometimes things get so muddled up in my brain that I can't write down what I'm thinking without forgetting a few parts here and there. I'll just get to the point, shall I?

I hate saving the world.