A short one-shot on Saddler and how he feels. Please R&R!

Osmund Saddler sat on his throne, one leg draped over the side, tapping his chin with a clawed finger. This undignified position was a result of the horribly exhausting pursuit of Leon. Osmund was sick of sending his followers to their deaths because of this irritating American agent. He gazed towards the windows, the heavy rain trickling down them like tears. How depressing. At least it was light in here, the brightness illuminating the cult leader, in all his bored glory. Even though Osmund didn't need as much sleep as the Ganado, he found that the extra hours were growing increasingly tiresome. The only people that came into his throne room were the lead Ganado, wanting orders. And occasionally Krauser. These, he tried to engage in conversation. The Ganado constantly side-stepped questions then got very panicked at the amount they were being asked and got some idea that they were being interrogated. Usually at that point they went on their knees, and began to beg and implore Osmund to 'give them another chance'.

Krauser liked to talk about himself more than anything else. He would constantly treat Osmund to tales about how fast he could kill a man with his bare hands, or how he got his scars. Sometimes Osmund could swear he knew more about Krauser than the man himself.

Osmund longed for a conversation with someone who would ask him about how he was feeling, or how his day was. Someone used to. Someone used to beam when he approached, and was relaxed around him. Not like the paranoid Ganado, or mister I'm-so-Macho-but-a-woman-could-beat-me.

Osmund remembered Luis with a fond smile. He had once caught the Spaniard dancing to some song in his office, jumping around with his backside wiggling, and imitating the female singer's voice with some high-pitched wailing. Osmund recalled Luis laughing at himself when he was caught, and then admitting this was a regular thing for him to be doing.

Then there was the incident when Luis had tried to make his own cigarettes. The result was having to perform CPR on the poor man shortly after he had realised that he wasn't super-human yet, and couldn't inhale smoke made by setting moss on fire, without some bad side-effects. He must have been desperate.

Luis had been so full of life. He had tried to flirt with anything that moved, including Osmund. The cult leader had had to gently push the Spaniard's advances away, except for a moment when he weakened and allowed Luis to steal a passionate kiss in a bathroom at the castle.

Osmund's smile vanished when he remembered opening the door, trailing Luis. The man had slid his hands down Osmund's sides while they kissed…into his pocket. Osmund realised the sample had gone as soon as Luis shut the door to the bathroom, leaving him alone. The sorrow he felt could still not overcome his rage. Maybe if it had, then he would have acted less rashly, and Luis would still be alive.

Osmund tried to think of anything to take his mind off the happy-go-lucky Spaniard. Eventually, he took out his transceiver and decided to see how everyone's favourite hero was. The American's pretty face flickered onto the screen.

"I hate to break it out to you, but Salazar's dead."

No smugness, no triumph. Just the voice of someone who had seen and dealt out too much death.

"Yes." A sigh. "It seems that way."

"Saddler, why don't you give up and let Ashley go home?"

A plea in a voice that sounded as tired as he felt. Osmund zoomed in on Leon, and saw the half closed eyes and pale face. The same sad expression.

Are you feeling the same thing I am, American?

"Clearly you are disillusioned with overconfidence. Just because you killed my small-time subordinate?"

While his mouth said one thing, his mind said another. The American's expression turned from sadness to anger.

"You corrupted him! You came into his life, and smashed every chance he had of knowing the truth about you and your insane religion! I had to fight him; I had to pull the trigger! Every time I have to pull the fucking trigger! Every time I have to watch someone else fall to the floor because of something I've done! Well, I'm sick of it! I'm sick of watching my friends die!"

So you are feeling the same as me…interesting.

"You miss Luis as well then?"

"You miss him? You killed him! You stabbed him through the chest!"

"An action which I now regret. You have no idea how close we were, American."

The agent sneered, his face twisted.

"Yeah, so close that you trapped him in your warped society, and infected him."

Since Osmund couldn't think up a valid reason for that, he simply forced a smile.

"Writhe in my cage of torment, my friend."

With the conversation discontinued, Saddler put his head in his hands, trying to ignore the rain drumming on the windows.

What have I done?