"He who fights monsters should look into it that he himself does not become a monster

"He who fights monsters should look into it that he himself does not become a monster. When you gaze into the Abyss, the abyss also gazes into you."

-Friedrich Nietzsche

It was standing there, looking him in the eyes, that he told him that love was a weakness. Love was something he was glad he didn't have the ability to do. Bobby could only look back into his intense blue eyes and see more then he ever wanted.

He was right when he said that love was a weakness, but he had lied when he said he didn't love. Because when he closed his eyes, he still saw her, 4' 11", soft blonde hair and a slim build, dark-lashed, immense gray eyes behind even bigger thick rimmed black glasses, big enough they threatened to swallow her face.

He loved her, that was what he loved. It wasn't that his love for her had made him evil (he always had been), but it certainly helped.

She had been bookish and skittish, dreaming of a life that didn't involve the row of orange pill-bottles that sat in the bathroom cabinet of her second-earth home. She had run away more times then he had count, she had heard voices in her heads, always talking.

And she had been smart. She had taken a confused boy-traveler and told him the secrets of the universe. And it was her that figured out the secret of the flume, the civilization and the balance of all Halla.

She had spun the mere existence of Halla, though unknowingly. Her dreams had been the basis for all that never existed. She had been born human and made into dreams.

He had kissed her, made love to her, talked of forever. He would have left the life of a Traveler for her, and he had planned to.

He couldn't even sleep these days, because all he would see was her death. Her eyes flickering out, then becoming empty as dark red blood stained her pale white face from a bullet hole right through her forehead, body halfway in the flume, halfway out.

And Press, that damn man, standing there and shaking. Just a kid, maybe fifteen, holding a gun and staring wide-eyed at the very first person he ever killed. And it wasn't that he didn't have his reasons, because if he hadn't killed her, worlds would have fallen, his own included. He had every reason. He did it in the name of good.

Saint Dane, once called Daniel Saint, snorted dervishly. Good. What the hell was so important about that word anyways? What even was good? After all, the antagonist is simply the person from whose perspective the story is written.

And if killing a girl that could have ended the old universe and brought a new one was good, let it be so.

I love you.+Author's note:
I seem to have an obsession with one-shots, don't I? I like reading them, I love reading them…oh well. I just wanted to write Saint Dane a love, but not a love that made him evil, just a love that made him hate Press instead of not caring. Well, you know the drill, read/review/ect.