A one shot of a hero’s moments becoming the villain
A hand was surely gripping his throat. Pressing hands so cold they burned into his skin, directly through him. Everything felt cut off.
He could not speak.
He could not hear.
And he would not move from this spot.
Because the one thing that still worked, had to be his eyes. Eyes she loved. Loved and cherished and watched for all the secrets he apparently spilled there. The only one to say so. When had she last mentioned it? Her love of his cerulean eyes. He couldn’t remember. He wasn’t certain if she was 5 ft 2 or 5 ft 3 either.
The burn moved, trailing to his heart. Settled in sharper than before.
He hated himself more as the sharpness increased. As his breath caught and choked as the sight before him buried itself deeper into his soul. It wasn’t supposed to happen. They were supposed to make it out alive. The plan. His plan, wasn’t supposed to fail. But it had, it had failed her. It had taken her away.
A rumble tipped his head up to the skies overhead. And the air jets momentarily broke the spell he’d been pulled into. Until the colours they carried, red with the blood they spilt so happily, captured his attention. And they were soaring down, zeroing in. He knew where. It would be him. It always was. He looked down, not this time.
Amber eyes, tinged with the yellow of a father long dead and hair of a mother never met. Or eye. One was destroyed by the metal shrapnel embedded into her very skull. Splitting open the beautiful features into something other. Leaving half her face untouched, except for a single line of blood, draining into the eye that stared him down. He wished her remaining eye filled with hatred. Desperation, anger, the evil she saw in the world that she reflected back so fiercely.
The eye was blank of any such thing.
He tore his gaze away and before he realized it, the pain that was building let loose in a scream that tore into the darkening skies. He clutched his head, fingers digging into his skull, as if he could rip out the pain. No, he could not. He would learn before long, that he never would.
His hand shot forward and ripped the surviving necklace away. The silver glinted in his eyes, but he hid it from his own site as quickly as possible. But it would not be left behind. It would be a reminder. Of what had happened. And what he would do. She would have hated him. Just as he was already learning to hate himself. But she was dead. Dead. Gone and leaving him alone. She wasn’t able to reprimand him any more for this decision. Shoving harshly from his knees, he took to his feet, gathering his shoulders tightly, pushing them back with his chin high in the air.
Yes, she would hate him. She would have regretted the day she fell in love with him. Now she didn’t have to. They had saved her that. Now he would gift them something else.
The steps he took were even and clean. No one would realize why his hands dripped with blood not his own, but not the enemies either. They wouldn’t know until it was too late, just like her.
He arrived at the machine and went straight to the hidden panel, pulling it out with an abrupt screech. All eyes turned to him now. They watched their leader in shock. But none spoke up. Few saw the rage, the darkness and cold clutching his chest building in his gaze. They saw and they were silent. The buttons were familiar friends, even when they had never been used. Now, they were the greatest ally he had encountered. A few clicks were all it took. The wreckage metal building pulled back and revealed what it hid from everyone. A missile, made of diamond glass that revealed the brilliant purple and red liquid within. The substance in all of their blood and in none of theirs.
Differences meant nothing when you were dead. He was just ensuring they understood how similar they all were before that death.
A cruel grin, mad with raging thoughts formed in a hole of shrapnel and blood. He tilted his head, eyes trailing to the sky, the one she would never see again.
A click, followed by the groan of metal.
Then the screaming began.