Title – Whatever God You Wish

Summary – And that's when it hit me. I had created a monster. God, if you're even there, what have I done?

Rating – T, profanity, sexual reference, graphic descriptions of gore

Comments – This fic is for my wonderful husband. I love you, now shut up about it already.

I stood outside the heavy wooden doors of the courtroom. The alarm had been going off for a while now; looks like Dolly did his part for once. I knew that just on the other side of the doors was about fifty terrified people, one of whom had at least one gun to the back of his head. Sure Papa Joe deserved it, but...

I pushed the door open just enough to see inside. Now I could here the speech that I had listened to the brothers brag about for the past three months. Epic, they called it. Yeah right, they probably got the idea from a movie (like that stupid air vent thing.)

It was the one I wish I could mindlessly fuck into a wall (that would be Conner) who was delivering his lines as I opened the door.

"These are not polite suggestions. These are codes of behavior, and those of you who ignore them will pay the dearest cost."

Holly shit. Conner sounded mad enough to...well, to kill someone.

It was the one I want to tie to a four post bed and devour (Murphy, obviously) who yelled at the crowd next.

"There are varying degrees of evil. We urge you lesser forms of filth not to push the bounds and cross over into true corruption; into our domain."

Uuuuuumm...I have a bad feeling about this...

Uh-oh. UH-OH!

"But if you do, one day you will look behind you and you will see we three. And on that day, you will reap it."

And that's when it hit me. I had created a fucking monster.

"And we will send you to what ever god you wish."

As the brothers jumped down from the tables and took their places on either side of their father (yeah, Il Duce's their dad, where the fuck did that come from?) I tried to convince myself that this was a dream, that I hadn't aided two (actually three...actually four) monstrous vigilante killers, that I hadn't turned myself and three respected (maybe not to smart, but respected none the less) Boston detectives into federal criminals. At any moment now I would wake up from my nap at the desk and The MacManus brothers would make some cheesy dramatic exit from the holding cell, go home, and I would never see them again.

Then they began to pray, all three together. And I wondered, does that make what they were about to do okay; that they prayed first?

Why would it, even if there is a god up there somewhere?

"And shepherds we shall be,

for thee, my thee my Lord, for thee.

Power hath descended forth from thy hand,

that our feet may swiftly carry out thy command.

So we shall flow a river forth to thee,

and teaming with souls shall it ever be."

I only had to hear it once, and that prayer was burned into my head (an eidetic memory is a blessing and in this case a curse.) Fucking thing still gives me nightmares.

"En nomani patri,"

Noah's voice carried straight to heaven.

"Et Fili,"

Conner still sounded pissed. He spoke that Latin like it was a threat. No, a warning.

"Spiritus Sancti."

Murphy sounded resolute, matter-of-fact, one degree short of sadistic.

And then it happened. I couldn't even watch; hearing was enough. The three simultaneous gunshots (no silencers this time. The deafening sound was probably part of their message) and all those terrified screams.

I felt like I was going to be sick. In all my years as an FBI agent I had never felt like this about a crime. I had seen the bloodiest murders and worse, I had even witnessed disgusting crimes. But I had never been an accessory to a public execution.

I finally forced my eyes open as a crowd of hysterical witnesses to my deeds rushed passed me. My eyes turned straight to the dead Mafia Don on the floor in front of the vigilante trio.

I had to choke back my own vomit at the sight of it. His head was almost completely blown off. Blood and brain and scull fragments covered everything within a four foot radius, including the killers who now just stood there; the old man looking up with his eyes closed, as if letting God's fucking grace fall on him, and his sons admired their work.

They were proud of it. They liked it.

There has to be a line between being devoted and being just plain bloodthirsty. I'm just about sure it was crossed there in that courtroom.

Those two had gone from light hearted boys to cold blooded killers in less than six months, and I had made it happen.

I found myself now looking up to the sky in futile prayer.

"God," I prayed, "If you're even there, what have I done."

What have I done.