I was listening to Jo Dee Messina's absolutely beautiful, heartbreaking song "Even God Must Get the Blues" and this came to mind. If you've ever heard it, you'd understand, I'm sure. I think Omi was feeling slightly neglected, since most of my fics lately have been focusing more on Yohji than him. Poor little mite.

Disclaimer: I do not own Weiß Kreuz or the characters therein, I'm just borrowing them for a while.

~silvershadeus~

Disclaimer: I do not own Weiß Kreuz or the characters therein, I'm just borrowing them for a while.

Feedback, onegai! ^_^

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Scars

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It was turning out to be one of those nights. The one where he sat up long past midnight and remembered. Remembered where each scar had come from, physical and emotional. When he would sit up and count each one. When he would wish for a hundred more, if he would come by them the same way.

Sighing, Omi got to his feet, shuffling towards his closet and the full-length mirror that hung from the closet door. He didn't feel the need to flip the lights on, if anyone else was awake and saw it they would worry. And besides, he could see well enough by moonlight.

Pulling his shirt off over his head, Omi stared at his reflection, blue eyes tracing every scar that marred the lines of his body. Never taking his eyes from those of his reflection, he reached up and trailed fingers along a jagged scar that curved just beneath his collarbone to the top of his left shoulder.

He smiled, a small sad thing that hurt to look at.

He didn't mind the scars; they were like a badge of honor. He knew if any of the others knew that was what he thought of them, they would worry. They would think the stress of his dual-life had finally gotten to him, and maybe they would have been right. Maybe.

He knew better, of course. Knew what each scar, what every moment he had suffered meant. What they added up to. Knew that he was most certainly damned for all that he had been, all that he had become, and all that he would be in time to come.

Assassin. Murderer. Killer.

And yet, there was little he would have traded his life for.

That scar, the one that was still sensitive to the light pressure of his fingers on it, the one that had cost him the use of his arm for months was the newest. The one that perhaps meant the most to him. The one he had received while doing the one thing he truly believed in.

The children were safe now, back in their own beds with their mothers and fathers to watch over them. Back where their siblings could fuss over them. Back where they belonged, with their families. Back home.

And he was here, where he belonged. A creature unlike any other. One that could blend into nearly any situation. One that was far more dangerous than appearances indicated. He was like a shark among minnows, and no one else the wiser.

If he could have, he would have laughed at the absurdity of it all. Aya, with his cold façade and emotionless eyes was more feared than he was, and yet they were the same, deep down. They killed, for what was right. For what they believed in, even if their motives for it differed.

Snorting, Omi shifted his attention to a pockmark down low on his side, just below his ribs. It was older, nearly blended into the pale cream shade of his skin. A small patch of slightly darker skin that was barely noticeable. He'd earned that one through the carelessness of his teammates, and yet he'd gotten off lightly, compared to them that night.

Twining around the bicep of his right arm were three faded scars that ran parallel to each other, twisting around his arm until they ended abruptly at his elbow. Those had bought the lives of those same teammates, paid for in blood and pain.

There were other scars, each with their own story, each a price that had been paid to save a life. Each one that had taken a little more of his soul with it. Each one that had made him more into a creature of the night.

Assassin. Murderer. Killer.

Three words that had once haunted his dreams. Words that had once filled him with fear, because he'd known them to be true. And they were, oh but they were. He was all of that, and more. But there were reasons why he did what he did.

And with each scar that covered his body, he found that he could sleep better for it. He found that he was no longer haunted by unheard screams, unheard pleas for help. He found that he had made a sort of peace with himself.

He killed, because not to was unthinkable. If it were murder, then so be it, no one else would do what was needed. No one else could. He knew that now. Knew the burden tied around his neck for what it was, and he welcomed it.

Welcomed the pain that came with it. Welcomed the tears that spilled from his eyes on nights like this. He welcomed it all, because it meant that one more innocent would be saved that pain. That burden that he carried.

Lifting his left hand, he turned it palm up, blue eyes sliding down to the faded line of pinkish skin centered in his palm and twisting around the base of his fingers. Even now, that hand was not quite as flexible as his right. The glass had cut too deeply, severing tendons and ligaments that had gone too long without proper medical care.

One corner of his mouth turned up as he flexed his hand, remembering the panicked screams of the victims. Remembering the way the target's blood had bubbled in his throat as his arrow found its mark. Remembered the bright stab of pain as the skylight he'd knelt on had exploded outwards as gunfire rang out.

It was a miracle that he'd regained as much mobility as he had in that hand. A miracle that he hadn't lost that hand, that arm, at all. A miracle that he'd survived. A miracle that he continued to, night after night. A miracle that he wanted to.

Eternally damned for what he did to save others. The irony had never escaped him, it only made him feel tired.

Assassin. Murderer. Killer.

Turning, he winced at a sharp twinge along his back, a result of the latest mission and a fall from a lofty hiding place. He'd been lucky that he hadn't broken anything in the fall. All he had to show for it were pulled muscles and darkening purple-black bruise down his left hip and side. The pain was secondary, of course. The children were safe, the target taken care of, and no one else had died needlessly.

Pulling his shirt back on, Omi paused to regard his reflection, a small humorless smile gracing his lips.

Like magic, the scars were gone from sight. Nothing to indicate what lay beneath the thin layer of cotton. Nothing to indicate what he had gone through to get his scars, or what they meant. Nothing to indicate what he was.

Omi turned towards his bed once again, silhouetted by silvery moonlight as he crossed the room on silent feet. Slipping beneath the covers of his bed, he drifted off into a deep sleep devoid of dreams or nightmares.

Assassin. Murderer. Killer.

He was all of that, and more.