He was alone, everything was gone and he was so broken and lonely. The war was over. There was nothing left to fight over, no one left to fight, and it was his fault. He was burning. They were all burning. Dying, screaming in agony, again and again, brought back to face more pain when all they wanted to do was die. The last of his race, with the blood of whole civilisations on his hands. He could have made no other choice. He could end the war but if he did he would lose everything. He could lose everything and save the rest of the universe, the choice should have been obvious. An endless war and yet there had to be a way to save them, to end the war and save his people. If he could just save his family, stop them from dying. He knew what had to happen and so he caused it to happen. There had to be another way. He was their perfect weapon, perfect and yet so very broken. He knew what he had to do, he didn't know if he could do it. Alone, broken, drowning in the blood of his entire race, all that could happen and everything that must not, that was who he was. He didn't even exist anymore, nothing did except the pain, the constant pain. He was nothing but pain and death, constantly repeated in an unending cycle. He pulled the lever and his world ceased to exist.