Title: The Savior

Rating: PG-13 for violence and disturbing thoughts

Author: Wouldn't you like to know? Sorry—not allowed to tell you yet.

Summary: Participant of the GOA's fanfiction contest. Angst category. No ship—unless you really want there to be one (the evidence is there—think what you want). I suppose you'll have to guess at who the characters are. I had two in mind, but I'm not telling who they are just yet…

Disclaimer: I don't own Megami Kouhosei, nor do I make any money off of it.

Have you ever told a lie?

And if you did, did it catch in your throat; did you choke?

It sounds like something you'd do.

I see you smiling; do you cry?

No—you'll never cry on your own. I have to make you.

I try to turn you real through your agony, but you don't understand.

You think I'm cruel—but I'm only realistic.

I won't endure the thoughtlessness of joy, when all there is is pain.

There is so much anguish in life, but you don't know that—does that mean you're dead?

I tried to wake you up, I really did.

What is the difference between innocence and ignorance? I cannot tell.

You are both, because they are the same.

I want to beat the naivety out of you with every thrust, but you'll never let me close enough unless…

You're not strong enough for truth; maybe when you are it will be too late, and all will be lost already.

I can't let that happen.

I'm doing you a favor—I am the Savior of Space and Zion both.

I watch your life pool down, streaming like a river past your ribs, and you gasp as each spasm from your ragged torso makes more angry fire—your crimson life and death—run down my blade, the most intimate thing your heart has ever known.

It flows like dying lava down to my hands, and they are stained to vividness, and this is art, your/my/our salvation.

I've saved everything! Can't you see?

And it is glorious to save wretchedness, because it's all I've ever known, and why do you look at me so accusingly as you gurgle and drown?

I caress your wild hair and now-pale cheeks with my painter's/savior's/maker's hands, and the canvass of your face is filled with wonderful monochromatic glory until my morbid picture is complete, and you die in my arms, still trying to scream for the Darkness to go away, but it doesn't.

I kiss your motionless painted lips, lick up all the tangy liquid wonder in your mouth, until you are drained and white and unmoving, and I move from the futile grasp you've got on my arm, one hand still clenched tightly where it clutched me as you fought—perhaps your body still thinks that you're alive.

But you're not, and the hand falls away.

You left five ironic/symbolic/perfect bruises on my arm and five long gashes where my flesh was raked as I saved everybody (even you, in a way you'd never comprehend); part of me now lives under your fingernails, and don't you feel lucky to have finally proved yourself a useful thing?

Everyone thought you were the answer, that you would make everything okay, but I've proven them wrong; now you're more mortal than me, like you always were but no one ever realized.

I am the one they sought and now they'll know, and they will be grateful.

I don't understand why they're screaming—I can't see why they're taking me away.

I am the Savior!

Why is it that no one understands?

You lay on the floor with your chest torn up, with blood turning sticky and brown on the ground where you died, where the tears dried out before they could fall.

What have I done?!