He could still see the hellish landscape. He could still see them fleeing, as their very world burned around them; feel the emptiness inside as he participated in the destruction of all they knew. The flickering fires reflected in his windscreen; in his mind, he could still feel the sweltering heat. Sweat from his brow mixing with the hot tears running down his cheeks.
It had been orders, he tried to tell himself. In war, these things happened; you were supposed to be able to dismiss them, to move on. He had always believed that he was an angle of righteous death. From his high position, he would choose who would live and die. He took lives to save others; for every time he killed, some person, somewhere, could be happy, free from terror. This had kept him sane through nearly a decade of conflict, this image, raining terror from the skies upon those who would threaten the innocent.
These thoughts could not sooth his dark guilt however. They had been no threat, no danger. They had simply "been in the way"; a nuisance, a fly to be swatted. He grimaced as the dark memories overwhelmed him, reopening the deep wounds in his soul. The world faded around him, he sat once more in his Scorpions cockpit…
"Gimme HE's at the base of the west columns," The Colonel's voice crackled over the comm. His squadron leader answered coolly.
"Rodger section, switch missiles"
"Ones good"
"Two's racked up"
"Three's up" He said the words without thought, without remorse. How he wished he could change them, to speak out against what they were about to do. But he knew how this would end, as it always ended.
"Charlie Oscar, gunrunner standing by." Leader spoke out again.
"Bring it down." Quaritch's voice returned, almost nonchalant.
"Cleared hot."
He felt his finger squeeze the trigger. It was such a simple action, a small muscle twitch, and fiery death would rain from the skies. White contrails streaked out, detonation spectacularly against the wood of the ancient tree. The mighty roots splintered and cracked under the barrage, weakening with every blow. As suddenly as it had begun, the assault stopped. All was silent.
With a massive crack, it toppled, falling thousands of meters to crash against the forest floor. At the time, he had observed it with cold precision, a job well done. Now however, his heart cried out in sorrow for the displaced peoples that had called it home; as choking on fumes, battered by shockwaves, spirits crushed, they fled deeper into the wilderness.
He snapped out of the flashback, breathing heavily.
A cold blooded killer, that was all he was; taking lives for personal gain. He was a murderer in the clearest sense of the word. No better than the thousands he had sent to the grave from on high. He had become that which he despised. Another sob wracked his body; quickly he choked it back, steeling himself for the job ahead. He stared down at the service pistol lying on the table in front of him. Its cold metal surface gleamed in the soft light. Slowly he reached for it, checking that the safety was off.
There was but one thing left, for a fallen angel.
He picked up the pistol, racking the slide.
One final act to protect the innocent.
He raised it with shaking hands, closing his eyes.
One last life to be taken.