A/N: I started this after reading Days of Innocence by Spirix and then I was inspired by the new Paramore song Decode (whoch will be on the Twilight movie soundtrack). I had to write something and this was what it turned out to be. Not my best work, but something I felt I needed to do or it would haunt me. So...enjoy.

Jean Havoc POV

Gunshots ring in my ears but they don't drown out the yelling. I hear commands being given, cries of fear, screams of pain, and then nothing. For a moment every sound is gone and there's a peaceful second before it all returns tenfold. My hands wrap more tightly around my own gun, far from the trigger. My fingers shake and I don't know if I could wield the damn thing without killing my own comrades.

Before my eyes a man's arm is shot off, and I see him rear his head back in a scream that I can't hear through a sudden whistling. A bomb is dropped not fifty yards from my position, where I am safely tucked against an overturned wagon. I flinch back when it lands, but I couldn't miss seeing another man's head explode, spraying my face with blood.

I think that was when I started to cry for my mother.

How did we get here?

I look for you, but I can't see through the throngs of running people, most wearing our own uniform, fleeing the scene like cowards. But I can't blame them; they're doing exactly what I want to do. Still, I can't differentiate between you and all the other black-haired men in blue. The only thing I know about you is that you're not carrying a standard issue weapon like mine.

Lines of red streak past me in the direction of the enemy. Then they're gone, but more take their place. The only word that I can think of to explain this would be alchemy. I look for the alchemist behind it all, and I don't see anyone in particular.

And then you come into my line of view. It was you, wasn't it? With the fire? But seeing you…it was like I wasn't seeing you. We'd been friends since the beginning of training, and those aren't your eyes. Your eyes are warm, these are cold, unfeeling, and it only worsens that sinking feeling in my stomach. You look like you are so far into this that you can't stop yourself anymore either.

I used to know you so well.

When did this happen? And how can I be sure you'll change back when we get out of this? I'm scared, Roy. You've changed.

But I imagine I have as well.

In the corner of my eye I see my commanding officer. He's shouting something in my direction, though if it's to me or someone else I don't know. He's gesturing to the battlefield and I remember what I'm there to do. I squirm hesitantly out of my hidey-hole and press myself against the side of the cart, narrowly missing a stray bullet. It nicks the side of my face and I feel my own hot blood join that which was already there. I swallow hard and grip my gun, moving my hands to the right position, my finger resting on the trigger, ready to use it.

But I don't want to.

This whole war is stupid. I'm not the fighting kind of guy, and neither are you, I know it. Seeing Breda and Hawkeye, too, I know this was all a mistake. We're not cut out for this. You should see how their eyes have changed. We all have the eyes of murderers now.

I can't look at you when I make my first kill. I can't think of you. I can't think of anything except the steady stream of red coming from that tiny hole in the man's chest. And I vomit. Was your first time like this too? Are they all like this?

I move on, taking aim again. I'm not a good shot, but I'm not sure that's an accident. Maybe I'm just trying to waste my ammo. Hot air blows against the side of my face and I turn quickly to see a fire building not fifty feet from where I stand. Was that your doing too?

No. I see it was the enemy. They've got a pile of wood going and I think they're trying to scare us off. I move back and see the explosives in their hands.

I call out, to you, to everyone, screaming to move back, but my words are drowned out by the explosion and I scream. I throw up again. I cry. All I want is to go home.

How did we get here?

I wish I had a cigarette. Maybe then I could calm down enough to form coherent thoughts. I almost don't notice when the shots become less frequent, and the sounds of fighting become distant. Is this shell-shock again?

No. The battle is moving. I look up. There are few left alive. It's not moving, it's over. I'm alive.

But where are you?

I get off my hands and knees and look around. I don't see you at first, so I shout your name, and I don't hear you answer. I abandon my gun to look for you, desperate to know that you're safe. You have to be. You have to.

Or I might...

I stop running when I find you. I'm not close. I see you kneeling, your back to me. I assume you're praying for forgiveness and I give you a moment, wishing I still believed enough to do the same. But after what I just witnessed—what I was just a part of—I don't think I'll ever believe again. Slowly, I approach, trying not to collapse with relief.

And I stop again. And I do fall back to my knees.

You're crying. I'm crying, too. I don't even know why I'm crying.

You're holding…a body. A child's body, Roy. Did you kill him? He's all burned up, so I think so. But I don't say anything. You look at me, your eyes pathetic and scared, like a child yourself. I can't comfort you. I don't know how. I'm sorry.

I'm sorry.

I think I know.


A/N: Definitely not my best, but still pretty good. I hope you enjoyed it. And I'm VERY sorry that I haven't updated any of my other stories, but my laptop is in the shop for repairs so I don't have anything to work with. Please bear with me, I should be getting it back this week. REVIEW PLEASE.