Summary: (Oneshot) In the Bloody Valentine War, lives are taken, and hearts are killed. "I had loved Naturals once…"

Disclaimer: I do not own GS or GSD. Wish I did, though...

Just something that came across my mind one day, while obsessing about GS, and I elaborated. You can treat it as an AU, if you want…or as a parallel story to GS…I leave the characters to your imagination.

speculation + obsessed fangirl equals:

Butterflies

I had loved Naturals once. Even though the rest of my peers despised them, looked down on them as scientists might look down on rats, I had loved them. They were frail, but they were beautiful. They were like butterflies, creatures whose lives were brief but were never meaningless. I sometimes wondered if that's what the Greek gods felt towards mere women mortals. Surely they might have felt some of the things I had felt, back when my innocence was still intact.

I wondered when I started feeling this way towards Naturals. Surely these sentiments were not passed down to me by my father. He hated the Naturals beyond anything, perhaps because he was hunted down relentlessly by them as a boy. But I still felt the way I did, and my mother understood, even though he didn't.

The only thing I know about my strange feeling is that I became aware of my feelings towards Naturals when I met him. He was beautiful, even though he was a product of chance and not of choice. His brown hair was soft and wavy, and his violet eyes were perfect—like a stain-glass mirror, with light seemingly coming from within as opposed to coming from without.

And yet, he was so weak, and frail. By the age of six, he had contracted more viruses than the rest of the class put together. But while the "friends" my father had selected for me sniffed down on him, I felt sorry for him. I wanted to protect him. And I admired him. Weakness was not something we Coordinators would ever have to fear; and yet, here was this boy, weak as a newborn, fighting with unimaginable strength, trying to win his place in the world. And that was when I first realized my love for Naturals.

And my feelings were reciprocated, I think. The boy liked me. I think he liked Coordinators in general. He never said a word against them, and he stood up for the Coordinator minority, even though he ended up taking beatings that would take him a long time to recover from. We were best friends, even though my parents didn't know, before I was called away to the PLANTS

I don't remember much about him now. Not even his name. My memory's suppressed much of it, possibly because of my recently developed hatred for Naturals. But I do remember his eyes. No one could forget those. And the way that he liked to tug at my hair without realizing what he was doing. He was fascinated by it, the sheer blueness, so different from the browns, reds, blondes, and blacks that he was used to.

I don't know where he is now. I just hope that he's happy, and away from here, away from the blood that has stolen my innocence.

It's another day today; another day, fighting the good fight, fighting for the right to exist. We shoot at the enemy to recover some latest technology. Natural civilians are running from this place; now they won't be in the way. We shoot freely, at will.

There's movement behind me. I fire without thinking. It's only when the body comes down that I realize that it's a civilian.

Panicking, I rush to his side. The wound's not fatal...for a Coordinator, but for a Natural it's probably deadly. He's brown-haired, about my age. I turn him over, and get a shock. Eyes, pure violet. I recognize him, but it takes longer for him to recognize me…probably due to the blood that's pouring out of his frail body, covering my already crimson suit. When he does focus, there's no condemnation in his eyes, no accusation; just a sort of surprise, then happy recognition. Then, the lights fade. The glass-eyes hold nothing now.

In the midst of this madness, I remember something I had asked my mother once, long ago, when the boy had to go home early because of another ailment. "Why are Naturals so delicate?" I had asked.

"Well," my mother had said, trying to find the right words, "because they're a little like butterflies, child." I thought I understood what it meant then. But now, covered with the blood of an innocent, I truly realized what she was trying to tell me.

And inside, I felt something break.

…+…

"In war, the innocent will always suffer alongside the guilty…Always."

From "Flames of a Tiger"

How was that? R&R please!