Angela looked in horror at the man writhing on the ground, yelling in unimaginable pain as flames engulfed his body. She startled as a shot rang out right next to her and the man stilled, still burning but obviously dead. She turned her head to look at Fareeha, who was inspecting the magazine of her pistol. Her shock quickly turned into rage.

"Why would you do that?!" she snarled, absolutely livid.

"I did him a favor." Fareeha replied, dispassionately securing and holstering her sidearm.

"A fa...a favor? Are you out of your mind?! We could have helped him. Saved him! Who are you to decide who lives and dies?!"

Fareeha barked out a short, cynical laugh.

"Saved him?" she asked, incredulously. "That's second- and third-degree burns on at least 40 per cent of his body. If if you had, somehow, managed to keep him alive, it wouldn't have been pretty. Trust me, I did do him a favor."

The blonde couldn't believe her ears. How she ever could have thought that Fareeha would be different, not your typical bone-headed soldier, was beyond her. She was just a mindless killing machine, like all the other ones.

"I have to get away from this." she muttered harshly before pushing herself up, stalking away from the jersey barrier they'd used as cover during the brief, but intense, firefight. "You're just like all the others." she called back, "Murderers, each and every one of you!"

She heard rapid footsteps approaching behind her, and before she had even realized what was happening Fareeha had her roughly, almost violently turned around and shoved against the brick wall of the alley she had wandered into.

"Murderer? That's what I am to you?" she growled.

Angela was getting defensive. The case was clear to her: "You shot this man when he was absolutely no threat to you, me, or anyone! What else would you call it but murder? And don't you even think about saying how you did him a favor when you have no idea what you're talking about!"

Fareeha abruptly let go of her coat and straightened, seemingly debating something internally for a split-second. Then, she pulled off her backpack and threw it into the muddy snow, before roughly taking off her jacket and shoving it into Angela's hands, quickly followed by her Kevlar vest. Angela was so confused be the sudden turn of events that she didn't even manage to protest when Fareeha pulled her long-sleeved shirt over her head, leaving her in nothing but a sports bra from the waist up. She immediately regretted every one of her words.

"No idea what I'm talking about, yeah?" Fareeha snapped. Her right shoulder, chest, and upper arm were covered in a single, huge scar, and Angela instantly realized it must have been at least four or five years old.

"How about a dull throb every time the weather changes, sometimes so severe that even the slightest chafing against your clothes feels like torture? How about waking up in a cold sweat every other night, feeling the pain so acutely as if your skin was still on fire, even though you know it's all just in your head? How about not being able to look into a mirror without clothes because you can't stand your own reflection? How about that?! I didn't force him to run around with a tank of napalm on his back, I didn't force him to start shooting at us!"

She pulled her shirt back on and was in the process of covering it with her Kevlar when she stilled, and her tall, aggressive posture all but disappeared.

"I know what I've done, doctor, believe me." she said in a much quieter tone. "Every time I close my eyes at night I live through another squeeze of the trigger.

"Remember when I killed that feral dog a few days ago? You were just as livid, calling me a...'knuckle-head' I think it was...and do you know what scares me about that dead dog?"

Fareeha looked her straight in the eyes then, and Angela couldn't bear to hold her gaze for more than a few moments.

"I hesitated longer before killing that dog than when I killed my first person. Or my second. Or third. Have you ever wondered why so many soldiers return with PTSD from their tours? Killing...isn't in our nature. It goes against every one of our instincts. When two animals fight, over territory, over a mate, rarely anyone ever dies. And if so, it's by accident. It's all posturing, roaring, hissing, puffing up...it's all meant to intimidate the opponent, make them back off. Because killing, unless it's for food, is not natural.

"If someone menacing approached you and you had a gun, what would your first instinct be? Point it at him, maybe even shoot in the air. Puffing up, displaying your claws, showing that you are capable of defending yourself. Actually shooting at them would be your absolute last resort.

"But you can train people to shoot to kill. Send them through enough shooting ranges, telling them every second counts, making them fail if they hesitate even a moment...it becomes second nature to shoot as soon as you perceive a threat. It becomes muscle memory. You do it before you even have a chance to process what's happening.

"My first kill...I was on a recon mission, scouting a neighborhood that had been overrun by looters. The sun was about to set, and I heard a noise, turned around...there was a person with a gun, not wearing a uniform...a single bullet was enough. He fell over and didn't move, and when I went to check him out it was a boy. A scrawny kid, with fuzz on his cheeks, no older than fifteen. I had probably startled him and he had wanted to scare me away. Puff up, show me his claws. But I had been trained. And before he could even utter a single word, I had killed him. Muscle memory had pulled the trigger.

"And his lifeless face will stay with me. Even if I forget my own goddamn name, I don't think I can ever forget his face, with that fucking hole in his forehead."

She had finished putting her equipment back on, and with it, she had put her façade back in place. The maelstrom of emotion was gone from her face, and she was looking at Angela evenly.

"I know what I've done, doctor, and what I'll continue to do. I'll carry it around with me for the rest of my life. But I don't need you lecturing me about how I'm a cold-blooded killer."

Angela leaned against the brick wall, hugging her stomach while tears ran down her face. She didn't dare look Fareeha in the eyes.

"We should head out." the soldier said, "The sun begins to set, and I'd like to reach the safe house before it gets dark."

As she turned to walk out of the alley, Angela suddenly grabbed her by the arm, keeping her in place.

"Fareeha..." she started, with a quiver in her voice, before faltering. "I...I'm sorry."

Their eyes met, and for the briefest of moments, Angela thought she could see something there. Understanding, gratefulness perhaps, or something deeper? Whatever it was, it was gone as quick as it had come, and Fareeha cleared her throat before nodding once in acknowledgment.

"We should head out." she said again, and walked into the deserted snowy street.

"Yes," Angela whispered before following her, "we should."

okay, so this idea came to me and i just hacked away, and since i've been playing the division a lot lately i thought 'hell, it's a good backdrop, why not.' also, what fareeha says about people not automatically killing anyone that's a potential threat is actually true. in world war II, only 25 % of frontline troops in the US army fired their weapon even once in the direction of the enemy, and only 2 % actually shot to kill. as mentioned, there are ways to train people to do so, but it's not good on the psyche. hence the apparent rise of PTSD and similar conditions in returning soldiers since vietnam (it's not apparent, it's actually a thing).

anyway. tell me what you think about it! i may turn this into a multi-chaptered thing, so stay tuned i guess

song of the day is Cygnus by Cult of Luna. this was running on repeat and set my mood while writing this piece

peace out