Chapter 3 – Superman

But alas, regardless of whispered desires and unvoiced regrets, orders are orders and three days later Booth had found himself on a plane back to his old life. He had been surprised and dismayed at how fast he had closed himself off again. He was already counting his "shots"; he had only let himself have one "kill" before shutting down. He had spent the night he came back from his first mission hidden in his bunk, clenching his fist around his dog tags and Saint Christopher's medal and witnessing his humanity leak out of him through his tears. After that night, he became the Sniper, not Special Agent in Charge Seeley Booth, FBI liason to the Jeffersonian, father, and so many other things that made him a functioning member of the human race. He had to let Parker and Bones and his entire family go, had to bury them so deeply that they couldn't peek out of his heart and see the horrors he was perpetrating. He had to protect them; even across continents and oceans. He was their Paladin.

So after that night, he hadn't let himself feel anything at any moment. Calls with his son were superficial, and it seemed that the boy was still young enough to miss the difference. And even if he wasn't, Booth couldn't let himself wonder about it. Letters were easier. He and Brennan kept up a vaguely steady pattern of correspondence thoughout his tour to date. He kept every single one in his BDU's unless he was out on a mission. He couldn't bring those out into the field with him. For one thing, it was like taking her with him. He had found at the very beginning of their partnership that just having her with him opened him up to everything. Then there was the possibility of capture. He had learned the hard way last time that something as innocent as a child's stick-figure drawing could be the end of you. Because when that picture was burned, it didn't matter how many of your friends had been mutilated and murdered in front of you, how many broken bones were in your feet, how many times you had been burned with steel wool and batteries. It was worse trying to put the embers of your son's innocent school work back together than anything else they could think of.

It had almost broken Booth the last time. He didn't know how much longer he would have lasted if rescue hadn't come when it did. He didn't know how he would have been able to get past the gambling if he had been held very much longer. So now when he was sent out to do his job nothing personal but his dog tags went with him. He was represented by two cold pieces of steel wrapped in black rubber; nothing else. All he let himself be was a tool meant to follow orders and perform his duty in order to complete his tasks. He could feel the cold metal presed against his chest now and it reminded him how cold he had made himself.

What would Bones think of me now?

Booth had been stationary for three days. He had long since tuned out his spotter's presence, forgetting that the man was anywhere near him. What am I doing here? This isn't me anymore. Booth imagined himself physically stuffing those thoughts back into the sack that housed his humanity and sewing it up tightly. Outwardly the only event that proved the sniper was even alive was a bead of sweat that tracked from his hairline down past his outer eye before dripping off the center of his chin into the moss he was laying on. It was no use though. The pathway had been opened, and now his thoughts were pummeling him. Booth had a life back home. He had a son he was responsible for shaping. A career. A relationship that was in the balance. Yet here he was in this Hell, far from all of that. He sought to even the cosmic balance sheet and hopefully save the tattered pieces of his soul before God. Yet he was out here playing God. He believed in a system of justice and checks and balances, and he was effectively judge, jury, and executioner for every target that he took out. How could he go back and face Parker? How could he ever tell him the difference between right and wrong and teach him how to become a good man? Am I a good man? Am I a righteous soul worth saving? A good role model? Should I be anywhere near Parker at all?

The line of sight from Booth's scope drew his eye back down to the camp where his mission was supposed to play out. He had yet to see the target, but knew that the minute he showed up, instinct would take over and the job would be completed. He would then be extracted and would be back in his bunk, waiting to be sent out again. He would reread Brennan's letters and stare at the newest pictures that Parker had drawn for him. A card or two from some program back home meant to give soldiers a little more hope from concerned citizens would be on his foot locker, and he would cherish those as well. It meant something to him that the public was trying to show support for a war that they may not believe in. At least they could believe in the men and women that believed in it. What was it that Bones said that time? That even if she couldn't respect the law, she could at least respect me? And I told her that that'll work. It's all I have now.

But besides that, he would remain cold and detached. That was all he had become since being thrown back into this world. That was what he had aspired to be when he was a scared 22-year old kid enlisting in the Army straight out of college. He wouldn't take back a minute of it, knew that the duties he was performing trickled back down to protecting his country and everyone in it. He understood the honor of it, believed in the necessity of his tasks, and was glad that this had been his past. Now if only he could keep his crisis of faith and his understanding and beliefs in his jobs along the same line, maybe he could find some peace.

I'm more than this. I'm more than a monster destined to take others' lives at the drop of a hat. Or am I? Booth thought back to his cosmic balance sheet once more. He had taken 49 lives during his first stint as a sniper. He had vowed to even that out by becoming an agent in the FBI, catching murderers and hopefully notching some good into his repertoire, but was he really doing that? He had continued to play God with people's lives even after getting his shiny new badge and his office with his name etched into the glass. Howard Epps had come and gone from his life, another kill despite whether or not anyone else blamed him for it. He had shot and killed Farid Masruk trying to stop a terrorist act from taking place, and the only remuneration he had offered was to not take credit for the kill.

Now he was out in the wilds of his latest mission, and Booth wasn't naïve; he knew the odds of him coming back from these treks were never in his favor. There was always the chance that his card would be up on the next trip out. He tried to avoid thinking about leaving his family behind, tried to bottle them up inside with the rest of what made him a human being. It was hardest when he was in camp. He listened to the greenhorns talk about all their big plans for the future and wondered if the old hats had been as jaded about him as he now was about them. He knew that many of them would never get to see their dreams come true – even if they did make it back home. Then there were those who wouldn't even make it home with a heartbeat – just a coffin and a flag and maybe a medal that they would never see. They didn't want to hear about his insights into this, he knew. So he kept his own confidences about life back home when he was being social. He wanted to tell them all about what his son had done in school, about what Brennan had found that day in the lab. But he couldn't do it.

He kept his celebrations at their accomplishments silent and for the privacy of his bunk. He appeared to everyone in his unit as a loner, and he was okay with that this time around. He didn't want to show everyone how attached to back home he was. It scared him to think that if he started to talk about his family and his squints that somehow it would signify that he was never going to see them again. Nothing would look the same if he got back, he knew that, remembered it from the last time around. But maybe if he didn't talk about them, let their memories dull in his mind, maybe this time if he got to see them again it would be enough to make him forget about everything he saw in country. Maybe the crisp new images that he would be able to see if he got back would drown out the horrors he had to perpetrate here. Maybe his family would be enough to save him this time. He could only hope.

On his previous mission, Booth's odds had nearly been up. It had all been coincidental, and it threw him for a definite loop. There was a small child playing in the bush near where he and his spotter were lying in wait. They had both been aware of the boy, but there was enough distance between them that it shouldn't have been an issue. At the last minute, the boy had started throwing rocks at some nearby birds, and they lifted off in flight, causing his target to get jittery. The target and his companions had started shooting into the twilight, scaring off the boy but clipping Booth's shoulder as well. It wasn't enough of a wound to send him home, but his spotter had been badly injured, and the target had almost gotten away. Nothing tore Booth up more than having to shoot someone in the back, but orders are orders and the man was a danger and needed to be taken out. Another peace-keeping mission in the books, another life to atone for.

Brennan had sent him a letter that happened to get to Booth's camp the same day he had come back from the mission. He had gotten patched up before heading for some sleep, almost not seeing the envelope. After reading her assurances that everyone at home was waiting for him to get back and that she knew he was okay, he wished he hadn't seen it until after getting some rest. The words were hollow and meaningless to him then, and he found himself getting frustrated at himself for getting angry at her. Blood was still seeping from his shoulder and she had the nerve to tell him that he was okay? What did she know about it?

Plenty, you idiot, he found himself chastising multiple times as he read through the letter over and over the next day. He had seen for himself during their partnership just how much she knew about the world outside of their country's borders. She may not have known any of the pop culture references that he made on a daily basis, but she knew what it was like to witness the suffering and death of others, and he always had respected her even more because of that.

The high pitched trill of a bird somewhere over his head brought Booth out of his ruminations momentarily. His spotter had been saying something about the length of time and validity of intel, and the sniper was surprised to see that he was able to carry on a conversation and had been doing so despite all of the thoughts racing through his brain. Bones would have a field day with that one. Nothing races through the brain unless it is electrical impulses, and those would…oh God, I'm turning into a squint. He wondered idly if the target was even in this camp, seeing as how they had seen a number of people come and go that weren't their responsibility. Booth found himself watching the patterns drawn by the footsteps of the people he was observing. They all moved together as a unit to accomplish whatever tasks were being performed, but each individual made paths through the camp that were their own. It seemed to him to be very much like the military worked. Everyone could accomplish a goal by doing their part, but some were more likely to do so by being alone.

His image as a loner often was the source of several veiled stares when the new men came into camp. He knew that stories of his successes his last time in uniform had preceded him, and to the numerous eighteen-year old 'kids' who came in with high hopes and jaded dreams he was a bit of a legend. Even the men who had been there for some time and worked more behind the scenes placed him on a pedestal in their storybook fairy tales about what went on out on the front lines. He hated it when he came back after a mission and they were all in awe of what he had done. It was as if taking another life was something that should become a tale of triumph and adventure to be regaled over and over, making him out to be the hero. Even back home, his buddies wanted to know what he had done and how good it felt to be accomplishing what he set out to do. Of course there was a sense of pride in knowing that he had succeeded, he wasn't going to deny that. He knew that he could be counted on and that the higher ups saw him as dependable and that was fulfilling, but it didn't erase the fact that he was ending someone's life. It didn't heal the pieces of him that died every time he took another shot.

There was nothing glamorous about what he did. He didn't want to be seen as a hero, didn't want to have his deeds viewed as joyous accomplishments. He did what he did because it was what he had to do, and nothing that came from that should be extolled as anything more than a man completing a job he was set to do. If he allowed himself to revel in the fact that he was good at what he did for any other reason than to protect the people he was sworn to, then he wouldn't be any better than the men he was fighting against. It was how Booth lived his life, both in uniform and back home. There was a fine line between good and evil, and if he let himself get too high off the success he found easily, then that line would be obliterated. Always with the lines, hunh Seeley? Always.

Parker had drawn him a picture of Superman in class one day. They were supposed to be making a representation of their parents for art class, and when Booth had opened the construction paper-framed picture, he had been surprised and also lost at how to appreciate the image. He was glad that his son, whom he got to see far too little of in his opinion, thought so highly of him, but at the same time, Booth wasn't sure he was deserving of the image. How could he live up to his son's vision when he couldn't believe he was doing the right thing some days?

Parker's Superman picture had come with Brennan's last letter. The two of them were spending more time together since he had left, and he was glad for it. Bones needs a Booth in her life. She needed someone who would challenge her, and even at his son's young age, Parker could do that. It never ceased to amaze Booth how much his son had grown up on him in the past few years. He was on his way to becoming smarter and more confident than Booth had been at that age. The sniper's only hope was that his son didn't follow in his footsteps. He would do anything to spare Parker the identity crisis that came with the results of choosing to become a sniper. More than that, if he was really honest with himself, Booth didn't want Parker to ever see what it was that he truly did. He wanted to remain his little boy's hero for the rest of his days. He wanted to be that picture more than anything else in the world. The Army Ranger wanted to be Superman for his son, wanted to protect him from whatever evil came his way. Then again, he wanted to come home every night to his son telling him what Joey and Mikey did to the girl on the swings and what he learned in school that day. And he wanted Bones to share in that. So maybe all he really wanted was what every parent wants in life: for their child to be better off than they were, and to be more successful in life than them. If he ever got any of the other stuff too, well then that was a sweet, cherished bonus, now wasn't it?

Booth's target had finally made his presence known in the camp and at his spotter's first words, fingers were moving to tweak settings and ranges were being calculated. The scope became a part of him as he sighted his quarry and stretched his trigger finger. With an ease cultivated from years of training and practice, the sniper laid the bed of his finger along the trigger and began to squeeze. Nothing mattered but accomplishing the objective. The ambient sounds that had been a part of his wait faded away, anything that could distract him was forgotten and did not enter into the threshold of his mind. As the bullet exploded from the barrel of his weapon and sped along its path of destruction, time seemed to stand still. This could be, perhaps, why he never heard the sound of his spotter falling wordlessly to the ground. It could be that the steps that signified his spotter's attacker approaching him were too quiet to hear while he took out another target. The first sign he had of something being wrong was when he did not get confirmation of mission objectives being completed. He knew something was wrong and finally got his brain to work normally again as he turned to ask what was going on. A twig cracking was the first sound he heard since taking the shot.

The butt of a rifle connected with Booth's head as he turned to react to the noise. The last thing he saw before passing out was the smirk of a man beginning to squat down and grab his collar.

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