Uneasy Lies the Head

It was particularly ingratiating to him that through the years of leadership that the one thing that seemed to have formed was a misleading twist of the truth to turn him into a mythical fearful beast. It created beliefs around his position that was almost ludicrous. Dream-like. Nightmarish. As if he was this tentacled creature that rose from the depths of the ocean to terrorize mankind.

The years have diluted history, making people forget that they have actually voted him in and backed all his propaganda. Back then. A few decades have already passed.

It made him forget he was human at all.

From that time, all the depleting resources and the rampant destruction of morality that his country had outraged him. It was as if the world had gone wild and this was reflecting on their economy, the respect that the country had internationally, crime rates and unemployment rates increasing. Then terrorism. No more respect for the greatest power.

At some point, he'd decided himself that enough was enough. Because while he had only migrated to the country, it was his home. These were his people, foolish and misguided idiots that they may have been.

Even then in his youth, he had wild ambitions. High aspirations. As it was, greed was important to keep one's self going. One thing had been sure in his life and that if he wasn't on the reins directing himself and the people within the right path, it would all just burn.

So he promised what was necessary: Security, protection, to rekindle the justified respect those opposing outsiders had for their great country. To bring back all the principles the country had lost in the process of all the blind attempts to please itself without regards of what was good for it. People listened, perhaps in the belief and admiration they held for someone that looked the way he did. His militaristic background helped to cement his competence to fight against wrongdoers, his degree in law giving him plenty of background on governance. His tall, dominating silhouette - something he had to thank his race for - was an imposing figure they believed was just the right one to lead them.

It was probably the stereotypes behind his previous nationality that made people think of their primitive, destructive nature. This disregarded the fact that they were just as mortal as that country and had their own vulnerabilities - starting with poverty. But it mattered little because he barely identified with his race anymore.

At the time, anger and grief fuelled the demands that sought him out. The masses rallied behind his propaganda and elected him into position. He simply lived up to what he marketed himself as.

But it had, perhaps, become too strict and stifling even for its own people. Trying to negotiate more time for his position, considering how the few years designated for presidency barely did anything to really push his projects into realization, he gave them some leeway. It was something of a bribe or pulling the wool over their eyes to give them hedonistic hobbies to occupy their time with.

But then it worked for them too, the system becoming strapped for financial back up as it was. The money that was circulated in the black market for such deals - the gambling and the drugs - went to funding the projects. Militarizing, training, education and fighting back their foreign enemies cost money after all.

Not enough. During those times, the natural resources of the country were also depleting. They needed more than what they could provide. Then the rising population numbers and decreasing housing what with the land sizes becoming increasingly more occupied exacerbated the situation. He needed more time to fix this problem. So he was re-elected yet again.

It was done so squeezing all the droplets of charismatic nature he may have had. And if those were not enough, more aggressive negotiation was implemented. The people still wanted to delude themselves in the concept of having control and a voice through their voting systems. But the problem was if they were given control of their own country they dragged it down with them; all their loud ignorance and constant arguments. The damned push and pull to whichever indecisive idea needed to finally be severed. He needed to break the tie and make the decision for them or there would be no progression. Just stagnation. Perhaps even deterioration.

There were only two terms available for the position. It was only understandable back then when the country was still great. It did not take into account the desperation that it was currently suffering through. So he took his power to supersede the law and pass an amendment to fix the issue of his ability to remain in power.

For a time the crime rates had decreased considerably. The curfew that had been implemented prevented untrustworthy individuals that loitered at night. The cameras saw everything to put everyone to justice who so much as put their foot wrong.

It wasn't within his rule to discriminate on anyone, this was an eventual development created by his numerous elderly advisors and the people within the lower houses of the government. But he understood the necessity for profiling; certain figures were just simply statistically more crime-inclined than others. This was why things got out of hand.

Though people seemed to have a better understanding back then of these laws' necessity. Lately there were groups of people who were beginning to complain. Complaints gave way to rowdiness and chaos, which he couldn't have in his regime. So he had to put a stop to that. They understood better when they were talked to.

The increased military power allowed him to take the next step in giving his people larger land mass to occupy and acquire resources that were decreasing. Oil, minerals and numerous things were in greater demand at the increase of industrialization, but the lands have been sapped at its very core. People just didn't seem to understand that their numbers were staggering and their needs were too much more than the available materials can handle.

The population was growing and resources were dwindling. Military power was sent to conquer other lands to amass the assets they lacked and population was controlled heavily at first through a rigid family plan. Two children per house unless the others were acquired through adoption. But this wasn't enough. It just was never enough. So the training missions were set up. Two birds with one stone. It helped with training the military with moving, intelligent targets while also helping with the population problem. Later on when this still proved to be too little an effect on the numbers of people, the processing camps were created.

Things were withdrawn from the masses, if only to control their rampant emotionality: suggestive texts, images and any other medium that struck a chord of irrational chaos. Just to maintain the peace. Then he provided them means to occupy themselves with other things. Gambling, certain non-destructive substances they took that kept them quiet and mellow. He provided them good education, efficient medical attention, prouder buildings and structures that heralded them as the greatest civilization of its time and most importantly: security. If only to sacrifice a few inefficient things, which occasionally included people. It was replaced with better circumstances for the rest who were more useful.

Every piece of headache, all his own. It was all for a good cause. All for them. They never understood this.

At first it had begun with the rounding talk that practically demonized him. He barely showed up in public, if only to protect himself from those who only saw through their own pain without understanding why this was a small sacrifice. This was likely the reason why even some of his own soldiers believed he was some kind of genetically enhanced monster - tentacles where his beard originally was. It brought a dark smile to his face.

But at least his loyals knew that this imaginary monster they thought of him was practically God-sent if in comparison to the countries that attacked and villainized them. Treated them like ignorant, war-mongers. They didn't think that it was simply in response to their own disrespect and cruelty.

What were they supposed to do? Stand back?

So he gave them what they expected. Then multi-tasked in the same process.

Things went by as smoothly as it could. The rest of the attempts to overthrow him, by his own underlings or by over-ambitious ragtag rebels, were easily brought down.

Then Max Tennyson happened. He was by far his biggest headache. So he did what needed to be done before things grew out of control. He thought this man and his breed of chaotic vermin had been rid of. He had even taken his group's major financier, Donovan Grand-Smith, out of commission. The finances were used for much better causes than this rampant destruction of government facilities and security posts.

He thought this was the end of it. But the remains of Max Tennyson's grandchildren or Grand-Smith's grandson were nowhere to be found after the clean up.

He had always believed these forms of terrorism, how miserable it was occurring within his own shores, would keep returning. His men had been investigating a suspicious name that had cropped up through the years of tracking the activity of Tennyson's terrorist group. There were many names, but this particular one seemed to crop up a few times more than the others.

Ben Freeman.

The investigation was still rather dubious. Whatever it was, if the group was still in operation, its new leader was cleaner. He knew better in how to sweep up his tracks and put a believably innocent smile. But it wouldn't take long. All of them cracked by the end of the day. They would give up enough evidences where they could be taken in for questioning.

Perhaps it was just paranoia. But it was always the most reliable instinct he felt. He supposed it was the one true belief in the universe - one that wasn't a white lie, a half truth or an out and out lie.

Uneasy lay the head that wore the crown.

Growing Up

There were things about himself that he was proud of, just the little things, like being able to gulp cups upon cups of smoothies in one sitting. There were more things about himself that he wasn't proud of.

Those were the days he wasn't proud of being a leader; that he wasn't proud of who he was.

It was the first time. The practice and the training never really prepared for the actual thing. He was fifteen and leading the group; much to the annoyance of some of his slightly older acquaintances. It was the inclusion of Uncle Joel providing headquarters direction that made the annoyance less loud. The majority of responsibility still lay on his shoulders, but his Uncle deflected the rest from complaining about him being top dog for a while.

It was his first time being given lead in infiltrating one of the government's training areas where a session was about to be conducted. He had only been to one of those things about three times and he was always following orders instead. Retrieve information, try to secretly snitch away the targets in the training session and act if the entire thing escalated. The mission protocol remained similar. It was the situations that changed.

He had separated the team, one to flank the observation towers and make communication between the soldiers difficult and the others with him to assist in collecting the targets. People. On buses or cars, just traveling. Probably going on holidays or visiting relatives in the next state. People with families and friends who were going to be told lies about what happened to them. He bristled at the mere thought of it even then.

The session had already begun after they entered. Scheduling for those things weren't exactly specific, which made stopping the entire thing right at the start difficult. They weren't usually sure that the places were training sessions. Some of them were just border lines. Everywhere had military guarding the area. Everywhere. It usually took a bit of information gathering to find the places or the rebellion could seriously bite off more than it could chew if they found a central military grounds. They had few people enough as it went, they couldn't lose more people.

It was important that by the end of that mission, he kept his group and the innocents alive. If God willing, hopefully the rookies on that session would just be taken in by the rebel group rather than put down too. It was his objective. Everyone knew how much he took things seriously when it was his aim.

He was put into a very difficult situation. There was so much happening. There was another child there and her grandfather. He was just trying so badly to protect them. There were a few soldiers trying to take those people down and it didn't make much sense to him. A kick, disarming, use his gun as a blunt weapon. Trying so badly to keep it non-lethal. So badly.

He was alone since he sent off his team forward at the area with more people to save while he took the brunt of distracting the soldiers that had found them. It was probably a bad decision on his part, but he got a little rattled and his mind honed in on his objective first and foremost.

Those people weren't supposed to be there. Those rookies were multi-tasking when they also tried to shoot down the girl and her grandfather. He was occupied and he couldn't do anything but shoot randomly when one soldier found a good aim on the old man. The shot was what one would call lucky if they wanted to kill someone. He didn't. It took a while to register. The girl and the old man had run as fast as they could. He had knocked out and injured most of the soldiers.

One of them he killed.

It was his first time.

He tried to feel cold about it. As one did when one was trying to rationalize what they've just done. As one did when one tried to distance one's self from the situation.

But he walked towards the soldier carefully, just to check. He was young - maybe just a little older than himself really. Beside the body lay a picture that had floated off the young man's pocket. Against the screaming in his head telling him not to, he picked the photograph up.

He looked at the picture of a mother's smile, a father's pride and a younger brother's admiration. The world crashed around him.

The mission had been relatively successful. The survivor numbers were still better than the usual zero. His entire group was able to come back. Everything else went by smoothly.

He went home. His adoptive parents stared at his silence in concern, his cousins were trying to make him more lively while his twin ignored him as per usual. But he stayed quiet, ate his really late dinner and went to bed. He couldn't sleep.

When he walked down to the kitchen to get a glass of water, he bumped into his Uncle Joel.

"Ben," the older man had said kindly, holding his shoulder to stop him when he kept on walking. "Are you alright?"

He stared at the floor. "I'm always alright," he responded simply.

"Kid, I'm pretty good at interrogation," Joel said dryly. "Not looking at me is a stereotypical lying sign."

When he looked up, his uncle's head moved back. He didn't know if it was surprise or disbelief or horror. Ben didn't really know what his uncle saw.

"I'm not okay but I will be," he tried to say, a grim smile lacing on his face.

His uncle's expression only grew more worried.

"Ben," Joel stated firmly. "Talk to me."

"…I'm just not in a talky mood tonight," he excused, redirecting his attention to the ground again. "Maybe tomorrow. I'm tired."

"You look horrible," his uncle noted, to which Ben felt inclined to produce a sort of chuckle. "I was going to say something less kid-friendly, but Camille's gonna kill me."

"You could try the word turd instead?" he suggested jokingly, but the joke felt cold.

"Or you could tell me what's eating you," the older man remarked.

He blinked so many times up at his uncle, he must have looked like he was about to cry. He grinned instead. "Stuff. Just the usual. Whatever kids like me angst about. Stuff," he responded vaguely, shrugging.

After giving him a once over, his uncle waved him over to sit at the nearby kitchen table. "Maybe it's time I talk to you about the birds and the be-"

"No!" he exclaimed, louder than he should have. He half expected his twin to throw something at him from the upstairs bedroom for waking him up. Whenever he was noisy from his nightmares, or those occasional times his stress-induced teeth grinding or snoring got too loud, his twin would throw an alarm clock or a book at his head or try to smother him with a pillow. So he toned down his voice to a murmur. "Not that one," he said sheepishly.

"Yeah, I know. I was just teasing you," Uncle Joel remarked, chuckling in a low tone all the while. The humor eventually gave way to seriousness. "Ben, family's the only ones that we can really depend on." As if a painful memory was suddenly recollected, Joel's eyes widened for a second then closed, his lips quirked in a wry smile. "Even then sometimes, not really. But those that offer their help, you should never be scared about taking it." His uncle smiled at him reassuringly. "And from what it looks like, you're the kind of tired who also can't sleep."

"Wait, how'd you know I wasn't asleep?" Ben had to ask in surprise.

"No snoring sounds," his uncle replied, shrugging.

"Really? I snore that loud?" Ben asked worriedly.

"Your brother sleeps like a rock," Joel explained. "If it's eerily quiet, I can bet you're not sleeping. Though I bet Sven's probably sleeping well now. And Gwen. And Ken." Ben gave him a puppy-eyed, pathetic look. "But I still can't be comforted if you're not sleeping well. So spill."

He felt a smile rise on his face. His uncle was doing his best to make him feel at ease enough to talk. But he just wasn't the talky sort of person. Not even with his family. His only family. After his grandfather and his parents were taken away from him.

Maybe it was because the people who he had been closest to, the ones he used to tell his problems to had disappeared and he was scared that it would happen all over again. But it was mostly because there were so many who depended on him to be strong. He couldn't afford to be weak. His brother had been sick all his life, but he'd never felt the way that Ben did. Ben just had no right to be weaker.

His fingers traced the photograph in his pyjama pocket.

"If you can feel okay with it, then I can too," he responded mysteriously, trying to not sound as broken he did. "Maybe I just need time."

"Time for what?" his uncle asked, looking intensely worried.

"To get over it," he explained a bit more, but without revealing anything truly important.

For a moment silence descended. The expression on his uncle's face was something he couldn't really understand. Some of it seemed to just be thinking and understanding.

"Sometimes you just can't get over something," his uncles responded, in as vague a tone as his. "Sometimes you live with it. Because forgetting can be difficult and you have to lose your heart just to make it disappear in your head. But it's the worst thing in the world to sacrifice more of who you are just to forget. You do what you have to do. Maybe that hurts but it's good to hurt once in a while to know your heart's still beating."

He blinked several times. Mouth gaped then closed. "Are you reading my mind?" Ben asked warily.

"So I'm right?" his uncle responded enthusiastically, piping up as if getting it right was rare. "Relationships, right?" Ben snorted in amusement and scratched his head as his adoptive father said that last thing.

"I'm going to sleep," he bid, yawning widely. He smiled at his Uncle Joel, who seemed less tense after the conversation. He felt as if he was practically echoing his uncle's posture. "Thank you for talking to me." He turned to leave.

"No problem, kiddo." The smile served to lift the load from his back. "Oh and before you go:" his uncle added, as Ben took his first step on the stairs. His uncle looked as if he was looking right through him, past whatever he was trying to keep. "It's not your fault." His uncle's expression was somber. "When things get desperate, you just do what you can. You're just human. Some things you can't resolve. Don't beat yourself up for it."

For a while he just stood on the stairs and stared at his uncle leave. He felt his hand squeeze around the photograph and stop only after he realized it was starting to wrinkle.

The day he rationalized that this was all a necessary evil - and perhaps it was for others who were willing to take that stance - was the day he had to stop.

Since no progress could be taken from doing nothing, from standing by the sidelines, he had to do something. It was the only solution that offered itself. There was always an offer of understanding. Always.

However, if a hand was raised against him too quickly and there was only the option of fighting back, there was little he could do.

It hurt. But he wanted it to hurt. Every single memory he kept like an old legacy, like a piece of him that grieved for these people's deaths. If their faces engraved in his dreams and his nightmares were the ways he could regret the need for this at all, then he wanted them there.

He was holding on to his humanity because the world was working so hard to destroy it. While there were many men out there who would let go, he found it hard to. Because he was helpless to save his family then, he was helpless about the decisions on his means to fight the government, there was one thing he felt he could control: himself. So he held on to everything that he was.

Perhaps the word hero being bandied around made him take it up too and wear it like a badge of sorts. In those few moments of joking pride. Maybe when he was young and starting off, he kind of thought he really was. Truth be told, he didn't really think he could ever be a hero. The things he had to do weren't what he'd call heroic.

He had to do a lot of growing up. He was relatively young when it all started. He was only a decade into his life when his Grandpa died. It just so happened earlier that year he had gone with his Grandpa, his cousin Gwen and his twin in the best summer vacation of his life. They travelled around the country and had never encountered anything like what he knew now. Then it all fell into pieces when he received the news.

The next year, some horrible 'accident' happened at their home and at Uncle Frank and Aunt Lily's. They were found by some strangers that had identified themselves as 'friends' of his grandfather. Uncle Joel and Aunt Camille eventually adopted them. He had to grow up some more and accept the tragic developments in his life. He always had his cousins to relate to the pain.

Though his own brother seemed to never need to get over the absence of their loved ones. There was no misery to get over, after all. He once thought it was because his brother was smarter, more adult, which was why it was easy. But he begrudged it anyway. He later found out that he had every right to feel horrified about this lack of reaction. He realized it was not a sign of being grown up, but something far more sinister. Something to be concerned about.

Then he participated actively in freeing his country from the tyranny of the regime. He found out that there was so much more opportunity to grow up. To realize that every single piece of himself was still naïve until he saw this. It took so much not to go insane. Took so much not to feel monstrous. Took so much not to become one.

Then he married.

She flicked her finger gently on his forehead.

"Sometimes I feel like I'm taking care of you more than Kenny or Gwenny," she told him sweetly, giggling at his chipmunk-like puffed cheeks and pouting lips.

"That's not fair!" he complained childishly, stealing another cherry tomato from her salad to pop it into his mouth. Her eyes widened at him pointedly and slapped his hand as he tried to take another one. "Ow!" he whined exaggeratedly. "Okay, maybe Gwenny. But more than Kenny?"

"More than Kenny," she repeated, pulling the bowl away from him as he made a move for the slices of cheese. "You play more video games than him."

"He's four," he reasoned petulantly, raising an eyebrow. "But don't worry. I shall train him to become a Sumo Slammer warrior more competent than even Ishiyama." He saluted in the general direction of the air, at which point she had to burst into louder laughter.

"Grow up, Ben," his wife berated jokingly, using her shoulder to get rid of the bangs falling into her eyes.

For a few moments, he just watched the bright, warm light fall from the glass walls that gave an overview of the backyard in the kitchen. Then he walked over to her, his facial expression filled with honesty as he brushed her hair from her face for her.

"I try," he said simply.

She looked up at him, dark eyes that were so easy to drown in. Then she kissed him. He blinked several times that he thought his eyelids were going to fall off.

The back of his neck itched and that was primarily because he was thinking of a small spot on the corner of the room, beside the pantries, with a small shine that occasionally winked it into his line of sight. And all he wanted to do was destroy that annoying, invasive object.

"I take it back," she amended, all smooth pleasant tones in her voice that always made him feel comfortable. "Your face is creepy when you're serious." He didn't know if she was joking.

Then one of the children started crying. It was probably Gwenny. Kenny had the habit of annoying his little sister for his personal amusement.

"I better get that," she said finally, placing a plastic wrap over the salad. She looked up at him. "Can I trust you not to steal food while I'm up?"

"You can count on it," he promised.

A delicate eyebrow raised. "Your left eye twitches when you lie, you know."

"Maybe if you didn't let the nanny leave early for the day you'll have someone trustworthy to shoo me off," he suggested smartly.

She just stared at him as if he said something ridiculous. Wagging her index finger one last time, she made her way to where the children were playing.

After she left, he looked around carefully to make sure she was really properly out of the line of sight. Then he picked a bowl of nachos and started eating. He thought that it could use a banana smoothie to wash it down.

She appeared momentarily past the open door, so he had to scramble and hide what he was already eating too early. Julie was carrying Gwenny while Kenny was following behind her. He hoped all that immaturity; fighting, playing, pettiness lasted much longer than his did. He wasn't going to let his children suffer through anything similar to his experience.

When he bit through the food, the crunch in the overwhelming silence sounded more like twigs, sounded more like gunfire, sounded more like explosions. He put the bowl down.

Impaired

Coldness was one half; hard and smooth like the surface of a diamond. The other was - deep inside which he refused to openly acknowledge lest someone did something to mock him for it, or worse, hurt him for it - was her. A part which was more difficult yet somehow more rewarding.

The dreadlocks that fell around her face seemed less tired and oily and disgusting since their first meeting. Nor did she look as emaciated as she used to do. Once or twice in his frank, somewhat socially impaired nature, he would point out such things and she would easily be angered by it.

"You've gotten fat," he said simply, meaning inside his head that she's gained the healthy weight appropriate for her stunning height. Her face was less caved-in; the cheekbones more beautiful rather than painfully sharp.

"What!" she snapped, bristling visibly and clenching her fist so soundly around the wrench he heard the metal whine.

He always meant well but years of hunting down others and interacting with only seedy individuals had sapped him of social conventions. Even the compassionate rebellion members were usually too professional, so they could be more efficient and save more people.

The rebel leader was perhaps most compassionate of all of them, in a somewhat desperate, feeble way that a man trying to preserve his humanity was. But even he was forced to act more like an effective leader over trying to socialize.

Things were spoken in missions, finances, plans and instructions. It's been so long since he had a proper conversation, just trying to gauge someone's interest rather than trying to negotiate something or shouting threats.

He kept to himself about it, out of practicality and slight embarrassment. For this secrecy, he has never known how to properly approach the subject without sounding inept. So he interacted with her, despite his inability to put his thoughts in proper words. The right ones that didn't annoy or anger her, which was rather easy to do to begin with and therefore making relations that much harder.

He was honestly never that stupid in his life. In fact, it was his practicality and cold intelligence that decimated his race. Every single time he reminded himself of it, the drive to push the rebellion objective became stronger.

It was that single-minded aim that destroyed any of his capacity to act in ways outside of it. He never thought he'd had to.

A part him absolutely begrudged Incarcecon for the change. Somehow if he had never participated in that fiasco, he wouldn't have had to put up with and frustrate himself with Myaxx. There were other missions but he had decided to accompany Ben, who he designated himself protector of to assure that the objectives of the rebellion was pushed through.

He knew that others had deviated from the ideals of Max Tennyson as the rebellion member numbers increased and its founder died. So he made sure he allied himself with the one whose principles he adhered to as well. It was the way he knew he could protect his own personal mission.

At that time, he didn't even consider undertaking anything else an option. He went.

She was the most difficult, snide, cowardly, self-centered creature on the face of this planet. She had caused the mission to screech to a halt, possibly causing it to fail and sacrifice people for no reason all in the hopes of making sure she wasn't alive just for the few seconds that Incarcecon was put in chaos. The point of them emphasizing that Dr. Azmuth's weapon could decimate a number of cities was just sweating a minor detail. While it may have worked out in the end, it was still a headache during that very moment.

Even as she was inducted in Los Soledad, she was still being relatively all about herself. He liked to think that they were different and that he shouldn't be able to stand her. But he remembered being like her at one time in his life.

And there was so much more of her to feel impressed about. Her strength, her intelligence and her disinterest in fighting even if she could if she just wanted to. The fact that even in her frustration with the things he found himself blurting out, she hasn't stopped talking to him altogether.

"Myaxx?" he called out, pivoting back.

"What now?" she groaned. "I washed my hair. If you tell me it looks disgusting, I will throw the nearest available object." She looked down. "This is a really expensive neutron detector but I really don't care if I have to use it."

"No, it's not that. I didn't even notice it," he responded simply, again meaning well. But of course, such a thing could be interpreted badly and Myaxx's hands hovered over the machine. "I just wanted to say that I'm about to go on a mission that may kill me."

"Isn't that always?" she retorted flatly.

He stared at her pointedly.

She got the message. "Go on," she said, shrugging.

"I just wanted to tell you that," he tried to find the right words. None came except for the ones that left his mouth, "I don't hate you."

There was silence.

"That's it? Really?" she asked in disbelief.

"I just wanted to establish that all this fighting doesn't mean I don't consider you my friend," he continued trying to explain.

"No, really," she said more loudly, more purposefully. Angrier. "That's it?"

"What did you want me to say?" he snapped back, full-force of aggravation at his inability to be coherent through the words he actually said.

With even more angered incredulity, she barked, "You want me to tell you what to say?"

Deciding to give up on the conversation before they fought even more, he finally bid more calmly, "I'm leaving."

She sighed heavily as he made his way out of her working area. As he walked down the corridor where he could no longer see her, her voice still called out, "Fine! I don't hate you too!"

At that, he found himself cracking a smile. He wanted to snort into laughter, but kept his calm as he was finally called in by one of the younger members of the group - the rambunctious, impatient one named Manny - that was on this particular mission. The kid really needed to tone down on the over-aggressive excitement for fighting. He really needed to learn that it wasn't the point.

The point was - he remembered her annoyed huffing at him or the way she pored over her work - something else.

He was socially and emotionally impaired. He didn't know how to understand people or didn't feel the need to do so because he never thought it important.

He had forgotten what this was about. In all the years he spent pursuing his objective, he'd forgotten the point was to finally live in peace instead of in the war that killed his people. He had wanted, in the end, for nobody else to suffer the grief of losing everyone.

In the time he had been able to interact with her, get to know her, understand her, get annoyed with her, care for her, he slowly remembered.

He had been splintered into pieces from the war - jagged and destroyed by the circumstances that had led him to atone. That's why he was so broken. She helped to stitch him back together.

"I take it back, I hate you!" she snapped, slamming her hand on his chest repeatedly. The medics around her were trying to stop her from battering at his body, but she just hissed at them. "Damn you. If you die, I will hate you for the rest of my life!"

She was going to slam her fist on his chest again, but he lifted up his arm and stopped her strike.

"That really hurts, Myaxx," he tried to say weakly, past the blood clogging up his throat.

"Damn it! I thought you were dead! Don't joke around like that, you idiot!" she snapped, although sounding somehow less angry and more grateful than anything.

"If you keep on hitting me like that, I might actually die," he pointed out , still treating it lightly even while he was just previously clinging on to his life.

"It better be me that kills you and not some stupid government lackey," she said, in a voice that would count as the sweetest that Myaxx could make it to be. And only because it wasn't snide.

"I wouldn't have it any other way." By the look on her face as he said that, he realized he must have said something right.

While he was impaired in so many ways, it was finally filling in. Maybe he was still awkward and still had issues wording himself right but it was okay. She didn't seem to mind all that much.

"Oh, good. I thought you wouldn't be able to know how to kiss right."

She had her own issues that he had to put up with too anyway.