Season 11.5 [Rewrite: Continuation]

Dolor

(A/N: yeah...the chapters get longer from here on)

The first time is intensely distressing. You feel an arctic gale on your spine, shock to the head and a slur to the speech. You feel your nerves concede, your stomach ejecting projectiles and your feet start to sway.

I understand that pain. It is one of few I can relate to, even me, of all creatures. It unravels your whole world, and you ask yourself, was it worth it?

Consider this. Each and every action derives from a purpose. Some purposes, obscure and menial. Others out of the sake of civilization.

Yours was monumental to life itself. Because of this, I tell you, do not fret. For the world to impede into its future, that misery was critical.

>_<

That loud-mouth was tamed, he disquietingly factored. As predicted. Almost every beginner of this mission field were robbed of their joy. Hopes. Livelihood. These people wadded their toes in a padlocked continent, one padlocked for a specific reason.

To be spared of this hell.

Trystan gobbled the noodles, and when none were left, the liquids were his to delight in. He drank the bowl then slammed it on the table.

Thus was uncharacteristic of him. The lunch, he meant. Food gathered an army of cramps, and it stalled the missions for the day, but, by the graven expression of the officer, there weren't to be any missions for the day.

If ill-fated, the week.

"Don't want the noodles?" Trystan nudged the untouched plate. "It's probably better than the slop I feed you."

No answer. Okay, meal bribery and tender scenery wasn't working. Maybe a direct attack?

Trystan cunningly re-arranged the bowls to devour the wasted ticket. "It was for your daughter. There's nothing to be upset over."

That dragged the argument out kicking and screaming. "I just murdered five people," he inactivity mumbled.

Trystan stuffed a noodle but frowned. The bowl was unnaturally cold. "For your daughter's safety," he excused.

"For my daughter's safety? I bargained five politicians  on my child's behalf." Turner blankly stared into the water. "I held five men at gunpoint, five people with families, friends, and who knows what else, for my child. What have I done?" He woefully replied.

Trystan sighed and completed the meal. He initially hoped the officer to pep up and shake it off, but, it was the plain opposite. Those years of experience did squat to compensate for their deaths.

Yet the immediate hours after murder were important. It constructed or tore the fragmented psychic of a person, and based on this conversation, Turner was to be perpetually haunted or stitched into a dysfunctional father.

Trystan was gunning for the latter. The former involved paperwork, a firing squad, and disappearances. Otherwise, a mountain of work on the already galaxy-like pile.

"What else were you going to do?" He offered as a saving light. "It was her or those corrupted politicians."

"They're still people," he softly mumbled. "They can change. But I," his voice gently split with a thick undercurrent of emotions. "I killed them," he cut with a sob in throat. "I killed them, I took there lives. This wasn't self-defense, it wasn't to protect civilians, it was just, murder."

Trystan severed into the thought path. "It was to protect Clover. What else were you going to do?"

Hands unraveled his hair. "I don't know? Break out of here? Take her and leave the city?"