[FFVIII] Blood On His Hands (Zell, PG-13)

[wallwalker]

Title: Blood On His Hands
Author: wallwalker
Fandom: Final Fantasy VIII
Characters: Zell and a few unnamed OCs
Warnings: Minor violence
Summary: Zell never wants to forget the men he's killed.
Notes: Originally written for fic_promptly.

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"Are you all right, cadet?"

Zell jumped slightly as he finished washing the blood off of his hands. "I'll be fine, sir," he said to the SeeD who had spoken to him - he couldn't even remember the man's name, only that he'd been in charge of the cadets for this training mission.

Training mission. It had gone horribly wrong; they couldn't really call it training anymore, could they? No one was dead, but two cadets were badly injured, and Zell... Zell shuddered. He'd had to kill a soldier, with nothing but his fists.

A killer at the age of fifteen. His mother would be so damn proud, he thought bitterly.

The man behind him seemed to understand. Zell could see sympathy in his blue eyes. "It's hard at first, I know," he said. "The first time I had to kill someone... well, it never leaves you. But you did what you had to do. If you hadn't fought, we might've lost some of you."

"I know," he said, staring glumly at his wet hands. The blood was gone, washed down the drain, but he kind of wished it had still been there. "That doesn't mean I have to like it."

"Hang on to that feeling, kid. It'll help, believe me."

The man walked away, apparently satisfied that what he'd said would help Zell feel better about himself. But it didn't, not really. Zell knew he'd done what he had to do, and he did regret it. That didn't make him feel better.

The blood wouldn't stay on his hands forever. Maybe he needed something else.

---

Two days later, Zell walked out of the tattoo studio.

The man who'd done his inking before had shrugged off the request. That's all you want? Bit modest, for you. Easy, though. Shouldn't take any time at all.

It had been simple, and small - a tiny drop of blood, hidden under his right glove. It wasn't big, but he only had to look at it and remember what killing that man had felt like. And that was what he needed.

He would kill others, he was sure. And he would have another drop of blood tattooed on his hands when he did, and another, until his hands were always bloody. He would remember every one of them.