“Fantasy,” his body twisted around, “Is about princesses and heroes,” the harsh wooden stick in his hand crushed into the body behind his, “This,” blood turned to dust on his thinly gloved hands, “Is a fucking nightmare.”

Sweat ran down his back. More came. If the salt of his sweat got into his eyes it would blind him for a moment. If the dust that came from the deaths rose, it would burn all of them.

“Fucking nightmare,” he repeated and the dust rose, catching on the breath of the wind.

“Glasses everybody!” the shout came from his right and they slid the glass goggles over their eyes, protecting them from the dust.

“I can’t see!” another shout came before it broke off in a tortured wail.

His back pressed against another’s; warm with life and blood, but wet with nervous sweat. He could feel the movements of the other, the way that his partner could feel his movements. The desperate working for life until the sun came, every night it came to this. Some team was ambushed, and someone was turned. They’d find out who come morning. Now they just fought, their blood rushing, the sweat going, the heat of the summer bearing down on them or the cold of winter shaking their bodies until bloodlust burned their bodies.

“It’s fucking hot,” his partner grinned and shouted as they twisted around, trading partners.

Wooden staff, move, quick jab, dust. Quick and easy.

“These dry cleaning bills are going to kill me,” he scowled and another jab had the next one down. That one looked like old Johnny, a good ol’ boy who’d worked with him before. Too bad. Time for mourning came later, when they weren’t fighting for their lives.

A hand across his ass and he laughed, leaning against his partner, their arms interlocking, shooting guns that weren’t theirs.

“I say,” he shouted, “We drop the G-bomb and get the fuck outta here. I’m getting tired…”

“Man,” one of the other guys shouted back, “I’d never get the smell out of my clothes.”

“Tex,” his voice rose again, “Drop the bomb and get everybody back to headquarters. If you find someone, pick them up. You know the drill.”

“Out!” the next voice repeated and they slowly started the retreat, the living leaning on each other, and the dead tossed over their comrade’s shoulders.

“I’m not leaving a single fucking one to be caught,” he said softly, his guns falling into their holsters, while the rest of the squad mimicked the action.

“This is my team,” the team leader caught up with him, the dirt and dust and sweat catching on his forehead, making him shine like the moon. He snorted.

“Then take care of them.” The two of them glanced at each other as they murmured in unison, leaning against each other, muscles aching. God, I want to just get hit by a fucking bus and die he sighed. It’d probably be better than this shit.

He wanted a smoke and reached into his partner’s pocket to get one. They shared a slight smile and the lighter was snagged out of his back pocket.

“See you at the dorms,” they both had cigarettes, and they were lit quickly.

“See ya,” he nodded, “I’ll give my report…”

"Bye!" they lingered for a moment before parting, the teams breaking up.

He'd lied. They all knew it.

He went back.

"They say that criminals always return to the scene of the crime," he murmured softly as the wind tossed the ashes around. "I wonder if it's true..."

"Of course it's true," another voice came from the edges of the makeshift battlefield.

"I see. You're here, after all," he muttered sourly and sifted his fingers through the dust, praying for the souls of once-breathren.

"So cynical, my dear..." an angel of vengence came from the shadows, tall and dark, with a sword across his back.

He ignored the comment and stood, the tall wooden staff crossing against his chest as the breeze threw up the dust again, making tendrils of ghosts. "Does He feel guilt?"

"That's the question we all want to answer," the angel sighed, parts disappearing into the night, hidden by thick swaths of dust.

"An offense to God Himself," he sighed, "That's what you called us."

"And you are. You kill each other without looking at what you're fighting for. You had wars and violence. Even when there is a common enemy, you still kill each other." The angel knelt in front of him, the long blond hair falling across his face, into the dust. A braid had come undone, with the black ribbon falling loosely around his face.

"We aren't a theological debate," he muttered and pushed his hair back, watching the wind throw the dusted bodies of the blood-suckers away, those fucking leeches. Those bastards that tried to make farm animals out of humans and every-fucking-thing else.

"No, of course not," beautiful lips curled up into a sneer, "No, you're more along the lines of a mistake."

"Thanks," he smiled slightly, arrogantly at him, "But at least we have free will. We have the one thing denied to you."

"You have nothing but a broken world," the angel sighed and shook his head, long, pale hair whipped against his face as he did so.

"It's better than broken Heaven."