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These paws of yours bring only death and destruction.
You'd thought you were okay with that. Fighting, thwarting, is what you were trained for. Ensuring the safety of the Tri-State Area, by any means necessary.
Usually, lethal means aren't necessary. Usually, you can destroy their inator and walk away, knowing they're not a threat. Usually, these days, you're fighting Heinz, harmless enough to leave to his own devices, time after time. With him, it's all about the routine.
Not every evil scientist has been so harmless. Some, you've had to break bones, or break spirits. Twist arms until they snap, wrench bones out of sockets, slam fingers into doors, wrap your tail around necks, stab your venom spurs into veins. Make them bleed, make them scream. Occasionally, they show up again after they get out of hospital, with a new scheme and a multitude of casts. Often, they don't.
Rarely, you learn their fates after you're done with them. It only took one report of amputation to refuse to know the rest. Sometimes, in the back of your mind, you wonder how many died in the end.
The ones you killed with your own two paws, directly, you do remember. Every last one has been burned into your brain.
An accident, the first time. You hadn't realised humans could be so fragile, that their skulls could shatter so easily under your paws if you hit them wrong, that you could crush their throat with a punch. After that, you never forgot.
The next, you never saw up close. On the other end of a scope, you'd watched, waiting for your shot. He'd had hostages. What other choice did you have?
A fight for your life. She'd insisted you had no right to stop her, fighting on, no matter how many bones you shattered, how many times you'd sent her crashing to the floor, how much venom you'd given her. When you'd finally snapped her neck, you'd cradled her head as you watched the light in her eyes die with her, wondering if there hadn't been some other option.
Another hostage situation. She'd had a loaded gun in one hand and an armed bomb strapped to her chest, ticking down, fully prepared to blow herself up to get what she wanted, whatever that was. Revenge? Agonisingly aware of the limited time you had, you'd tackled her to the ground, wrenching at the gun. Unable to pull it from her grasp, you'd settled for making sure she couldn't point it at any innocents. She'd tried. In the end, desperation had driven you to put the gun to her head with all your strength and pull the trigger, for a chance to defuse the bomb in time.
A father, beating his son within an inch of his life. You still see that one in nightmares, the boy's tearful face as you stood over his father's bloodied corpse, asking if you'd kill him next, half fear and half plea, the way he'd shuddered as you held him instead. With his injuries, he wouldn't survive much longer, you'd told yourself, comforting him as best you could until he passed. You never knew his name.
These days, your mind superimposes your nemesis over top of the boy's face, and you're not sure how long it'll be until you can't remember anything else. The thought worries you.
Caught off guard by a knife in your side, you'd yanked it out, adrenaline dulling the pain, and thrust it under his ribs a few times. At least until he'd stopped struggling. You'd bandaged yourself up after that, waiting for him to bleed out. The scar still pulls at you some days. Guilt doesn't.
She wasn't the first evil scientist intent on taking over the world, and she wouldn't be the last. It was almost routine by then. Evaluate the threat, via the monologue or your own judgement, and neutralise it. You'd known, immediately, that she wouldn't go down quietly, nor would she be so harmless next time. The take over the world ones rarely stopped there, in your experience, and she'd already hurt bystanders. No regard for collateral damage. You'd weighed your options against the inevitable paperwork, wondering how far you could go and still claim reasonable force. Then you'd smashed her face against a wall until she stopped screaming. Cracked skull, you'd found out later, but you should have known from the sickening crunch.
A mission gone wrong. You'd walked in to see the bodies of your fellow agents, torn limb from limb, bloodied fedoras hung on the wall like trophies. Only your training kept you from being next. Much of what happened next is a blur in your memory now, instinct having taken over, but you remember the vicious satisfaction as he'd screamed for what he'd done, your venom searing through his veins. You may not have known his other victims all that well, but you had a duty to ensure their lives did not end in vain.
One of the other agents, too bloodied to tell their species beyond mammal but somehow still alive, had grabbed at your hindpaw afterwards. You'd given them what mercy you could.
All that stands out of the next is the guilt. Everything had been so normal at first, a standard thwarting. You'd kicked her in the jaw as usual and she'd stumbled back, her head hitting a corner on her inator as she fell to the ground. Never got up again. Your fault. At least you could still feel something, you'd told yourself, wishing that made it easier to deal with.
More. Too many more.
And now here you are. Blood on your paws, literally and figuratively, as you crush his chest with all your strength. Again and again you do it, snarling through your tears. His ribs snapped long ago, but you can't stop, not while there's still a chance to save him.
Not dead until he's warm and dead, you remind yourself. And your nemesis has survived so much already. You can't let this be the thing that takes him from you, not now.
He coughs, the first sign of life since you'd pulled him from the water, and you sob with relief. Alive. He's alive, against all odds. Somehow, miraculously, wonderfully alive. Because of you. His breathing, strained though it is, is proof you're good for more than just death.
This time, these paws of yours have brought life.