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we have not touched the stars (nor are we forgiven)

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Pablo is tired.

So, so tired.

There's not much time left, not anymore. Not for him, not for what's coming. Because, after all, heroes don't get happy endings. Heroes don't get the joy of a job well done or a task finished perfectly, casualities avoided.

Heroes don't get to be happy.

And maybe that was his downfall all along, he reasons. Maybe this was the point of it all.

After all, if he works towards law and peace on Earth, proving his worth as a hero and working to save lives, will he ever get to see the end of it? Will he ever see the joy of life, of a world rid of pain, of his success?

If he can't face the Earth after his mission, is it even worth it?

The people in chat are talking. They're following rules, they're being responsible, they're praising him and they're lively.

But it won't last. It never does.

His leg taps a rhythm against the floor as he watches colorless names discuss a topic he's too intelligent for. His fingers itch above the keyboard, hands shaky.

There's nothing he can do.

He could throw his life away, waste every second on this hellsite that chips away at his lifespan, working and monitoring until, until.


Pablo's not one for patience, after all.

With Beluga and Skittles gone and forgotten, he has nothing else to lose.

And he knows what they say about people that have nothing left to lose anymore.