Rainbow Colored Dreams

He fires again, another alien dies. It's automatic. Not much thought behind it. It's become instinctual.

This time the blood is orange.

Not that it makes a difference to him anymore.

Red, green, purple, blue - the colors no longer matter to him. Nothing matters to him. He just does his job.

He thought Jon loved him; he'd said so. But he realizes that it was just so many words uttered during sex, casually tossed out in the throes of mindless fucking. "Harder." "Faster." "More." "I love you." Meaningless exhortations.

He agrees with Trip. This mission is a one way ticket. And he had thought he might as well live a little before dying. Being in the Expanse this long - well, it just made some things not matter.

Two more people fall under his fire. A small part of him adds them to his tally.

Jon never loved him. He'd said as much when he told him a few weeks ago that their "thing" was over.

Too bad Malcolm had confused another's lust with love. Again. He doubts if he'll ever learn.

A beam passes through where his head had been; only reflex made him duck. That had been instinctual too.

As he shoots another person he muses that Jon wasn't one of the most articulate of lovers he's ever had.

Jon has no regret. No pain. No guilt or shame. Jon simply discarded him. It occurs to Malcolm that Jon probably never felt anything for him.

But it doesn't matter. Malcolm can't feel anything for himself any longer either.

However, Jon still expects him to do his duty. To follow his orders. To do what's necessary, no matter what it takes, no matter the sacrifice.

Malcolm knows how to be the perfect soldier. He's been practicing his whole life.

This time a child falls, squealing in pain. He kills it to stop to its cries. Although its suffering wouldn't have mattered either.

Ah, but the dreams.

That's when it matters, that's when he can't guard himself against the feelings that rainbow of colors evoke.

Red blood.

For his crewmates who died, for those he couldn't protect, for those forfeited.

Green.

The 147 Vulcans he killed, their only chance to escape - even Jon had easily seen that there was no alternative, no way to save the Vulcans. They had to save themselves instead.

Purple blood, the blood of proud Klingon warriors, all hands lost on the Klingon ship he destroyed as they entered the Expanse.

Blue.

For the seven people he killed for Jon, one after the other, lined up and letting them watch their fellow compatriots die. They got the information they wanted. He killed the last one anyway. Jon had ordered no survivors.

There's been so much blood. So many colors.

The dreams haunt him. He can't numb his feelings then, he can't defend himself against his own psyche. Grief and remorse visit him. Sorrow and guilt. Sin piled upon sin, eternal damnation in the name of duty. What he does for Jon.

Because he still loves him, no matter what.

He shoots another witness, her orange blood splattering upon him. It doesn't matter. He's already covered in it. It just means another hour in decon.

He always dreams he is drowning.

Drowning in blood.

Red, green, purple, blue.

He knows orange will join his dreams tonight.

But it doesn't matter. He knows he's dead already.

Dead people can't drown.