It is lovely to heal.

Euphoric, even. There's something about watching blood coagulate, and bone re-knit itself that cannot be explained or equaled. Believe me, I've tried both. It's as if, for just one second, entropy disappears because I command it to and I'm allowed to put everything right again. Of course, this is certainly not the case. The fact that I must output energy in order to heal proves that entropy is just a reliable as ever.

That bothers me.

So does the fact that there are some things that- though I loathe to say it- I simply cannot fix. For instance, last week they brought me Soldier. Heavy carried him, Soldier's limbs spilling haphazardly out of the bigger man's arms. He laid him down gently, like he was a broken, beloved toy, and stepped back.

"Fix him, doktor?" Though he hadn't meant it to be, it was a question. The air was heavy with dust, and the Soldier's eyes were unseeing through a film of red.

It was a puncture. A particularly nasty one, situated between the man's eleventh and twelfth thoracic vertebrae. A Spy's work, and something that I cannot fix. The spinal column was severed almost completely. I could see the red tinged fluid seeping from the wound.

The room smelled sickly sweet while the Soldier died in the thick air.

Like I said, you can't always fix everything.

You can always kill.

And, for just that second, the universe does shift in accordance to your will. Killing means that I am God, that the fate of the world lies in my hands. You've heard of the butterfly effect, perhaps? I am fascinated by it. It's not so much the prospect of killing in itself, it's just the fact that I can kill, and that every time I do, the world is altered a slight bit.

I envy the Spy. His job is much what I would want for myself, if I were practiced in the art of deception. He has the opportunity to see his victims, to watch realization dawn and the light subsequently leave their eyes. He has complete control over their death, because he incapacitates their entire central nervous system. They can do nothing but hope he is merciful.

He never is.

Today, I am playing God. RED Scout was careless, and found himself pinned against a wall with my saw at his throat. He is squirming and begging, telling me about his seven brothers and his home in Boston.

Foolish of him.

His skull grinds easily under my practiced hands. Bloody tissue and hair and bone fragments ooze into my gloves, and I change the world once again, one slice at a time.