It started with an accident and ended with mass murder.

One momentary loss of concentration and the nuclear bomb I intended on disarming was primed, and there was no way of undoing my mistake.

I’m a hero, I’m always a hero. But now I found myself travelling down a different path. 

I did everything I could for the town’s residents; ran their errands, found scrap for them, carried out their research – anything to distract me from the gravity of my error.

But it didn’t work, and as I toiled to complete their thankless tasks resentment grew within me.

The chirpy store owner, so endearing at first, had begun to grate. The humble engineer, working tirelessly to provide the town with irradiated water, became pathetic; helpless without my wasteland handouts. My wasteland handouts.

It started with a single gun shot, and tumbled quickly, irrevocably into a massacre.

As the engineer fell, crumpling in slow motion before me, more followed. Soon, heads rolled lazily down steps and chunks of my old friends lay scattered around me. Until, finally, there was no-one left.

Looting their homes provided a rich bounty, but if the bulk of their possessions weighed down on me, the weight of my actions did not.

Until I saw him.

Turning to exit the last house I noticed a small boy sat in a dark corner, his head in his hands. It was the Sheriff’s son, silently grieving the loss of his Father.

I wanted to end it for him, not out of malice or bloodlust, but to bring the poor boy peace. But something wouldn’t let me. I just couldn’t do it.

Later, as I gazed from the balcony of a rich man’s tower, with the Sheriff’s hat perched on my head and a gigantic explosion filling the skyline, I thought of that boy and smiled. Perhaps, just this time, flicking the switch was the right thing to do.