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Legundo needs to wash his hands. He needs to wash his hands, but the general placing a medal around his neck doesn't seem to notice.
How can he not notice? Legundo's hands are covered in blood, and any second now the applauding crowd is going to notice—
It's too late, the general has taken his wrist and swung Legundo's hand up, he can barely feel the cool air through the thick coating of drying blood; everyone sees a thick drop of it drip down into Legundo's eye and it burns. Half the world is gone now, the remaining half greatly reduced, half the world hidden away and burning and an entire town gone so he could get a medal—Why is no one disgusted? The world is burning, why isn't anyone screaming, he swears he remembers screams—
The confusion fades as he feels fangs sinking into his neck. Yes. He can do this. Everyone in the room can see that he's doing his penance. He's feeding the hungry. He's made people starve to death—it's only fitting that he should offer himself for food.
It's simple. It's calm. It feels wrong to be this at peace, but Legundo can't deny that he was tired. In fact, he seems to be getting more tired by the second, and he vaguely wonders if someone on stage would be willing to lend him their chair for just a moment. It would be a bad look for a soldier, but he doesn't want to be a good soldier anyway.
Just as he's about to collapse, he feels something shift within him.
He's hungry. He's beyond hungry, he's starving. He's starving, and he has claws and fangs that he can use to cure that.
Why aren't they screaming?
How do they still not see him for the monster he is?
~~~
Legundo wakes up, rubbing a hand over his face. There's still work to be done.