"You're a hero."


Crossly he says, "I'm a renegade. And a do-gooder, maybe, but that won't matter when it comes to trial."


"Just at the right place, at the right time," he says, wringing his hands. "Er, I'll be going, now."


"Nonsense." He snorts. "Heroes are fools with guns. I'm not a fool, and I don't play with death."


"Jelly baby?" he questions. Am I?


"I did what anyone would do in my place, I'm sure," he tells them reasonably. It would have worked out without him. Probably.


"Of course I am," he proclaims smugly. "Didn't I save the day?" And clenches his fists; he couldn't save them all.


"Heroes don't play chess," he says and reaches forward to take a pawn.


"Very kind of you to say so." He beams. "But don't I need a horse?"


"Murderer here!" he snarls, a whisper that reverberates in the empty air. "Genocide, term mean any thing to anyone?" Stupid, stupid apes."


He smiles, and pretends to mean it. They can't tell the difference.


. . . Hero . . .

He's not sure he deserves that word.

He's not sure he knows what it means, any more.