I was working on a scene for a BGC fanfic, and came up with the
following scene.  Leon finally gets sick of Priss's constant angst and
lets her have a peice of his mind.  Please tell me what you think of it...

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	Leon had had enough.  Turning to Priss, he snapped "Would you just shut
up?"
	She starred at him, wide eyed.  Then her features curled into a scowl. 
"Just what do you mean by that?" she demanded.
	"You act like you are the only one who has ever gotten hurt.  Well, I
have news for you; you aren't!" Leon said, glaring at her.  "You lost your
family in the quake.  So did a lot of people.  But they don't let it eat
at them like you do.  They mourn, then they move on.  You?  You wallow in
it."
Priss let out an angry sigh.  "What do you know about anything?  What do
you know about loosing people close to you?  You're just a damn cop!  You
don't care about anything," she said, turning away from him.  Leon grabbed
her shoulder and turned her back to face him.  She struggled, but he was
stronger than she.
	"What do I know about it?" he asked, eyes wide.  "Why do you think I
don't ever talk about my family?  They died in the quake, just like
yours.  My older brother? He ran off and joined a mercenary unit.  Got
killed in some war nobody talks about; they weren't even able to find most
of his corpse.  My first partner, Jeena?  Killed by a boomer, and I
couldn't do anything to stop it.  I see people, my friends, die every
fucking day, Priss!" he yelled.  Some of the other guests turned to stare
at the uproar, but Leon didn't seem to care.  The buzz in the room faded
away.
	"You're right, Priss.  I am just a damn cop.  I see it every day, not
just when I decide to go out and see it," he said, trying to choose his
words for impact and subtlty at the same time.  "I know more about loss
and pain then you can imagine.  You think what happens to civilians is
bad?  How about what happens to us?" he fumed.  "I'll tell you a secret;
the officers that are killed?  In some ways, they are the lucky ones. 
What about those that survive, those that beat the average?  Last week, I
went to three funerals.  Not a single one killed by boomers."  Priss
looked at him, a little confused.  "See, you get to wondering, the next
time, will it be me?  Will I be the one to die?  Some people can't take
it.  The stress gets to them.  So�" he trailed off, pointing his index and
forefinger up, under his chin, his thumb cocked like a hammer.  "So they
eat their own gun.  
	"But you know what, Miss High-and-Mighty?  They aren't the worst.  The
worst are the ones who make it, but get injured so bad that they have to
have cybernetics implanted.  You can see it in their eyes; the question. 
Am I going to be next?  Am I going to go crazy, like Fanward, and have to
be put down?  Who am I going to kill, before the ADP can take me out? 
Those are the ones I feel sorry for, Priss.  But you; all you are
concerned about is your loss; your pain.  So, tell me, what is so fucking
rough about your life?" he demanded, starring into her red eyes.  When she
didn't answer, he let go of her arm.  "That's what I thought."  
	He turned and stormed out of the room, out onto the veranda to get some
air.  Priss stood there for a moment, still in shock at his out burst. 
Finally she collected her self.  "Fucking jerk," she shot in the direction
Leon had left in.  The on-lookers turned away, the buzz in the room
returning, this time to discuss the scene they had just witnessed.