Preface: This is based on the 2000 film and characters. I thought it would be nice to do a piece from Pilate's POV, which hasn't been done thus far, at least here on Much thanks to Slytheriness for the lovely beta. All remaining mistakes are mine.

Disclaimer: I do not own Jesus Christ Superstar, nor am I affiliated with Andrew Lloyd Webber, Really Useful Films, or whoever else owns the film. Don't sue.

Used

Pontius Pilate strode into his darkened bedchambers and threw his hat angrily to the floor. Fools! What have they forced me into? he thought bitterly. He slammed the door shut, drowning out the sound of the raucous crowd he had left behind. Closing his eyes, Pilate worked his jaw as he felt his heart twisting in his chest. What had gone so wrong? The supposed power he had came to absolutely nothing, tossed away at the whim of a mob. For what, the murder of a harmless puppet? Hardly comprehending, Pilate crossed to the bed and sat heavily, one hand clutching the headboard, the other desperately grasping at the sheets. He was the man in my dream after all, he thought. He stood up to me and never said a single word. Damn him! Why! He had looked into the man's eyes, those beautiful blue eyes, and pleaded. He had pleaded for answers. Pontius Pilate on his knees, holding this broken soon-to-be martyr in his arms, weeping for Jesus and himself. Tears flowed down Pilate's cheek once again, mixing with the blood Jesus had left there. Pontius glanced downward and saw the blood staining his sheets, finally remembering what coated his dark gloved hands The blood of Jesus Christ shall be on my hands forever, he thought and ripped the gloves off with disgust.

Just then a guard stepped into the room, boot-heels clicking on the marble floor and he stood to attention, saying, "The crucifixion has begun, sir." Pilate said nothing and only sat, dazed, staring at his hands, "Sir?", the confused guard muttered. As if finally realizing he was there, Pontius looked up and blinked. A look of determination crossed his face and he stood up, tossing the gloves at the bewildered guard.

"I don't care. Just get out of here…and burn those", he commanded.

"Yessir," the guard blurted and quickly made his exit.

Silence descended as Pontius listened to the footsteps of the soldier fade down the hall. He roared and almost frantically began to shed his uniform, tossing his coat and breastplate across the room and shedding his blood-sticky clothes. Naked, he walked to the washbasin and washed the blood from his face. He stood, breathing heavily, staring at his face in the mirror, his heavy-lidded eyes wide with terror. I need to think. I can't do it here. It's all too fresh here. Pilate sighed and walked back to the bed, glancing at the crimson streak on the sheets, and grabbed a royal purple robe draped at the end. Head spinning with unanswered questions, he strode back out into the fresh night air, walking along the catwalks, unseen in the shadows. Was he right after all, he wondered, did I never really have a choice? Time slid by like the cold rails under his hands as he walked, until he felt his foot slip underneath him. He looked down to examine the cause and saw one of Jesus' flyers. He stooped down to pick it up, and was startled to discover the word "SUCKS" scrawled over the word "RULES" in angry red letters. As he held the flyer, which was ripped and torn and marked by footprints, he again wondered what had happened. What made a man go from beloved to vilified in a matter of days?

"You there," a voice challenged, "who are you?" Pilate looked up to see a group of soldiers, who looked to be carrying a body, on the catwalk ahead. He dropped the paper and let it flutter down, hissing menacingly as it slid onto the ground. He slowly and mechanically drew up to his full height and stood, squared shouldered, to face the voice's owner. Pilate said nothing, only glared at them, his face made even sterner by the shadows deepening his already severe and angular features. The soldier faltered, visibly awed by this brute of a man, intimidating even out of uniform, "S-sir, I'm sorry. I didn't know it was you."

His face masked, Pilate did not acknowledge the flustered guard but strode up to them, robe billowing behind him. He examined the corpse they held; a slightly balding man dressed all in black, an ugly bruise collaring him. "Who is he?" Pilate asked.

"The man who turned over Jesus, sir. Judas Iscariot," the guard answered.

"How did he die?" he demanded, guessing the answer as he traced the line of the bruise across the dead man's neck with his eyes.

"Suicide, sir. Hanged himself from the walk." Silently, Pontius Pilate reached out and touched the man's face, ignoring the confused stare of the guards, and felt drying tears upon the cold cheek. He felt a sudden kinship with this ruined man. Our pain is similar. I think, perhaps, we were both used to bring about the death of an innocent man. No man would feel remorse for bringing a criminal to trial.

"Take him away quietly," he ordered.

"Sir?"

"No questions. This man is not to be celebrated. It will be kinder if history forgets him," The guard nodded and Pilate watched as they carried him away into the darkness. "I can only hope to be so lucky," he spoke softly to the shadows.