Oh Leopard,　little Leopard,　do you hear that shrill,　agonized screech?　The harrowing wailing,　a crescendo of pain,　howling from the expanse of pale neck.　That can’t be you screaming,　can it?　You don’t cry,　you don’t whine,　you don’t beg,　and you definitely don’t scream　⸻　but your throat aches as searing scream rips through it nonetheless,　tender hands cupping your face,　cradling your cheeks.　Eyes force shut in the midway,　unable to bear witness to this repulsive vulnerability,　jaw agape to set free everything you have never been able to say.　It is Sam’s to hear,　and you hate that you have afforded him this opportunity.　You don’t want him to see you like this.　You don’t want him to see you like this.　He can’t see you like this.　It will ruin everything,　compromise the competent charm you’ve made for yourself,　image cast up onto pedestal where you are greater than,　tougher than,　everything the IRG has chiseled you into.　He can’t.　It’s not fair.

Fucking Sam.　He is insolent enough to believe that you can get up and walk away,　just like Hare did.　You are fettered to the IRG,　clinging to it desperately,　as though it is a life raft and you are adrift at sea,　harsh waves hellbent on dragging you under the surface of the water.　Maybe you are drowning.　In everything that could have been,　should have been,　the potential fixed within the crucible of your body if you’d ever been granted a regular upbringing,　if you weren’t property of the IRG,　and of Professor,　before you were able to walk.　Before you were a mere tool.　An implement,　apparatus.　Comportment sharpened to their liking,　every cutting edge of yourself.　It’s not the kind of thing you can run away from.　Even with Professor dead　⸻　loathe as you are to admit it in the first place;　He was the closest thing to a father you have ever known,　and that fucking cunt has ripped him from you of her own selfishness　⸻　you are theirs as long as you are still breathing.　

Lip wobbling,　❛❛  It’s not about you?  It really isn’t about you? ❜❜　You don’t know how to argue this.　You’re losing your cool,　Leopard.　Deep breaths,　Leopard.　Except that every breath you draw in grows more and more agitated,　in-out-in-out rapidly until dizziness engulfs your being:　you’re hyperventilating,　Leopard.　You’re losing yourself.　(He’s right,　really.　This isn’t a life.　But you’d never deign to call yourself a person,　even among your fellowship of mindless drones,　inveigled soldiers holding signature weapons close to their chests.　You don’t know how to be free.)

❛❛  Fuck you.  ❜❜　You don’t look up,　a weak attempt at masking the ripe heat suffused across your face,　born of your distress.　Your throat really does burn,　inside of your skull aching from how tightly you’ve squeezed your eyes shut,　trying to block the world out.　It just won’t go away.　You scream again,　longer this time,　a roar that a snow leopard could never produce.　When your weeping vocal cords can no longer provide,　the noise stifles into a choked sob,　hot tears licking at the corners of your eyes,　even more desperate to pour down your cheeks in expert debasement.　You hate this.　You want to claw your skin off.　You hate Sam.　You get nothing in life,　permanently deprived of meaningful choices.　You hurt.

Fingers drag down your face,　a mirror of Sam’s gesture,　and light filters back in as you slowly open your eyes,　lids parting like petals.　Full-on sobbing now,　sniffling and hiccupping and all.　You hate yourself.　You really do fucking hate yourself.　❛❛  I don’t—　I don’t know what to do.　I can’t—　I can’t—　I can’t do it,　Sam.　I don’t know how.　I really don’t know how.  ❜❜

Really it would've been so simple to just cradle her in your arms like you always had, suggest some fucked ways to really forget in the moment. set the scene, then be in each other's skin to vacate for hours before reality hit again the next day and it would be okay because you had her. that was the regime, that was the routine you once shared. YOU HAVING HOPE was almost so unbelievable, it's almost like you could tell that she knew you well enough because it is true, maybe it is also about you. this need for heroism, for escaping (yet again). but would it be so bad that maybe this is it ? The freedom you'd always think of, maybe the subtle seeds of idea that was once brought in nights you shared that there's a part of you that maybe one day, you'd be able to live a life with her.

Stubborn to have risked it, dumb enough to let her go, and even in all the time apart, it's as if a part of you had been ripped away and sawn back again after knowing there's a chance to re-kindle that desire. HAD ALWAYS FOUGHT FOR HER, but did you even believe enough then? guilty. trust and the amount of times you'd mend it together, and this time yet again All this anger truly was once love, and you had found that with her that now came rushing back as if a wave crashed you back to when she gave you herself, who she was, leopard.

You hated knowing that the IRG, was the reason of being parted. how childish to think so. though even more, for all of it. for seeing her this . . . broken. distraught, and cracked. PAIN WAS SOMETHING YOU KNEW , you shared openly with her and to see the repercussion of her identity be ripped for her freedom was cruel fate of humanity. why them, why us. / Walls breaking down, you really can't resist her especially not this way. SHE WAS THE STRONGER ONE, HAD ALWAYS BEEN THE ONE THAT HAD THE SAY, the captain and you as her first mate.

letting your guard down this time, letting impulse drive you. hands reaching for hers, one reaching yet again to tears that shed heavily, wiping it and letting eyes meet her with genuine condolence, to recognise her pain, her loss, how she's lost the home she's only had yet also grieve the life she only knew, to truly see her. "I'm sorry." maybe this is one of many things that she needed to hear, to accept with someone to be her anchor. and you were willing to take that blow, whatever it is that comes after, and after, so long as its you that takes the blow for her to free herself.