“Agent Jackson!” Clio cried out. He attempted to form the words, now, to recall all that had happened to him in the past several hours, of the deception of the PCA, the truth of what he was, but most monumentally, the awful thing that he had done to Three.

Words, he found, were absent from his throat. To put it to words, to actually speak of the act, would make it far too real. 

“I killed … I killed …” he stammered, shaking.

Agent Jackson’s dark eyes were unreadable as they passed over Clio, as though Clio and his odd appendages didn’t matter, and instead zeroed in on the man on the bed. Clio watched as Agent Jackson’s eyes widened in absolute anguish, snapping between Clio and the bed, becoming horrified and upset. “You killed my brother?” he spoke in such a soft voice, nearly a whisper, like a child in denial of an ugly truth, and was begging for some type of assurance or denial of the ugliness he saw.

But then Clio’s wings twitched, his tail snapping back and forth, accidentally knocking over a half-full water cup, and as Agent Jackson’s eyes drew to the motion, his face closed and hardened, all emotion snuffing out.

“N-no,” Clio stammered, his voice weakening with the dead coldness behind Agent Jackson’s eyes. He had never seen that look before on the man, and it, along with everything else, frightened him out of speech. “I killed … I killed …” was all he could muster.

Agent Jackson strode forward, seemingly calm, until he reached Clio. Then an arm sprang out, iron fingers wrapping around Clio’s throat in an unremorseful grip, and he was grabbed and slammed into the wall.

Clio coughed and sputtered, crying out in that strange animal voice that he didn’t feel was truly his, and clawed at Agent Jackson’s unrelenting hand.

Clio’s tail flicked up to assist in his attempt at freedom.

Agent Jackson battered it away once, whipped out a gun from the holster of his belt, and shot it.

Clio screamed at the eruption of pain that came with the shot, thrashing violently, though one thing that hadn’t changed about him was how weak he was. There was no way, he knew, he could overpower a strong man as competent as Agent Jackson.

He was still in denial of the fact that he had to.

Agent Jackson then took the blunt-end of his weapon and smashed it against the side of Clio’s head, ceasing his thrashing. 

“You killed my brother, you vile, wretched demon,” Agent Jackson hissed, his look twisting into one of murderous rage as he fumed down upon Clio, breath hot and furious. The gun in his hand moved up until the end of the barrel was pressed up upon Clio’s jaw, digging into his skin.

Clio couldn’t speak. Even with the hand, he was far too shocked and tormented to even utter a sound anymore. All the events, along with Agent Jackson’s obvious hatred of him, swirled to drown him all at once, and he could no longer even begin to think or function.

All he could do was cry.

“I should have killed you,” Agent Jackson went on, nearly calmly aside from the slight shake of his voice that came with his fury, “when I killed your mother.”

Clio sobbed louder, only managing to shake his head slightly in denial. Unable to think. Unable to breathe.

“I now regret not terminating you sooner,” he continued in that awful, calm voice, “They were going to do it, and now I would have stayed in the room—I would have enjoyed watching you die.”

Clio found himself screaming, his voice ringing too loud even for his own ears.

“Now I can’t even end you!” Agent Jackson roared, jostling him roughly. “You’ve taken that from me, too! You’re all I think, all I want to think about, and you planned it! You made it so, when the time came, that I wouldn’t be able to tear your fucking head off.” The gun shook against Clio’s skin, as though Agent Jackson were struggling to pull the trigger. His face had taken a wolfish quality, with sharp teeth and dark eyes. 

Finally, Agent Jackson dropped Clio, as though dropping trash, and stepped away.

“I wish I could kill you,” Agent Jackson whispered, trembling with more emotion than just rage. There was sorrow there, as well, as though he was truly regretful of the blockage that disallowed him from tearing out Clio’s throat with his canines. Then his expression shuttered, glancing around passively down to Clio’s crumbled form. He stepped back. “But I’ll let the PCA do it.”

Moving just as calmly as he had when he had entered, Agent Jackson walked out of the room, vanishing from sight.

Clio struggled to control his breathing, curled up on the floor. He wanted to curl tighter, bury into himself, and never come out. 

Maybe if he just curled tight enough, he could disappear.

He wished he’d never lived a life, just so he didn’t have to feel this. 

But he heard agents coming, shouting as they ran towards him, and even though it went against his judgment, it was his body, his Darkness, not any single thought or want, that had him move from the wrecked scene. His wings unfurled and he looked up to the hole in the ceiling with dead, unseeing eyes.

His wings shot out and he jumped up, giving a powerful flap to fully ascend to the outside.

Fire engulfed him as he exploded upwards, and he wished it would take him, but it only grazed him, caressing him as it continued on with its task of destruction. ‘Destroyed’ was the only word to describe the compound of PCA buildings now beneath him. 

There was some type of war going on beneath him, the PCA versus these unknown vigilantes, and Clio didn’t care who won. 

He was abruptly tired, exhausted, and he needed to move away from here, his body told him, so he let himself be carried off and away. It was a while before trees stretched beneath him, his first time encountering a plant that wasn’t plastic.

These trees were alive, but they couldn’t hate him or reject him, so he fell to them.

So very exhausted, he trudged along the forest floor, feeling sated from his previous meal, but too tired and numb to feel all the shame of that. A body of water greeted him, a lake, and he walked into it.

He kept walking until it swallowed him, burying him beneath its watery crest and he found himself sinking. 

Finally, he slept, and he let sleep come easily. He didn’t have to think or feel anymore.

His last thought was the hopeful prayer that he would never wake up.