@00078292: i'm doing what you won't.
𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚢𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚟𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚒𝚕𝚝 𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏. layers of adamantium and scars, survival instincts honed sharper than your claws. he doesn't see the full canvas at all. he can't. how could sam understand the battles you've fought —– you've never told him. you also never knew the decisions came from upstairs. to send you places, force a smile on your face until you were close enough to strike a target —– thousands dead by you from higher-up's decisions. annie had shown you that. she had painted a clearer picture for you, for your life —– for everything. the scientists of the woods were only one piece of the broader puzzle; they made you into a weapon / vought had purchased the weapon to do their bidding. they had created your essence. the more you think about it, the more flames roar inside your chest —– their heat threatening to burn through the calm facade you're already struggling to maintain. it's not about what you won't do / it's about what you've had to do, time and time again. you've slaughtered, you've maimed, you've destroyed —– enough blood has been spilled by your claws to fill a valley's lake. you refuse to do it again; to waltz into a cage after being handed your freedom. and, if the cage is open —– why is sam going back inside?
hands clenching at your sides, your nails dig into palms hard enough to draw blood. they heal nearly instantly. ❝ killing innocent people? i have done enough of that. ❞ you'll never be free from the blood that stains your hands —– the ghosts that haunt your past. with every choice in life comes a diverging path for a person's destiny: you've chosen freedom. sam has chosen vengeance. a choice in destiny that often results in failure —– and more pain than you started with. ❝ you were once my friend, sam. if i choose my freedom over my death —– will you still be my friend? ❞ there's a part of you, deep down, that already knows the answer. your claws prepare themselves.