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it's a question of morality, leo knows. as the others go back and forth, he can feel it settle in his belly like a lead weight. if they take this man's life, is it truly justified? his mind whirs, flitting through archive upon archive, text upon text, consciousness flickering at light speed, the words of a saint flashing to the forefront of his mind. is it ever truly justified? a question leo has struggled with since he first heard the steady blink of a monitor at his bedside, since consciousness first truly took hold on that lab table in dr. wyndham's basement. what is it, to have life?
what is it to take one?
the alliance owns, all of you. to take one just as this man has taken so many, in more ways than six feet under and ashes and urns can afford, and yet still permanent. leo's life will never be the same — should he escape the alliance somehow, after what's surely to be considered treason, should he not be broken down for parts, studied and reverse engineered? as if nothing more than a trial that resulted in error. and the others — they too have been changed at the hands of this man, to varying degrees, but all of them now. war criminals to be hunted, just as they were sent to hunt ordair.
but he is meant to help, not hurt, and it's what he tells himself over and over as the others argue, as dunne steps into the brig. help / hurt, it's a juxtaposition he has felt precariously close to falling off the precipice of in these past nine years. to walk such a fine line, to turn a blind eye. to struggle, always. to struggle.
leo hovers as they talk, shifting his weight, pacing not far from the doctor. precarious. a precipice. all it takes is the push.
your previous owner was dead. the push.
he moves to crouch at the doctor's feet, watching him with curious, unblinking eyes. count yourself lucky i didn’t take you from that fragile old fool before then.
and something in leo snaps, launching himself from the ground with all the ferocity of a tiger, wounded and wild and snapping its jaws; he strikes tlaloc across the face, holding back none of his unnatural strength. that same hand shoots to grip the doctor's throat, still burning from the last, but this time is different; it's unhinged and unchecked, and as tlaloc strains to breathe it grows tighter and tighter, the android's eyes devoid of any previous sentiment of mercy as he snarls, teeth bared, looking down his nose at the man.
the trachea is a cartilaginous tube that connects the pharynx and larynx to the lungs, and leo is crushing it without a thought to remorse or a backwards glance at the others; feral and violent and acting out in pain, he's finally become what dr. wyndham intended.
human.
the last ragged vestiges of breath drawn from tlaloc's lungs are cut short by the sickly sound of a neck snapping before the thud of a limp body falling to the ground, unmoving.
leo straightens himself out, brushing his hands on his shirt, as if to rid himself of the warmth of tlaloc's skin. "no need, captain." he can't seem to draw his cold gaze away from the body. "it is finished."
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the sound of retching pulls his gaze away, if only for a moment, draws a dip from his brow as he falters. there is a fleeting moment when leo thinks of pax, making his chest tight, the phantom feeling of a hand around a phantom heart, clutched tight with claws. but as the body is dragged away, leo's face is placid, returning zero-ten's look with a nod — acknowledgment, solidarity. he wonders if there are decisions they are meant to make, things they are meant to do so that humans do not have to. call him a monster, but the guilt no longer needs to rest on any of their shoulders; a necessary evil taken out of their hands so that he may carry that weight himself. and there is still one burden left, lying sprawled on the floor, unmoving and unseeing as if like the dead. leo steps forward as the others seem glued to the floor. there is hesitance that speaks of uncertainty and of fallibility, but leo thinks of nothing but mercy as he kneels beside the prone body of ordair, eyes scanning over his limp form. the claws clutching at his heart pull on invisible strings, a chasm filled with pity that writes itself in the downward twitch of the android's lips, in that same dip of his brow. the room is quiet, but leo can hear zero-ten's footfalls as they fade, and their implications are loud. monster, he wonders idly, knows he showed wicked savagery not but moments before; but if it takes a monster to show mercy, a monster he will be, and he draws his gun from the holster at his thigh, reaches a hand to gently cradle ordair's head at the back of his neck, fingers twitching. pressing the muzzle to the man's forehead, he fires.
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