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Renee had come.

Sam thought he could hear her crying. He couldn't even look her in the face as she said his name.

Delilah was dead, gone. He'd failed. Failed again, and again, and again. Richard, and Clair, and now Delilah. He hadn't even been able to deliver Clair's toque.

He didn't want to yell anymore. Didn't want to tear everything down, bring down temples, burn everything. Nothing seemed adequate. He just felt drained. The throbbing in his knuckles wasn't much of a distraction from the hard truth.

The shotgun in his hands was heavier than ever. It would be so easy, so easy to just put that shotgun in his mouth, pull the trigger.

His mind was blank as he stared at the gun, turning it over and over in his hands.

His hands clenched on the gun.

The gun made him a threat. That's why he'd gotten it. To protect himself. To protect Delilah, and whoever else he met. A surge of pointless anger, as he pondered how that had turned out.

One of his hands unclenched, drifted slightly off the gun, hesitated, finally alighted on Delilah's face. Closed her eyelids, at last, over those blue-grey eyes that he'd never see looking at him again. Her face still looked scared, but... maybe it didn't matter.

He wondered if he should carry Delilah's body. Bury it. Something. A drifting thought that didn't make any sense. Finally, he just covered her with her blanket.

Sam stood.

"Renee," he started. "We should-" His voice cracked in the middle of the sentence and he stopped. Shook his head, tears threatening to emerge.

On uncertain legs, he left.

((Samuel Wilson continued in Swan Song))
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Program V3 Prologue:
Sylvia Veneski -- F32 -- Clothes Hanger -- Alive -- Stroke of Midnight

Auld Lang Syne
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Breaking Point · The Ranch
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