That was one of my fav chapters to write, and I'm not sure what this says about me lmao
/TW:\ gun violence bordering on torture
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He is trying to ignore the three lions' gazes on him, the sound of his blood rushing by his ears, the voice inside that urges him to go outside and play target practice with a bunch of spotted bastards. He needs to think first.
Who else could have known about him being in the clinic? There is Gouhin, but as much as he doesn't get that panda's motivations, that doesn't seem like something he could get anything from. Unless it's part of an elaborate plan which required him to carefully craft a philanthropic medic identity for more than ten years… yeah. Melon doesn't have that big of an ego to think it will be all to catch him.
There is him, of course, except he's pretty sure he does not have DID. Other trauma-related cracks, sure, but he's thankfully alone in his own head, and not suicidal enough to let mysterious assassins after his scent.
And… there are the lions.
"You kitties were the only ones who knew," he says out loud.
The silence that follows is almost deafening.
"Melon…" Agata tries on his left but he shushes him without a glance.
"Assuming it was you who tipped me off. What would you have to gain?"
Free and Jinma exchange a look, and Melon catches sight of the former discreetly reaching for his gun. His grin widens slightly.
"If you really wanted to get rid of me without dirtying your hands," he continues, "you would have told them I was already out of the clinic. Even if you wanted to muddy the waters, I don't see how that would be in your interest for me to be aware of this new threat."
"Yeah, Boss, we-"
"And I wouldn't expect a more intricate plan than that from you, of course."
The lions silently swallow the insult, and Free goes on with what Jinma started:
"Boss, we wouldn't do that. It's an unbreakable rule in the Black Market that the clinic is a safe place. If one doesn't follow it once, it's over for us all, and we need Gouhin-san."
"Yeah, yeah, you and your rules… but then, who?"
"An outsider," the lion insists.
"Sure… Agata?"
"Y-yeah?"
"Your gun, please."
He puts his hand out, palm up, doesn't tear his gaze from the two lions in front of him. He can see their faces hesitating between disbelief, unease and indignation – by now, Free has taken the safety off his gun.
Melon feels the cold weight of a firearm in his hand, can't help but glance at Agata. He wasn't expecting the other to comply without any protestation. Their eyes meet, and he can see the worry in the young lion's, the silent plea – please, don't make me regret this. The hybrid nods as his fingers curl around the grip, savoring the familiar way his index fits in the trigger guard.
"Okay, kitties, let's go hunt some leopards."
The first thing his hybrid senses catch up to is the sound. He steps to the side, closer to the wall, hiding in its shadows. Keeps listening. The footsteps, however muted and careful, echo lightly on the tiles above his head. Getting closer. One sniff of the hair, and he knows it's not one of his subordinates. He grips his gun tighter as his heart begins to race in his chest. He hates that his body reacts like this to leopard scent, even more so since that night. So, he's going to deal with these emotions the only way he knows how; drawing blood until it drowns out the dark thoughts. Screams, gunshots, breaking bones; it all echoes louder than the voices in his head, thankfully.
The intruder has now reached the edge of the rooftop, a few meters away from his hiding place. Melon can see part of a zori sandal. He raises his gun, aims. Flicks his other, broken wrist, lets the pain fill his arm and scare the fear away. He exhales. And presses the trigger.
The gunshot echoes in the narrow pathway, along with the sound of shattering tiles and the gasp of the leopard who just unexpectantly lost his footing. He's a big cat, though, so of course, he lands heavily on his feet, one hand down to stabilize himself, already looking around, ready to fight. What he failed to do, though, was keeping track of his gun – which has ended up just under Melon's foot, way out of his reach.
"Thanks for that," the hybrid drawls, bending to pick it up under the leopard's horrified eyes.
"You're alive…"
"Disappointed?"
Melon catches from the corner of his eye the bastard crouching down, preparing to leap at him. With one fluid motion, he points his gun and fires twice, one shot between the other's feet and the other just over his head.
"One wrong move, and it won't miss," he warns.
"… What do you want?"
They are just away enough from each other that he has no choice but comply; no one can go over three or four meters faster than a bullet. The leopard starts blabbering:
"It wasn't my idea, I swear. And I can't give you the name of the group we worked with, I don't know it, they only introduced themselves as someone who could help us. Our contact was a female dog, an albino bloodhound, she-"
"I'm going to stop you right there," Melon interrupts, sickly sweet, a smile tugging at his lips. "The only thing I want to hear from you are your screams."
He can see it, clear as day – the split moment when all fighting spirit vanishes and survival instinct kicks in. It's in the slight way the body curls inward, protective instead of offensive, the way the eyes widen just a little bit too much, lips parted as their breathing picks up. Adrenaline. It makes your mind cloudy, tire you down, make your hands shake and your movements clumsy. He can see when it floods their system, and he knows then that it's over.
"If you kill me, the others, they- they-"
The leopard stammers, unable to tear his gaze from the open barrel of the gun pointed at him. He is fumbling for words, and so for a good reason; there are none.
"Please."
Melon's smile widens just a bit, tugging at the cut on his lip. Here comes the begging. Face to face with death, animals all act the same. They would do anything, say anything, just so they could save their miserable life.
"You're pathetic," he spits.
Something lights up in the leopard's eyes – indignation maybe? – but it falters just as quickly. Even his wounded pride couldn't stand against the terror of staring into the abyss. His spots have almost deserted his face, disappearing down under his kimono, leaving him bare and properly livid.
"But I'm not going to kill you."
He savors the way relief visibly wash over the bastard – a few spots even peak back out from his collar – before he shoots. The following scream makes his ears ring.
"Well," Melon goes on before it dies down completely. "I should rather say that I will not put a bullet between your eyes. Whether you die or not is, in fact, entirely up to you. Let's see, are leopards resistant?"
The first bullet has gone all the way through his right wrist. The second one hits his outer thigh. Not enough to make it bleeds a lot, but enough to hurt – and to make him limp for days, if he survives the night.
The third one lodges itself on the side of his ribcage. With a bit of luck, it has been stopped by the bones and didn't get to the precious lungs. It will have at least cracked a rib, though.
Melon raises his gun slightly, surveying his work so far. The leopard isn't even screaming anymore, his breath coming out in short, choked gasps. He patiently waits for him to look up again. He wants to see the terror in his eyes – and he would love to admire this sight for a bit longer, but the gunshots might attract a few unwanted witnesses, and he doesn't want to have to end this halfway through.
"Shame you don't have horns. I guess your ear will do."
He shoots again, and blood splashes across the bastard's face, drips down, flooding one of his eyes. Of course, this spot doesn't hurt as much as the others, so he manages to utter a few words:
"Please, I beg you, I-"
"T-t-t, that won't work. I'm almost done anyway."
He adjusts his aim, and all of a sudden, understanding washes over the leopard. His eyes widen a bit more, comically so. His hands fly down, a laughable attempt to protect his crotch. Melon's grin turns into a sneer, sadistic glee crumbling down to let anger take the reins.
"Oh, so you do know about that."
He pulls the trigger again, and the leopard finds it in himself to shriek, and gasp, and scream some more. Blood gushes out of the wound, thick and crimson, already pooling in between his legs. By now, the whole area reeks of it. That, if the noise wasn't enough, is sure to get the attention of all carnivores in the vicinities.
"Oh my, you might pass out soon. Too bad, it's not fun if you don't feel it."
So, forearm, ribs, leg, "horn", groin. Check.
He plays with the gun in his hand, considering putting an abrupt end to the life of the writhing form at his feet. His own injuries are burning, fueled by the sight of one of the perpetrators. He wants to kill him – no, really, he wants to step closer, stick his fingers in the bullet holes and tear some new screams from the bastard's throat, until his voice breaks, until he can't scream no more – but the other Madaragumis will be there any minute now, and he won't give them the pleasure of an easy target.
Time to go back to the shadows.
He leaves the dead-end alleyway behind him. Maybe the other spotted bastards will find their own before he bleeds out, maybe not. He doesn't care anyway. The night stays silent as he slowly makes his way back to the Shishigumi mansion, internally cursing his injured leg that makes itself known with each step. At the main entrance, he is met there by Jinma and Sabu, dutifully standing guard.
"They seem to have retreated, Boss."
"'Kay. Send one of you kitties to my office when it's done."
Once inside, he lets himself drop into the nearby armchair, wincing as pain lights up around his cracked ribs. He wishes it will stop, because he doesn't need the clarity pain brings right now, he just wants to close his eyes and forget about everything for a while. He goes to rub at his aching thigh, stops as he feels something wet seeping through the fabric of his pants – red blooming across light gray. He guesses one of the claw marks there must have re-open. He would be annoyed about having to wash out blood from his clothes again if there weren't already splashes of the leopard's all over him. It balances it out.
He puts the gun on the desk, next to his own, and leans against the backrest again with a sigh. He should get the firearm back to Agata, but he is not getting his ass back up tonight. Waiting for morning in the armchair seems like a good enough plan – it's not like he's planning on sleeping for more than a few hours anyway.
Turns out he won't have to move at all; it's the kitty that has come to him.
(He can't say he's surprised that it's him out of all the lions that came as he asked.)
"No more trace of the Madaragumis," he reports with a weird look towards Melon's stained clothes. "They have taken back their wounded, too. Or their dead. There was a dead-end with lots of blood."
The hybrid smiles, smug and self-satisfied, and Agata nods awkwardly in understanding.
"And, uh, no casualties to report in our ranks."
"Good. I would expect you kitties to know how to chase a few bugs away without getting hurt."
"Hum…"
Agata seems to be ready to leave, but suddenly he speaks, quickly, as if he's afraid he's going to chicken out if he doesn't say it fast enough:
"Say, Melon, are you okay?"
The hybrid returns an incredulous look.
"Excuse me?"
"I don't know, I- I just realized I never asked. You… after that night, most animals would have collapsed." A memory flashes through Melon's mind – legs too weak to support his weight, sobbing on the floor, and strong arms wrapping around his frame –, and he doesn't know if the young lion thought back to it too but Agata adds nonetheless: "And they would not have gotten up."
"Hybrids' bodies are more resistant," he says – hoping that would end the conversation right there and then because that's not one he fucking wants to have.
"I wasn't talking about that. Well, not only."
"I've been beaten up before." He meets the other's gaze and finds the strength to force the next words out: "Raped, too. I can deal with it. Really, I should take it as a compliment, right? That someone would like my weird chimera body like that."
Something in the young lion's expression makes his guts twist. He can tell he's not buying his bluff, and suddenly he hates him for that, for not smiling, however falsely, for not at least nodding, doing anything but watching him with goddamn concern on his face. He doesn't know what to make of it, of the image of himself he sees reflected in those big, round eyes. More so, he doesn't want to face it. (Can't.) It's like being in one of these Masquerade balls, putting on a mask to hide behind and having someone come to you, only to crack it in half. Damn rude, if you ask him.
"Get out," he utters through clenched teeth.
"Melon…"
"Get the fuck out!"
Agata looks like he's going to add something, but changes his mind at the last second. Good. He raises his hands in surrender, takes a step back.
"Okay. I'm going."
And he does, except that when he's about to leave, his hand already on the door handle, he pauses, turns back, and utters the last thing the hybrid would have expected:
"Hey. I'm not sure I should be saying that, but… for what it's worth, I don't think your body is weird. It's unusual, sure, but in its own unique way, it's beautiful."
The door closes gently behind him and Melon fights against the laugh creeping up his throat, fearing it might turn into sobs if he lets it out.
