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He lived to be forgotten and replaced.
That is a fact.
He would not have a chance to speak; he would not have a chance to plead. He would not have a chance to laugh or cry or scream in pain. His pain.
Maybe he did long ago before it all went dark. Before the pain was infinite, before the game began. But no one knows, no one saw, only them (yet they can’t say either).
The voice that came out of his throat is his, but the words are not.
The steps he took are from his feet, but they were not his command.
He would not have a chance to say “I’m here, please save me” or “Thank you for everything”. He would not have a chance to say “Brother, I’m sorry” or “Please don’t mourn me”.
He longed for those times.
When it was the four of them bracing the new world.
When it was just three roaming the planes.
When it was just two cats living a lucid dream.
Were those days even real?
He would not have a chance to say “My name is Valerie…” or have the strength to say “… and I want to live”
But it was nice to exist, anyways.