Inked Wings

Ninth Event - A Personal End

“So take a deep breath and know that when you let go, you’re making space for what follows. And chances are, it might be something wonderful.”

Kinkade, in his utmost good mood, is the one to distract the two soldiers and open the doors to the Stake room. He also messes with the cameras.

He crosses paths with Cardamon, who is frustrated about the alarms. The bomb has deranged his delicate plans, Kinkade figures. They walk alongside each other, checking in every division and department that comes in their path. Both are silent.

Cardamon gives Kinkade a glance, curious about the abrupt change in demeanor.

They move on. At some point, near the prison halls, they must separate for a small amount of time. Kinkade insists on going on the right path. The hall leads him to a closed gate. The red lights flicker. He unlocks the door, which gives way for the following sight:

Dove’s feathers, (as he knows Angel), dash past his peripherals. The boy follows.

Their eyes meet, slowing time. Kinkade watches him, content.

He turns back. Catching up with Cardamon, he nods while joining him.

Cardamon’s muscles twitch. ‘The comms are down. This division is useless. Useless, I say.’ He complains all the way to the left wing of the mothership. He runs, fists tightly clenched.

Kinkade halts when they reach the escape room, full of pods.

The majority are locked, forcing the vast M.E.A personnel to suffer.

Kinkade’s eyebrow aches. ‘Cardamon!’ He calls.

Cardamon stops with a scoff.

Kinkade signs him to be wary, telling him through made-up code that there is something wrong. Cardamon misunderstands the gesture, then takes the lead.

Cardamon patrols the escape room, entering pod after pod.

Spearing smells fog the space, the surface is becoming hot.

Cardamon turns to leave the last pod he enters, yet the doors shut on him. He freezes, his expression mildly surprised. Said expression turns sour, his hand banged on the glass.

‘General Kin’, if you are daring to fool around at a time like this -!’

Kinkade’s palm falls, the card in his hand dropping off the control panel outside the pod. He steps in front of the see-through window, meeting Cardamon’s fury with a gentle figure.

Cardamon’s strong stance falters.

Kinkade’s smile is child-like. Bright, small but big enough to cause his eyes to smile as well. His wrinkles present themselves all near his dying freckles. Kinkade dreamily sighs.

He mouths something.

Impatient, Cardamon becomes irritated. A certain realization brings a chill down his spine. ‘You mental bow wagon!’ He punches the glass. ‘Let me out!’

Kinkade presses the controls and sends the pod on its pre-planned course.

Cardamon is launched into space, far away from the mess, and from the chaos Kinkade will embrace. Kinkade watches the pod disappear into the distance.

He sits there, listening to the alarm, smelling the chemicals. The floor under his feet supposedly sways together with his body. ‘It is time.’ He ominously tells himself.

He grabs his gun. His gun.

Kinkade does not need to psyche himself out. He waltzes on, until he reaches the room.

There is a back entrance. Kinkade silently uses it.

/]/]/]/]/]

Despite the agitation, The Riddleman sits on his throne. His arms rest on the sides, his hands hanging from the edges, pointing to his wide spread feet. His lower body is pressed to the back of the throne, in contrast with his upper body, hunched over the front.

Riddleman’s hairs fall over his eyes and veil his chest to his knees.

The tubes planted in his spine are stretched to the limit.

In the silent noise, Riddleman’s tapping of fingers rings. Until they stop altogether.

The alarm blares.

The Riddle Man relaxes his jaw. His lips slip to his ears, forming a knowing smirk.

He does not say anything; he only widens his smile when he straightens his back.

After he does, death comes for him.

Exactly through his nose temple, Kinkade sends a shot.

After the deed is done, he walks around his throne to face the corpse. Kinkade nervously laughs at the smirk frozen in time. ‘Of course, you knew. Of course, you are proud.’

Kinkade lets go of his gun.

The roof is practically bleeding. The melted substance begins to roll on the wall.

The mothership is tilting.

The decline is rapid, the gun catching on fire. Flames spread on the floor, all around.

Hairs rise over his body, revealing the fear buried underneath the false courage. His boldness gets him here, where the heat does not tone down.

Moreover, his consciousness fights his physical agitation and does it well.

Kinkade believes he hears Cardamon, the second day after young Kinkade realized his own true feelings. When Cardamon called for him, everything was suddenly too real, overwhelming. But Cardamon loved him back, spending decades together, until they had reached their late twenties. The fights with Cardamon linger in his brain. Cardamon’s expressions, behavior, stinging words spoken with a desperate tone. Because he felt betrayed.

Kinkade kept the feeling of abandonment to himself, pursuing a dream. He knew Cardamon never stopped caring for him, but there was something Cardamon could not admit.

So holding on that inkling of hope, Kinkade chased and chased, risked and risked for what he has known forever.

Eva’s sweet giggle echoes. He remembers the first day he met her. Such a small child, so worried, so wary. She refused his help in fixing the mess of her hair, she spoke quietly and she stared outside, as if eager to escape a newfound prison. All it took was a hug, for whenever either began to cry. Kinkade learned it was best to show her his tears than to appear strong. For the longest time, that progress stagnated.

But she chose him back. They had become comfortable with one another by the time she turned eight, and they loved each other the same after Eva entered her teenage years. Father and daughter.

Kinkade struggles to remember the many poems he used to recite effortlessly whenever missing her overtook him. Prose does not dominate his brain now.

Kinkade is crashing. The hollow sound rages loud, surrounding him.

Lines of flames dance at the will of gravity.

Kinkade’s palms turn cold.

His heart is slowing down, the mirages of his childhood love and of his eternal one bringing comfort in these moments.

Long gone, the agitation of life.

Kinkade’s head falls back, his body swept off its feet. The hollow sound is swallowed by an ear shattering screech.

Kinkade’s nails become dusky. His brain locks itself in the fantasy, ignoring.

Ignoring the force. Ignoring the short-lived, atrociously strong pain. Ignoring the breaking of his prosthetics, the abrupt stop of his organs.

Kinkade is swollen by the flames, meeting his end is accepted.

Mothership is being ripped apart in the crash. With it, General Kin’ draws his final breath.