/ Kinkade's POV /
When a wounded animal is met with a stranger, there's no place for trust. Humans are tangled in this concept themselves, our emotions reveal the thorniest sides.
I've been assigned to my prime troupe. My original soldiers, if I may call them so.
Carina insisted I preoccupy my time, to distract myself from my alternate team, who is now waiting for signs. Signs. Sparks of action will lead them to the missing child of the deceased hacker. Cooperation is becoming rarer. It is unbecoming.
I pity them, yet what real power do I hold? My actions will birth more threats, rather. Perhaps I am being unfair, indecisive surely, a row builder of indifferent hypocrisy. Being very much self-aware is a curse I cannot phantom.
"Commander." One of them verifies my state.
My eyes clear, which admire every soldier and building in my sight. I recollect myself. "I apologize, I must have let myself run away to a field of dreams." My humorous tone does not match my physical signs of stress. Gladly, my soldiers do not care to learn about my personal affairs. "Cover the area. I will be around if there's any anomaly to report."
We reside inside the unfinished District. Two dozen terms in the past, it was a new district in the making. ZERO, we call it. It is nothing but a wasteland in the present. My people spread out. I watch them until my gaze notices something of interest. With slow-paced steps, I find myself stuck on the sight of it. Marks on walls. Messages of ink, not of pixels, find themselves on this wall. Messages against us; against the kingdom of ruin, born from paranoia, built on doomed bones and led by rotten corpses, amongst which, one refused to go into the ground.
The green writing is heavily stylized, is big, and owns familiar curves. I'm almost left to think my dear Eva has abandoned this next to where I stand.
My intercom buzzes and automatically clicks. Bakhsh warns there's a trace of an intruder, likely a terrorist when the murals' personality and messages lean more towards one of the sub-organizations supporting The Rebellion. Bakhsh is one of my favorites. Reliable, with a fluid character.
I enter one of the incomplete buildings. It misses its touch; it owns an unwelcoming yet rich interior. More art. Lovely. My hands rest behind my waist while I tiptoe to the next door. My habit might have been perceived as cute in my younger days, but the present me is rigid and eerie in his demeanor. Oh, how internal turmoil changes one's entire being, therefore one's actions change the meaning. I am changed yet the same.
What an odd sight for flooded eyes...Mr. Temper comes into view, one of my most reckless and my most defiant subordinates. A thud startles me, frankly, I should be familiar with uncomfortable sounds.
"Identify yourself!" My subordinate has drawn his gun.
Once I enter, an individual's hooded figure bolts to the left. Their silhouette... is almost identical to Eva's. It cannot be. But it could. A sharp pain picks at my skin and rips it cell by cell. Is this the ringing inside my skull? I shoot the gun out of my subordinate's arms, scaring him to no end. He screams. It leaps out of his hands, leaving the surface of his gloves in ashes. His eyes frantically wonder before the time they land on me.
His shock transitions to anger. "What are you doing?! Sir, the bastard has gotten away!" He points, accompanied by ruthless yelling. He gesticulates in frustration, demanding for an explanation. "Now we have to bloody track -!" The vibration in his loudness scratches my brain, I have no other means of describing it more flowery.
I press the barrel of my weapon under his chin, exactly between the bones of his jaw. My eyes and his are disarranged when my fingers feel his dry gulp. "Do not rush into decisions that are not mine, child." The ghost of my smile strains, the ice hidden under my muted tone hardens.
He remains silent despite his hateful stare.
The noise inside my skulls is slowly tamed. Second after second passes. My hand steadily separates his neck from the burning warmth of my weapon, having been used under two minutes ago. There is a patch of red remaining. This will cost me, yes. I have tried to reason with the likes of him. Never stops their flaming skin from causing pointless harm. I could have shot this one right here and rid myself of another, but I know my soldiers.
He is massaging his throat.
"Commander!" Another dependable soldier comes to us. He stops to analyze Mr. Temper in front of me and begins speaking with worry in his eyes. He offers aid but is immediately rejected in a rude manner.
I know my soldiers. Mr. Temper is cared for. There are individuals who would weep for him, like this worried boy. Killing him is not within my interest, besides my emotional outburst, which has been torture enough for both of us. Short-lived. Nonetheless...
"Sir, is everything in order?" The boy asks me.
I nod. "We've caught sight of a roach. Inoffensive, nothing to fret over." My attempt to reassure him is a success. After all, it must be law if the Commander says it.
Of course, he is aware I'm not referring to an actual roach. He nods back, then places his arm around Mr. Temper, the previous rejection forgiven and deliberately forgotten. They continue forward - Brings me back to the golden times, when I was sanitized to Cardamon's ruthlessness. Now, it is oil to fire, layered in pretty prose.
What a bitter reminder, the bastard I've become thinks.
YOU ARE READING
Inked Wings (16+)
Science FictionM.E.A (mutant extermination army) claimed they changed their beliefs, yet mutant deaths and their allies' demise never does cease. Angel is the face of The Rebellion, chasing after M.E.A's end and slowly forging a path to his own. Kinkade is a gener...
