Disclaimer: see chapter one.
AN: So, after offing Jeff, Scott (in different stories) and Kyrano (in this one), I figured it's time for another character to kick the bucket. For all the readers that were disappointed with the ending to the fifth chapter, this is for you.
Chapter Nine
The sky's the limit?
Maybe for you, but not for Death.
I exist everywhere.
I infiltrate anything I can find.
Are you 20000 leagues under the sea?
No problem! I'll find you.
Walking the planet and its surroundings may seem like a Where's Wally picture puzzle, but in the same way you don't give up until you spot Wally, I don't concede defeat until you're mine.
Space is a chasm of nothing. It's the bits in between that make the cosmos. It's the bits in between that drive fascination with the unknown. It's the bits in between that have led him to where he is.
The carrot stick – or Thunderbird Three, as they call it – hurtles through the gaps in space junk that floats in the Van Allen Belt, as well as the cosmic rays that penetrate through the belt and into the cabin. Or, at least, the captain at the helm of the ship tries to dodge the flying projectiles that come his way. One such projectile – the size of a small car – slams into the hull of the reinforced carbon fibre and aluminium structure. The residual energy from the collision dissipates in shockwaves which rumble through the cabin and it leaves a sizeable dent in the frame, but it doesn't render the ship unflyable.
It does, however, signal the beginning of a slippery slope downhill.
It does, however, give my presence a purpose.
There is no way for the youngest blond son to see what comes next.
Cosmic rays look like a rainbow to me; a mixture of aggressive reds, calming blues, neutral greens. Cosmic rays taste like Skittles, like the Land of Eternal Peace, smell like buttercups and daisies and freshly mowed grass. Cosmic rays embody bliss.
Who would have thought a cosmic ray combined with junk the size of an overinflated beach ball would be the Death of him? Who would have thought that Death could be so humiliating, especially for a forty year old, allowing him to cark it in the place where he feels most alive?
Some more metal space junk spears its way through the shell of the rocket, straight through the control centre where he sits, straight through him. His body is pulverised, molecules floating with dust. There is no one else here with him; this is a solo mission, done out of defiance, impulsiveness and good intentions gone wrong.
Not for the first time, he sees me and nods.
The end result of Alan Tracy is not pretty, but I never expected it to be. His meat shell is flattened, pinned onto the interior wall by the flying projectile. Ruby red blood contrasts to the otherwise white walls. Cold blue eyes stare out into nothing.
If it's time, it's time, his eyes blink at me, shoulders slumped, completely defeated and dejected. Just do what you have to do.
I imagine he's seen himself too, and knows that this is the final frontier.
I follow his directive. I take him by the hand and do what I have to do.