Is this falling? It can't be flying, not with the way his body burns, like flames licking on his skin as it stretches over his contorting muscles and bones. The screeching in his head is nearly as loud as the raging cry escaping his throat. The air rushes past him as his fingers turned to claws dig into the metal of The Ark. Every strand of his being is pulled to its limit, tearing him apart. The falling feathers hide his view; they hide the clouds and the ground below. Where are they coming from? He needs to get back into the armor, the suit that could suppress the power of the Plants that threaten to consume him.

Has he taken too much? Gone too far? Has he crossed a line he couldn't see as he inched closer to his goals? All he did, he has done for his kind. All the Plants he absorbed in his efforts to create Paradise were too weak to fight on their own. He has given them a greater purpose; he will fight for them, instead of them. He has put his body on the line so they could someday live without the exploitation of humans. So why is his head filled with their voices that cry out in ways he can't understand?

Knives folds over, his chin hitting his chest as he arches his back upward. The fangs cut painfully into his inner lip, filling his mouth with the taste of blood. All he sees are feathers, but they aren't just falling around him, they are attached to him. He can't recognize himself in the loudness of the cacophony. He lifts his hand to touch his chest, the mass of feathers shifting as he does. His fingers curl into harsh talon-like shapes before digging into his skin to leave deep and bleeding gouges. He lets out a guttural cry, feeling the pain and confusion consume him. The powers within him run rampant as he struggles to maintain control.

And suddenly, through the pain of his muscles pulling apart and his bones threatening to snap, there was something else. A cut so deep through his heart, it put to shame the shallow wounds on his flesh. It is something different. Not a bullet, not a blade. What would you think if you saw him like this? Would you be… disappointed? Could he lie down next to you after this to confess his love, to confess what he has done? Could he still offer you his heart? Would you still look at him? Tell him where his faults lie? Or would your chest swell with rage instead of the love it used to hold? Would you still look at him with eyes full of understanding and forgiveness?

Regret seeps out of the wound that is his bleeding chest. Would you still look at him at all? Could he even see the pain in your face, the heart breaking in real time? Would you still be willing to hide his weakness from the gaze of others? No, he has crossed every line in the desert sand. All because you are no longer there to guide him through the darkness towards the light. He would never again see the sun light up your face. You are gone, and night has fallen.

Knives couldn't give the world to you; he couldn't tailor it to protect you, so he turned back to what he knew. Returned to the plans that he had because humanity proved its ugliness to him again and again. Now he has given his everything to reach the only goal that seemed worth fighting for. The sacrifice has been too great to stop now. Even as his very being is being pulled apart to float away as feathers, he has to keep fightning, to put the memories of you aside again. Once this is over and he has done what needs to be done, he will lie down next to you. He will dig his shallow grave next to yours under the darkest cover of the night and beg for you to find him again. He knows you can't forgive him, but perhaps you can look at him, even if it is with disgust.

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