Kidpinoy's End Day part 2

 

Part 2

(Baron von Hess’s Perspective)

The Baron raised a hand, a conductor ready to strike up the final, devastating crescendo. A low hum filled the arena as the massive extraction machine, a terrifying contraption of polished chrome, whirring centrifuges, and sterile tubing, began to power up. Its centerpiece was a horrifyingly intimate device, designed with a single, obscene purpose. This was it. The culmination of a decade of planning.

“Wait,” a voice, smooth as velvet and sharp as glass, cut through the hum. It was Silas Sterling, stepping forward with a theatrical pout. He wagged a finger at the Baron. “My dear Baron, you have no sense of occasion. The main course is always more delectable when preceded by a proper appetizer.”

I arched a silver eyebrow. Silas’s flair for the dramatic could be tiresome, but his instincts for cruelty were unparalleled. “And what do you propose, Sterling?”

“A toast! A celebration!” Silas declared, clapping his hands together. “After all, our guest of honor is celebrating a birthday today, isn't he?” He leered at Bien. “Did you think we didn't know? We chose this day specifically. The anniversary of his birth will now forever be remembered as the day of his… unmaking.”

A wave of appreciative, sadistic laughter swept the audience. At Silas’s signal, two hulking guards wheeled out a trolley. On it sat a magnificent, multi-tiered cake, a grotesque mockery of the cheap, lopsided one that now lay in splinters in his ruined apartment. Icing, black as crude oil, dripped down its sides, and in place of candles, there were ten exquisitely crafted sugar figurines, each depicting one of our major operatives or projects that Kidpinoy had thwarted over the years. At the very top, a candy effigy of the hero himself was depicted on its knees.

“But before dessert,” Silas purred, his eyes glinting, “I believe a thorough appraisal of the vintage is in order.”

I understood instantly and gave a subtle nod of approval. This was a magnificent touch. The machine hummed to a stop. With a hydraulic hiss, the chains holding Bien shifted. His arms and legs were pulled wider, stretching his body into a taut, perfect X. The position forced his muscles to clench, highlighting every sinewy contour, every hard-earned line of his powerful form. He was a piece of art, a living sculpture of righteous fury and sun-hardened flesh, presented for our collective contempt and envy.

A brutish man with a chest full of medals, the deposed General Korg whose private army Bien had single-handedly dismantled, was the first to approach the platform. His face was a mask of pure resentment.

“Ten years,” Korg growled, his voice like grinding gravel. He reached out and squeezed Bien’s bicep, his thick fingers digging into the unyielding muscle. Bien didn't even flinch, his gaze fixed on the glass cage holding Rose. “I sent battalions against you. Tanks. Attack helicopters. And you… you were just this. Flesh and bone.” He squeezed harder, his knuckles white. The flesh didn’t give. It was like gripping stone. “To think all that power was wasted on a street rat from the slums.” He moved down, his hand clamping possessively around Bien’s thigh. “We should have had this power. We earned it.”

Silas Sterling shooed him away with a flick of his wrist. “Enough brute-force nostalgia, General. You lack finesse.” He glided up to Bien, his movements sinuous and predatory. He didn't grab or squeeze. Instead, he ran a manicured fingernail lightly down Bien’s sternum, tracing the line of his abdominals. The touch was cold, analytical, and profoundly violating.

“Look at the architecture of it,” Silas whispered, almost to himself, though the microphone picked up every word. “Perfection. Not a single ounce of fat. Every fiber honed for a single purpose. A perfect vessel.” He leaned in close, his painted lips near Bien’s ear. “And all of it, a container. A distillery for the good stuff. All that righteous anger, all that discipline, all that… loneliness. All of it simmering away, concentrating the flavor. We have studied you so, so closely, Bien Regalado.”

It was my turn. I stepped forward, eschewing physical contact. My weapons were sharper.

“We know you prefer the beef pares from the little carinderia on Del Pan Street, but only when Aling Martha makes it,” I said, my voice calm and conversational. The smallest flicker in Bien’s eyes told me I’d struck a nerve. “We know you used to feed a stray dog you named ‘Puting,’ until he was run over two years ago. We know the lullaby your grandfather—ah, forgive me, your late grandfather—used to hum to you. Sa Ugoy ng Duyan. A touching little melody about a mother's embrace.”

A single tear finally escaped Bien’s eye, tracing a path through the grime and sweat on his cheek. The scream of agony he'd let out before was for his Lolo; this silent tear was for the complete and utter violation of his life, his memories. Every cherished, private moment, catalogued and weaponized against him.

Silas, ever the connoisseur of suffering, watched Bien’s face with rapt attention. He was looking for the specific shame of their discovery, the humiliation of having his biological secret laid bare. He leaned in again.

“To think, all this time, you were sitting on a goldmine,” Silas cooed. “Every time you denied yourself, every lonely night you chose duty over desire, you were just making the prize more valuable for us. You must have known, deep down. You must have felt the power building, hoarding all that precious potential inside you.”

And that’s when it happened. In response to Silas’s words, there was no flicker of knowing shame in Bien’s eyes. There was no recognition. There was only… confusion. A deep, profound bewilderment, layered over his grief and rage. It was the look of a man hearing a foreign language.

Silas froze. His theatrical mask slipped for just a fraction of a second. He was a predator who had just realized his prey was not only unaware of the trap, but unaware of the concept of traps altogether. He shot a glance at me.

I saw it too. The pieces clicked into place with a stunning, hilarious clarity. The boy’s righteousness wasn’t a strategy; it was genuine. His abstinence wasn't a method for power conservation; it was simply a part of his character, his circumstances. The dragon gods had blessed him, but they’d neglected to give him the user manual.

I stepped forward, a slow, wolfish grin spreading across my face. This was better. Oh, this was so much better.

“Tell me, boy,” I asked, my voice dripping with false sympathy. “All this talk of your ‘nectar,’ your ‘essence.’ Did you truly not know? You thought your invulnerability was a reward for your pure heart, didn't you? A gift freely given.”

Bien’s silence was the only answer I needed. A low chuckle started in my belly, growing into a full-throated laugh. The sheer, magnificent irony of it. The Philippines’ greatest hero was powerful by cosmic accident. His greatest strength was a biological function he didn’t even understand.

The crowd, catching on, began to murmur and then laugh with me. The entire affair had just shifted from a grim execution to a sublime farce.

To complete the picture, I turned my attention to the giant screen displaying the live feed of the glass cage. “And the leading lady of our little tragedy!” I announced, gesturing to the image of the terrified girl. “Tell me, Rose! How does it feel? To finally see the man behind the myth? To learn that your quiet, humble boyfriend, Bien, is none other than the celebrated Kidpinoy?”

I watched her face on the monitor, magnified for all to see. Her eyes were wide with terror, but beneath it was something else. A frantic, desperate disbelief. Her gaze darted from the screen showing the chained hero to her memory of the boy who bought her street food, the boy whose hand she’d held. The connection wasn’t just shocking to her; it was impossible. A technician’s voice crackled discreetly in my earpiece. “Sir, her biometrics are off the charts. Heart rate one-ninety. Facial recognition indicates extreme cognitive dissonance. She… sir, she doesn’t believe it. She had no idea.”

I threw my head back and roared with laughter, a sound of pure, unadulterated triumph that echoed through the arena. The entire audience joined me, a cacophony of evil mirth.

“Incredible!” I bellowed, tears of mirth streaming down my face. “It’s a masterpiece of oblivious heroism! The hero doesn’t know the secret of his own power! And the girl… the girl doesn’t even know she’s dating the hero! Oh, the poets will weep!”

The humiliation was now complete. It wasn’t just his body and his life that were exposed, but the very foundations of his identity, revealed to be a sham he hadn’t even been aware of. He wasn’t a noble warrior who had made a sacrifice. He was just a boy. A lucky, ignorant boy whose time had finally run out.

“Well then,” I said, wiping a tear from my eye and turning back toward the gleaming machine. “Let us not keep our audience waiting. It is time for the vintage to be uncorked.”