cannibal; kendall roy

71

A light storm had come over the city of Los Angeles, and the surrounding cities when Kendall Roy had come out of his daze. Daze meaning his moment of bliss, or perhaps utter peace in the water.

Following his speech for investor day, Kendall Roy felt as if he were on top of the world. Why wouldn't he?

He was a King. A fucking King.

He had the world in his hand.

Everyone was someone he could smash within seconds. He had them all fucking crawling towards him, and though he could never admit it—he loved it. He craved it.

Watching the people who had once squirmed like worms, run in circles for him. It was fulfilling.

So as he soaked in the mildly cold water, which poured into his eyes, taking out all of the sound around him—His eyes were aimed up—pointedly facing the sky. He was breathing, he was steady. He could pull himself back, he could kick.

Kendall Roy enjoyed the splash of the soft waves, the patter of rain clashing onto his face.

Fucking beautiful.

Everything was falling into line.

Everything.

His father had seemingly been wrong.

Logan Roy, wrong.

What a strange idea. A strange notion. An unfamiliar idea for Kendall. It seemed like a joke to him as he pulled himself out of the waves. Still alive, treading gently. He had won. Kendall Roy had won. The heir had become more than an eldest son. The son had an heir. And they liked him—the world liked him. It seemed to work. They wanted him. He was capable of doing it. Doing the job.

He felt himself panting as he detached himself from the water. His steps a bit ragged as his eyes looked down at the sand, where the waves had already washed over his drawing in the sand.

Kendall Logan Roy makes a step, drawing it out all again, and then he looks at it, placing his hands on his hips, and then looking up at the plain sky. Grey tinting it from far away.

What was it—Who was he looking for?

He was alone.

The beach was abandoned.

No one else had bothered to come.

And why would they?

He runs a hand through his hair, making a face at the sky, the saliva piling up in the back of his mouth. As if saying fuck you, Kendall's face tilts down and he spits.

He wasn't sure what this feeling was.

He'd felt winning before. He knew what it was like when his adrenaline rushed, when everything went too right—when his chest squeezed in and he waited for the fall. He had seen it so many times in his life.

Italy. The Vote. Stewy. Roman. Shiv. Marguerite. Rava. Logan. Frank. Vaulter. Logan—Dad—Fucking Logan Roy. Over and over and over again.

This, wasn't that.

There wasn't a fall.

It wasn't a calm either.

He hadn't climbed a hill, or mastered a mountain—he hadn't leapt off—or started any sort of descent. The air wasn't pouring in his nostrils waiting for the crash. There wasn't a crash. There was no crunching into the dirt. He wasn't apart.

The climb hadn't ended.

Was this what it had felt like for his father? He couldn't help but wonder. Had he done it—Cracked him open? Figured out how he worked—stolen it? How? Kendall wondered if this was how it all worked. A continuous climb, adrenaline constantly building, the gears constantly churning. Spitting on the dirt. Whipping your head around—checking for your ghosts in the rear view mirror, only to kick them.