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Benjamin was blind.
He’d seen everything in an instant. Numbers, and words, and shapes, and shadings. Fractions, decimals, animals, people, and gods amongst men. Curves outside his comprehension. He’d seen at all, within less than a minute’s life, yet now he saw nothing at all.
The fountain’s bright light had filled his eyes, and first he saw everything, then darkness, and then nothing. No light. No dark. Nothing.
He couldn’t understand. He wasn’t ready. The fountain was supposed to explain everything, but instead it took everything away.
Benjamin sat down. How would he find his way home? The perils it took to get here—the spikes, the cubes, the pools of acid—it would be impossible to traverse without his sight.
He should’ve listened to Anna. He should’ve listened to his father. His father warned him not to fly too fast, yet Benjamin flew faster than the Earth spins and faster than lights beam, all in an attempt to outwit his reality. His arrogance and his lust for knowledge left him with only the specks of who he once was. He’d lost his hope, his certainty, his sight.
And what of the clouds that had released when he touched the fountain? Where were they off to? What destruction would be caused? Benjamin didn’t know, and he was too afraid to leave the fountain’s sanctum to find out.
Benjamin laid on the ground and curled up. Tears burned in his eyes. This was it. This was the end. He would never see his father again. He would never be able to go adventuring with his father like he once could. He would never be able to observe his father’s inventions, to experience his father’s genius, wishing he could become just like him.
Now Benjamin was only stuck with fruitless knowledge, endless regret, and eyes that could not see.
Damn that jet pack. Damn that fountain.
Letting out a cry, Benjamin closed his sightless eyes, and accepted his fate.