[Black Noise | Part Two - Toppler Effect] by Pundit [clostridia@bigfoot.com]

Legal : The characters in this story are copyright Archie Comics and SEGA, and are used without permission. This story itself may be freely distributed without the consent of the author, provided it remains unmodified. The author asserts his right to be identified as the creator of this work, and therefore its owner.

Note : Hi, this is Pundit, for those of you who are unfamiliar with me. This is the second part in another series (Shades of Grey was the first). Oh, and it's advisable to read Shades Of Grey before this one, although that's not essential. Comments/flames/criticism, and other delightful things are encouraged; feel free to send them to <clostridia@bigfoot.com>. And if you haven't noticed, there are no, and there will never be, any fan characters/self inserts/liberties with the continuity/miscellaneous ripoffs of the chaos emeralds in my writing.

Admittedly, I did take quite a lot of advantage of Kragok's character last series, and wrote a few whopping bloopers before I finally discovered a shop selling Knuckles comics (err... about six months after they cancelled it).

Also, you'll notice that this one was written in present tense, as a sort of experiment on a whim. Please tell me whether this is enhances the feel, makes it worse, or whether there's not much difference.

Anywayyyy.... with that I'll leave you to the story. Do enjoy it.
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Long, spreading cracks in the sidewalk, forming spiderwebs in the old, tired stones - stones that exude a sense of musty neglect. A cold wind whistling and howling through largely empty streets, creeping up on you, chilling your limbs to the bone.

Scraps of trash, blowing about with abandon. Decrepit buildings, supported with rotted timbers, which creak and groan in the wind. The odd passerby, trudging with head lowered against the cold, hands in pockets.

Sun's going down.

And then, a splash of color, as two figures approach - one of them a shade of garish green, the other a fusion of violet and pink. It's clear they don't belong, because they're currently talking loudly enough to be heard by anyone in the immediate vicinity, and because they look so much more alive.

Not that they sound very happy at the moment.

'You know what your problem is, Vector? I think you don't want to believe. You don't want to believe that people can change! And now, when I prove you wrong, you refuse to get along. What kind of attitude is that?!'

The crocodile looks away, affecting a casual air of disinterest - the sort of neutral non-engagement which he knows drives her absolutely insane. It's the kind of nuance one picks up after extended periods of arguing with someone else.

'Look... I dunno... we just don't get along. I don't know why.'

It doesn't take much more than that to set her off.

'Vector! What's the matter with you? I've never seen you behave like this with anyone else! Why are you being so uncooperative?!'

The crocodile decides to be unhelpful, returning an expressive shrug and lightly raises a brow. He doesn't bother to smirk.

'Am I? What about you?'

Her hands settle threateningly on the blaster she carries daily on her belt. It acts as a talisman, a handy tool, and a reminder of her past affiliation. Wisely, she decides against atomizing the crocodile - it's not worth the paperwork, and not worth the energy. Besides, she'd never admit to being perturbed enough to do it.

They round the corner onto a much wider street, as she tries to suppress her rage with some difficulty. It shows in her narrowed eyelids, and the fact that her left hand hasn't left the blaster. But she continues to argue. To engage.

***

There she sits, on the old-style piano stool, in front of the magnificent instrument wrought of wood and metal - by a craftsman - unthinkable in this age of computer guided manufacturing and mass market based superefficient production. It's lasted for generations, and an elegant, timeless air hangs about it.

Almost reverently, she places a delicate finger on the middle key, and a mellow, even tone resounds. It seems to carry some of the past with it, echoing around the living room, and finally fading away with quiet dignity. Carefully, two feet are placed on the burnished brass pedals.

Her hands lift in unison, a foot above the string of black and white, and for the moment, it feels like she is poised on a precipice, teetering slowly. It's a moment of sublime contemplation.

Then she brings her hands down, and a streaming cascade of notes fountain from the piano, elegantly piling over and on each other. The melody sings joyfully in her ears as she celebrates her recent marriage to Locke with fingers nimbly flashing up and down the keyboard. Carefree abandon, and yet so perfectly precise, every note in its proper place, every nuance exquisitely evoked.

There is a short buzz, sounding crass and particularly ugly in comparison to the orderly, perfect music, and a distinctive hiss as the front door obediently recedes into the wall.

'Lara?'

She hears him stride in, and already she knows every last detail of what he's going to do, after just a week of living with him. It doesn't matter now, really, because she's buried somewhere in the heart of the music, and because it would feel downright ungrateful to abandon Liszt in mid-stave.

That doesn't protect her from the slight buzz she gets as she feels that familiar touch on her shoulder. Without missing a beat, she inclines her head to the left, and gives him a quick little peck, although this threatens to transform itself into a full-fledged lip lock.

'Mmm... couldn't wait for you to get back.'

He waits with arms gently encircling her waist, as she completes the final flourish, hands crashing precisely, closing her eyes for a brief instant, savoring the moment of perfection.

***

And he's waiting again, to the sound of unnaturally rhythmic breathing, to the sight of...

No. He refuses to think it.

He's currently at the window, overlooking the artificially (and expensively) landscaped grounds of the hospital - great fields of perfect astroturf, now lit with matrixes of full spectrum, sun simulating floodlights. Perfect little reality here.

Not quite the perfect atmosphere to brood in, however.

He manages anyway - and you would too, if you shared the same experiences. And he can still taste the rich, bitter horror of the moment - he can still see her shape in the tube, the needles in her arms, and the poison flowing into her veins.

In his mind, she arches her back and screams a scream powerful enough to transcend the barriers around his heart - those hastily errected barriers he put up after the pain of the separation. It seems that those barriers, once overcome, are in no hurry to repair themselves.

Here she is now. Except she isn't. Who knows when she will revive?

Idly, he wonders about the possibility of spiriting her off to Haven - where they have the appropriate antidote, ironically developed as a byproduct of his own illicit research into it. Almost immediately, he realizes it'll make him look like a possessive control freak, that it won't go down well with a lot of people, and that questions will be asked. And in any event, nobody's got any legal business experimenting with a banned drug, not even a Guardian.

But he wants her conscious and cured.

He feels guilty, doesn't he? It's a question his mind has asked periodically for the past few hours. Guilt does go some way towards explaining why he's practically lived in this hospital for the past few days, anxiously, eagerly hoping for a sign of life. Something. Anything.

But it doesn't explain the emptiness inside, nor does it explain the gnawing pain that's had six years to incubate.

Deeper than that, although it's something he refuses to acknowledge.

He still loves her.

There's a little scuffle of feet outside the door, and a pause. Two possibilities, he thinks. One, the doctors. Two, it'll be...

Him.

The doors open theatrically enough, and someone walks in. Yes, the signature blue cape and semi-unconventional attire are present, impeccably applied and in rather noticeable contrast to his own rumpled, lived-in clothing. As is the self-assured air of control, which is something he finds himself deficient in lately.

A pregnant, awkward pause as husband and ex-husband register each other's presence, eyeing the other uncomfortably. There is an ambience of frosty, forced geniality, as the two scramble to pretend the other is a best buddy. Both end up sounding patently insincere, and both know it.

They proceed with the charade anyway.

***

There appears to be a large concentration of dingos on this particular street. Although they don't carry pitchforks and lit wood torches, they match the description of an unruly mob quite well - down to the constant background mutter of discontent. Assuredly, it's not a reassuring sight.

Julie and Vector aren't the least affected by it, mainly because they're so absorbed in winning the argument they don't seem to notice the unnaturally large amount of dingos around them.

Their appearance triggers a spark in the nearest dingos, which, due to the decentralized yet focused nature of this gathering, spreads like a wildfire all the way down the street. This results in a few hundred pairs of eyes focusing on the two brightly colored specimens, and a noticeable rise in tension.

Surprisingly enough, the two don't twig until someone shouts something indistinct, and yet so very understandable in the common language of violence.

It means 'Get them.'

By that time, due to the incontrovertible Law of Unruly Mobs, the two are surrounded. Possibly doomed.

***

It's late, he's tired, and they've been doing this for ten hours straight.

This room's got all the cliches written on it, he thinks. The unnecessarily brilliant light, the uncomfortable chairs, even the horrible coffee which tastes increbily similar to sugared ditchwater.

There's an itch on his back, and he reaches with a hand, only to find it brought up short because the opening in his robe's gone AWOL for some strange reason. Oh yeah, he remembers just now that he's not wearing robes, because of the... errr... sensation he caused walking in the front door.

It's not very enjoyable having ten blasters aimed at you by really jumpy guards.

They got him to compromise on full body black, which feels weird after the robe, and considering no other EST member wears anything other than the standard uniform. First class weird.

But then, they appear to trust him enough. Well, enough to accept his statements without repeatedly shouting them back into his face. Enough not to search for bugging devices and concealed weapons. Besides, he's got his metallic arm, which is rather obviously a weapon, and it's not quite detachable, so what difference would one or two concealed weapons make?

So they've been pumping him for information about the Legion he used to lead. And so far, he's been quite forthcoming with the beans, even producing an magneto-optical disk full of database information, which the technicians in the hutch downstairs are devouring with relish.

And they've settled into an easy routine - one of them'll ask a question, and he'll regurgitate whatever he knows. There'll be a probing query now and then, ostensibly to jog any gaps in his memory. Everything's painstakingly written down on paper, although he has no doubt they're recording the proceedings through a hidden microphone.

It's hard to believe he's doing this of his own accord because they killed his sister.

His eyes are semi-closed, and he's in some sort of trance state, robotically answering the questions, because it's incredibly difficult to maintain any kind of alertness after just an hour or two of this wretched activity. The last intellectual stimulus terminated about three hours ago; it was a visual search for the hidden camera, which he found embedded coyly into the wall clock. Amateurs.

That explains why the door provides a very welcome distraction when it slams open to reveal an obviously quite agitated Remington, who's taken to calling him 'K', pronounced 'Kay'.

It's much easier on the tongue than Kragok, not that he minds very much either way.

'We've got a huge riot brewing in the dingo quarter, and we need every single person we have. That includes you. We'll continue this tommorow.'

And he points to Kragok, who raises his eyebrow in mild, vaguely self-mocking surprise.

'What's going on?'

'Short answer or long answer?'

'You pick.'

'Too many pigs in the government. Short enough?'

In the next moment, the three rise to their feet and proceed to hurtle down the corridor after Remington.

***

'Several ground rules, everyone, for the benefit of those who have just joined us.'

It's a large room. Well, actually, it's downright cavernous. Shaped like a quite-flat funnel, with an open, flat space in the middle - the lowest part of the room. Surrounding that are concentric rows of chairs, spiralling upward and upward of the room. Flat white ambient light.

Several details present themselves. The first is that all the chairs don't have legs - they hover on pale blue suspensor fields, undulating gently in rhytm. The second is the presence of a large banner hung from the ceiling. It reads 'Technology Now!', in a rather tastefully executed design, involving white on black.

All in all, a wonderful mockery of the actual parliament building.

'Number one. You do not talk about this meeting.'

He pauses, and the room is silent, as several people fidget in their seats. There is a dry cough or two.

'Number two. You do not talk about this meeting.'

Clumps of people here and there look at each other.

'Are we clear? Good...'

***

A light rain drums on the roof of the car, as Remington manhandles it down the narrow, neglected streets. Reports and updates issue forth from the speakers. Over the past hour, they seem to have gotten increasingly urgent.

'We're seeing a rise in the frequency of these disturbances. The dingos are too unhappy for us to reasonably expect peace, anyway, although I wish the policitians would cut them some slack.'

He sighs heavily and glances at Kragok, who returns a flippantly placid gaze.

'Sometimes, I hate this job.'

***

'...remember, the goal is to stay ABOVE the fray, and let the rest of society tear itself apart. We'll keep to the background, and leap in when the time is right - that means no inflammatory statements on the tele network, no matter how strong the temptation is, and no overt acts of terrorism.'

People around the room nod slowly, like waiting vultures.

'That leaves us with one last matter - the seeding of the, shall we say, information. Of course, it'll have to be done after this riot, which might divert attention away from it, but i'll just pass the floor over to our PR head, who will explain everything in detail - she's our expert, after all.'

***

The hovercar stops short, inertia almost shoving it on it's nose. He can hear the white noise produced by thousands of angry voices shouting at the same time, even through the soundproofed windows.

He unbuckles his seatbelt, and hops out after Remington, who whips out a bullhorn from nowhere and starts screaming orders. As if attached to a string, his gaze is drawn inexorably along a path, which alights on...

For an instant, his robotic eye glows brighter, shining like some warped jewel in the sharp darkness. And then he flings himself forward.

***

Let's take a ride in the night sky for a moment. Starting high above the Floating Island, gently swooping towards the bright lights of Echidnaopolis, glittering like a jewel.

Circling slowly round the perimeter of the city, observing the glass faced skyscrapers sheathed obsidian in the night, with the occasional window glowing yellow as some workaholic kills himself by degrees. And then, we close in a little, pan across the cityscape, as the scene changes.

The predominant color isn't lamp yellow anymore. It's flashing red and blue on the sides of dilapidated buildings. And there appears to be a large collection of people gathered. From this height, they all look like ants, milling aimlessly about, with no overall purpose.

Closer still, the image of the ants resolves into several groups of people. One group of agitated dingos, throwing stones, armed with firebombs, causing general mayhem. Another, of blue clad policemen, no less chaotic and disorganized, forming some sort of containment barrier around the rioters, desperately trying to keep them from spreading. There's an occasional flash of a stun taser, which lights up everything for a fraction of a second, like a bolt of lightning.

Slowly, the rioting spills over the sides of the barrier, and spreads gently into the surrounding areas. There's quite a lot of barbaric violence going on, and a third group involved - the echidnas, several large groups of which are fighting the dingos on an equal level.

Up in the sky, swarming like insects, the media helicopters are present, swarming like flies to a dead animal. ENN, Kitsune Television, FIBC, EBC. Yes, they're all present, and sending high bandwidth video back to headquarters, where the signals will be multiplexed, duplicated, and routed into the individual homes. Apparently, it's serious enough to disrupt regular programming, not that anyone's interested in foozball when unsanitised violence can be had freely, in the name of Reality Television.

And we fade out all the noisome fret going on down there to nothing, and focus on one voice, and two individuals, one consious, the other... well... it's quite hard to say.

'An ambulance! Get me a [censored] ambulance now!'

It's a usually self-assured voice that's gone uncertain with shock.

We zoom in really close, and you see someone clad entirely in black, cradling someone else in his arms, one of which is robotic. And you see a violet and pink fringe, along with a metallic dreadlock.

Oh, did I mention the blaster on the belt? It looks like it's been dipped in blood.