[Black Noise | Part Third - Purpose] 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/delightful 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).

Anywayyyy.... with that I'll leave you to the story. Do enjoy it.
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There's a reason why he's pushing a trolley laden with plastic trays down the hallway, and the reason is that he doesn't dare trust the automatic transport system to handle it, rudely requesting a manual override from the system instead. Six "alt-shift-function-control-b" vulcan nerve pinches and enough spelunking in the archives later, he's heading towards the biology facility with his... things in tow.

He stops in front of the door and sighs, preparing to do the dance. The dance involves passing a hand over a fingerprint and capacitance scanner, followed by two complete 360 degree twirls in front of the camera, and finally pronouncing a random phrase selected by the computer, which has a rather warped sense of humor when it comes to this sort of thing. The successful multiple penetrations of Haven have led to what might be understated as a drastic increase in security.

Even though the perfectly white overhead lights click on instantly, and the triple-filtered air feels quite fresh and cool, the last time he used this room was something like six years ago. He remembers the test tube full of his son's blood, and the relief he'd felt when the entire thing lit up like a light stick, as the testing agent bound itself to the modified genes, flourescing gently in the dark room.

Well. This time, it's not for his son, although the chemical is the same.

Yes, there it is, leaning against the far wall. That container of the black liquid, hermetically sealed and marked with triple bladed biohazard warnings. Next to it, the innocent little refrigerated cylinder containing the cell cultures he needs for the antidote.

He works quickly, loading each individual tray into a huge machine which makes loud, distracting mechanical noises. They considered replacing it some time ago, and then unconsciously got used to the racket, and then the idea of replacing it was allowed to fade away into nothingness. The machine is affectionately called 'Domino'. It adds buckets of atmosphere.

The cylinder opens with a hiss, condensation beading on the sides, revealing three glass cubes. He gently plucks one out, placing it into an open slot in the glass bioreactor located in the middle of the room. It's one of the more amusingly constructed devices in this room - a tangled mass of glass tubing surrounding a cylinder filled with light pink liquid.

One of the consoles obligingly lights up, and he begins typing rapidly, opening one file that's about sixteen years old. One he swore never to go near again.

He hears the door open behind him, and turns around rather guiltily.

'Locke? I thought you'd try something like this.'

'Look. I just want revive her.'

'You know as well as I do that your experimentation with this drug should never be made known, no matter how good your intentions.'

'Father! I just want to put things right!'

He feels his hackles rise, and just barely manages to keep from exploding.

'I didn't think it was a good idea to tamper with the order of things, and I don't think this is wise.'

'Well. I don't think that matters, because the product of this "tampering", as you call it, is down at the hospital waiting for his mother to wake up from her coma! Now, if you will excuse me, I'll activate the bioreactors.'

There's a little shudder, and the bioreactor comes to life, fluids trickling into its glass heart, flowing like some sort of artificial blood. At the foot of the machine, a whitish amorphous blob emerges, and drops into a waiting container.

***

'Put that cancer stick away, Jonathan. You know how I hate smoke...'

'As you keep reminding me, Wyn. Come on, what's keeping you?'

And the speaker takes a last, lingering drag on the cigar, savoring the smell, and the feel. Then, the hapless cigar gets wrenched out of the mouth, and dumped unceremoniously onto a silver tray, which is unobtrusively removed by the ever-attentive, near telepathic butler.

'Don't be so old fashioned, Wyn', another adds.

This speaker has rather sharp features, with the kind of face that radiates severity. Buckets of it. His eyes stare out of their sockets with intensity.

There are four of them, seated around a polished square table. Yellow ambient light flowing from unobtrusive crevices in the walls and ceiling. Thick ornate carpets, and a bad case of oppressive blue cigar smoke hanging around the air like a stifling blanket. They're all ensconced in deep, overstuffed, and exorbitantly expensive leather chairs.

The fourth one picks up a stack of cards, and starts to shuffle with deceptive fluency.

'How's your wife doing?'

He proceeds to deal, in the suddenly awkward pause that follows the question.

Wynmacher chokes on the query for a moment, allowing a slight slip of his composure, and some of the pain seeps through to his face. It's quite obvious.

'Your bid.'

He rallies, and manages to compose an answer.

'Fine, Thomas. I mean, she's stable and all that. The doctors tell me to give her some time; she'll wake in time, they say... one spades.'

They all fall silent, aware that the conversation hasn't exactly taken the best possible path - it's up to the first brave soul to try and jolt it back onto the right track.

'One no trumps.'

First attempt.

'Hey, Jonathan, any word on that peace deal in the House? I keep hearing rumors it's not firm.'

They're all staring at their cards, expressions guarded. Concentrating.

'Hah! If it were any less solid, it'd cease to exist! Two diamonds...'

A derisory snort, which is an oddly appropriate sound coming from him.

'Then there's the matter of last night's insane riot. Pass.'

That's Thomas.

'Hey, you got there first - gotta hand it to you... your boys are some of the fastest people i've seen work the city.'

'Three diamonds...' Wynmacher interjects, feeling uncomfortable.

'Go ENN! Anyway, Wyn? Someone sent my producers an anonymous envelope - we get a lot of those - and we've got a story lead that's gonna be big. Your wife was married to that Guardian, right?'

'Locke? What about him?'

'Because we've got a sensational story coming. Apparently, someone got access to his private records - they found evidence of...'

At this point, the other three are leaning forward like conspiratorial vultures, straining to catch every word, and the bridge game has ceased for the moment.

'Genome modification.'

The words are pronounced crisply, perhaps even sharply. They fall like slabs of lead.

'No. I don't believe it - that's as close to a cardinal sin as you get.'

'Neither do I. You don't believe him, do you, James?'

'What I want to know is how the blazes you informer got hold of that information.'

They all lean back; the cards are forgotten for the moment, and Wyn decides to take a sip of his drink, which tastes sickeningly sweet - too much Creme de Menthe. He resists the urge to spit it out.

'I don't think you should release that. This is definitely the wrong time. Besides, how do you confim something like that?'

'Wyn! Come on - if I don't put it out, the others like Kitsune or EBC'll get the scoop. Anyway, you know the public'll eat it up - it would be like finding the chancellor with a cigar, handcuffs, a nubile young intern, and his pants down, only just ten times more sensational.'

'And you call that responsible?'

'Look, I don't tell you how to run your directorship, you don't tell me how to run a media empire - i've been in this business for thirty five years, and i've seen people come and go, leaders rise and fall. Society copes with this sort of thing. Besides, I should know. I'm practically married to my job. Heh - why don't you ask Locke yourself?'

He chuckles lightly.

***

Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth.

Across the same stretch of maddeningly spotless corridor. It's a wonder how there isn't a furrow five inches deep in the ground from his pacing. Forward, meet the wall, turn, forward. Looped ad infinitum, or at least, until something significant enough happens.

It's his bad luck, then, that he passes the door at just the right time, avoiding it by a whisker as it swings open. This earns him a dirty look from the harried, flustered doctor hurrying to the emergency room. He decides it's safer on the sofas, but at the same time can't bear to sit still, so he settles for twiddling his thumbs. Violently.

Then he realises that the chamaleon's vanished from sight.

'Esp? What do you think you're doing?'

'Knux. I swear, if you get any more tense, you'll explode.'

'Yeah. Try and read something, or at least just settle down.'

The armadillo doesn't bother to look up from his copy of Sports Illustrated.

He leans forward, and tries to find something mildly interesting in the pile of wretchedly outdated magazines. His search returns exactly zero hits, and he gives up in exasperation, muttering darkly about three year old issues of Vogue and Woman's Weekly.

That's when his eye settles on the figure quietly leaning against the wall. The figure hasn't moved for about an hour, nor has it said anything at all. He knows the figure is Kragok, although Kragok's mental transformation still leaves him rather astounded.

There are several things most Good Citizens have in common, the first of which is an unspoken but uncomfortably apparent consensus that publicly displayed cybernetic parts are Good Cause for a ritual burning at the stake, or at least the-fearful-death-of-many-stares. The second is the notion that former heads of paramilitary terrorist groups are not Good Citizen material.

That's why Kragok wears a green reflective visor highly reminescent of Knuckles's ancestor Moonwatcher, and a long sleeved black shirt with the EST logo slapped on the front. The logo tells people not to look too hard.

And Kragok looks up, at the three of them on the sofa. Behind the reflective surface of the visor, two eyes make contact with his, and the two of them lock gazes for a while, wordlessly staring at each other.

It's right at this moment that a nurse comes down the corridor, pushing a wheelchair containing a quite uncomfortable, squirming Julie-Su.

***

'Sir! Sir, please! What are you doing?'

You'd think ten years as a hospital nurse should be enough experience for just about any situation, but she's never experienced the ex-husband of a patient attaching an extra IV bag to the spare stand, and fiddling with the drip line into the patient. It's enough to make any hardened hospital veteran faint.

'What's going on in here?'

The doctor, who's just entered the room and caught sight of the rather arresting tableau.

Locke turns impatiently, and walks towards him.

'Do you have Lara's toxicology records?'

The doctor finds himself obeying the more dominant personality. He produces the electronic tablet he's carrying.

'Right. This serum contains the appropriate anti-toxin, calibrated to her body. Just keep her on it intravenously for the next eight hours. Molecular profile's right here, if you want it.'

He waves a disc, and shoves it into the doctor's hand. The doctor is now speechless.

'Thanks.'

The door swings shut, and he's out of the room. The nurse and doctor exchange quizzical looks.

***

'Are you sure you're up to a walk, Julie? You were in pretty bad shape when we found you.'

She looks at Kragok, and sees convincing sincerity. It's enough to relax her nerves, although this sort of concern from him is an almost foreign concept.

'I've had worse. Do you know where Knuckles went in such a hurry?'

'I think he went to see Lady Lara.'

They're walking down a pleasant, shaded path. Overhead, the deep blue sky is speckled with clumps of white, feathery cloud. A cool, calming breeze blows across the path, ruffling her hair. The path is paved with aged, mossy cobbles, which lend a very pleasant, natural feel to the place.

She walks with a noticeable limp, and there is a thick bandage draped over one of her arms, which gives off a dull, constant pain. Angry mobs usually get her down.

'Look. If there's one thing I don't understand, it's why you left the Legion, since you seemed to believe in it, even more than I did.'

'I don't know, really. Remember the time they trashed Gamma base? I just felt I had to follow him out, and I did. Then everything else just happened, I guess.'

He turns his head, and gives her a wry look. She thinks of how she prefers the visor to the robotic eye, which still creeps her out.

'Do I detect a relationship forming?'

She smiles roguishly.

'Yes, you could say that.'

He shakes his head and ruefully arches an eyebrow.

'Never had much success with relationships. They're not my thing.'

***

He sees his father leave the room, turning right onto the corridor, and gallops to catch up.

'Dad!'

Locke turns, and the tiredness is visible, not only in the obviously bleary eyes and the weary statement, but also in the vaguely drooping demeanor. And he wonders whether this tiredness he sees isn't just a physical thing.

'What's on your mind?'

'I want some time to talk.'

His father takes a deep breath, and closes his eyes for a brief instant.

'All right. Let's go; I'll take you to Haven.'

They walk down the quiet corridor in silence, footfalls echoing hollowly, and out into the manicured, landscaped courtyard, where a hovercraft awaits.

He follows his father on board, and his father turns away to type rapidly on the control panel for a few seconds, twiddling a few knobs and switches in the bargain. He notices that Locke looks a little uncomfortable.

'Autopilot engaged. Sequence algorithm BAZ-3 loaded.'

It doesn't escape him that this synthesized voice sounds suspiciously like his mother's.

As they strap themselves into the contour-hugging seats, the whining of the the engines increases in pitch and volume, and the craft ascends effortlessly.

'So. What went wrong with you and mom, really?'

***

The repressed tears are stinging the back of her eyes, and her mouth is tightly compressed, the tension evident in her shoulders. She tries not to think, as she packs her bags, perhaps for the last time in this house.

And she hears the footsteps coming. He's home early today, apparently.

***

He swivels his head and looks at Knuckles.

'To be honest, it's something i've never had the strength to confront before.'

Pause, and it is obvious he is making an effort to speak.

'In the beginning, it was a beautiful relationship. The soultouch combines with love to produce something... almost transcendant, I suppose.'

***

'Lara? What the...'

'What does it look like, Locke?'

She can hardly believe it's her voice speaking - it's as flat and neutral as she can make it, and yet the quiver on the last syllable tellingly reveals just how emotionally unstable she is now.

The last dress is folded, and slides into the suitcase, which snaps shut like a gunshot in the now deathly quiet room.

'Care to discuss it?'

And now, she feels angry, angry because he sounds like he doesn't care, because she thinks he can't feel what she feels. The anger mixes with the emotion inside, creating a swirling miasma in her mind.

***

'And then, you were born, and I made an effort to raise you according to the precepts and ideas passed down through the years. Your mother wasn't happy, and I can't blame her for that. But I had to follow the tradition, the procedure. It was fundamental to your growth as a Guardian.'

Knuckles looks at him quietly.

'Do you think I wanted to break her heart like that? I had to choose.'

***

'I'm taking Knuckles with me.'

She knows it's coming, but she says it anyway. His face tightens for a moment. And she can feel the combined weight of four hundred years of tradition, encapsulated in each descendant, falling like lead into this one weighty syllable.

'No.'

***

'And in the end, tradition won, because this responsibility is bigger than any one person. I couldn't force her to stay, either - she could not have lived like that for a few more years, and I don't think she'll ever forgive me for this.'

Pause.

'She wanted so much to have a part in your upbringing, and I wish I could have given her what she wanted. But, ultimately, the differences were irreconciliable.'

***

There is a terrible sense of purpose, of something much bigger than two parents and a child, of something far more significant than what she could ever envision. It overwhelms her, engulfing her. It makes her feel incredibly tiny.

She loved him back then; she still does today, even as she leaves him. She thinks about those days of innocence, when two people decided to get together because they wanted to, and that was all that mattered, and then she realises that it's never this simple. Never ever.

***

'I guess the only thing left is to hope she's finally found happiness, that she's with someone she loves. On the other hand, i've found, in my experience, that letting go is one of the hardest things to do.'

He looks into his son's eyes.

'I don't want you to have to go through that.'

***

And she brushes past Locke, not looking at him, because she knows that she'll break down if she does. The uncooperative suitcase nearly wrenches itself out of her hands, but she manages, dumping the thing into the back of the car. He's still there, in the front hall, looking at her. For the moment, she fancies she sees some regret in his eyes, and as quickly as that, it's covered up and hidden.

She gets in the driver's seat, and starts the turbines. The long boulevard seems to stretch to infinity in front of her, as she prepares to go.

Then she cries.