Shades of Grey by Pundit | Part Ten - Displacement
<clostridia@bigfoot.com>

I acknowledge that there are characters in this story which are the property of either Sega or Archie Comics. The story itself, however, is copyrighted to me, and while it may be distributed in any form, must not be altered under any circumstances. You may not derive any profit from this story. Should you wish to contact me, the above email address will suffice. I accept, and welcome comment, criticism, or flames, should you see the need. Thank you.
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Soft yellow light radiated from the table, gently illuminating the plastic dish on which a fat, lazy mealworm reposed. He screwed his brow up in concentration, carefully manipulating the stylus. He poked the worm, whereupon it curled up into a bristly, leggy ball. Gently but firmly, he prised the ball open, inviting the worm to crawl onto the stylus with a few taps, and it obeyed, scuttling fairly quickly on stubby feet, as he switched hands, now holding the other end.

With four feet firmly attached to one end, it flailed, creamy white segmented body swinging this way and that like a metronome. He took a little dropper and placed some liquid on the other end. Almost immediately, the worm ceased trying to escape, and turned back, making tracks for the drops of liquid. Repulsive to him, nectar to the worm.

The doors swung open behind him, creating a brief rush of wind.

His eyes narrowed, and he spun on his heel, still delicately holding the worm. He didn't need to say anything; his subordinate fairly cowered in fear under the gaze, which had knives in it. But as quickly as the temper had flared, it passed.

'Do you know what this is? It's nothing more than a simple, stupid insect. Yet, although we like to call ourselves the most advanced race on the planet, in reality and in truth, as a society, we are no better than this worm you see here. Simply a matter of pushing the right buttons - same predictable results every time. Do apply this truth.'

'Yes sir.' The subject was almost totally in awe, as he reminded himself never to take for granted the respect he received. Ah well, now was not the time for moderation. There would be reflection later, after the pomp and circumstance. How droll, the way society required all leaders to endure some sort of formal ceremony, as if it had any bearing on the actions of those who held the reins of power.

'Leave me. I have a public appearance to prepare for.'

***

She wrung her hands, tensing and releasing them, crumpling the front of her beautiful white dress. Her once beautiful dress, she thought. It was now a stained and highly wrinkled garment, with a couple of small tears. Her hair was missing one ribbon, which gave it the appearance of a rather disobedient bush. Like most people here, she'd been highly coddled and insulated by society, which didn't help her deal with her current situation one bit.

She was uncomfortable. It wasn't the rough and rude Legionnaires, nor the unceremonious way in which all the city's top socialites, businessmen, and politicians had been herded into a ballroom. No, it was simpler than that. It was the fear, the fear eating away inside her, fear of what the Legion had planned, fear that they were winning.

There was a certain ruthless arrogance displayed in the way the Legion didn't bother to search such docile sheep. Hardly any guards at the door, she thought. The amazing sheer confidence that none of the fifty people or so milling around could do nothing agains them, other than mutter useless maledictions and curses.

They didn't have any contact with the outside, not after the electromagnetic jamming of the entire hall, or the shades on all the windows. She found herself wondering about her son, and...

Her husband. Ex-husband, she reminded herself. She had another man now, a man she could truly call soulmate. Emotionally perfect, understanding, sensitive. But then, there was something about the unabashedly imperfect personality of that first husband, the absolute uncompromisability as far as his beliefs went. She was sure he'd loved her. And of course, nothing was going to replace the magical stirrings of the soultouch between the two. Absolutely nothing. But then, she was sure she couldn't live with him - there were just too many differences. Three throbbingly painful years spent exploring those differences. Spent realizing it wouldn't work.

You've tried to make this work, but it's not going to. Time to let go.

Was it meant to be this way? She closed her eyes, trying to stifle the gushing flood of memories as they swept over her, burying her with their emotional weight. Nothing showed on the outside, of course; she refused to display it, even as her fiance's hand rested comfortingly on her shoulder. There was movement at the far end of the hall.

***

There were two groups, each with about a hundred people, facing off in the ruins of one of the buildings downtown. Obviously, it was a rather frenzied, unruly affair, quite notable for the copious blood shed on the once proudly pink Mobian marble floor.

Remington'd caught a microwave blast in a finger, and it hurt like the blazes. The skin peeled and blistered around an angry red mark; he'd barely pulled it away before it totally exploded. Around him, the tasteful sculptures warped into travesties of their original shape, bent by the heat. Stalemate, he thought, bloody stalemate in a blasted building.

Next to him was Kragok, who was currently fiddling with what looked like an oversized hairdryer, with wires strung around it like a christmas tree. Kragok gave an eloquent roll of his eyes, and stood up, cradling the device, walking briskly towards the massed legionnaires. Remington put out an arm to stop him, and then let it fall. He'd just see what Kragok would do.

All movement stopped, and the room went eerily silent.

There was a spasm of puzzlement around the opposite end of the domed hall, as about a hundred mystified Legionnaires tried to come to terms with the unscheduled appearance of a very respected superior, who was supposed to be on the other side of the island, and on the other team.

'Hello.'

He pressed a button on the hairdryer, and there were brief, bright flashes coming from the blasters of every black robed person present. The flashes were accompanied by complaining electronic beeps, and after a few seconds, muttered curses.

'Do tell. My technician seems to have got it right first time,' he muttered to himself. 'And now...'

He turned to the mass of EST officers, currently in a semi-catatonic state of shock.

'Please, don't stand on ceremony.'

Remington recovered first, and gave a hand signal. One hundred soft hums intensified in volume.

'No problem.' Wry grin.

***

She paused outside the door, listening and straining for any kind of noise in the room beyond. Her nerves were stretched tight with tension. Taking a breath, she spun, viciously kicking the door down, hinges and all, then landing in a crouch. Her eyes darted from one corner to the other, looking for threats.

Nothing at all. She sagged a little as the pressure released, walking into the room with visible relief. It was then she noticed the cylinder in the far corner, with a nozzle attached. Frowning in thought, she jogged over andbent down to read the label.

There was thump and a soft whimper behind her.

'Geez. Watch your back, why don't you?'

She turned, observing the collapsed legionnaire, the chamaleon who'd brained the legionnaire in question, and the now dented two by four the chamaleon had used.

'Thanks, Esp. Owe you one.'

The chamaleon shook his head and muttered something under his breath, rolling his eyes at the same time.

'What's that thing you're holding?'

Then there was a sharp intake of breath.

'Damn.'

***

He was vaguely surprised to see his half-sister's face appear on the communicator screen.

'Julie? What's up?' He was flippant.

'Listen, I said. Wasn't Gargoyle cancelled way back, a couple of weeks before I defected?'

'Section Two's baby? Yeah. The project's long dead - way too many problems with the compound. Why?'

'Kragok! I'm holding a sample of it right now! In my hands! What are you holding out on us?' She was beginning to sound confrontational.

Suddenly, he felt incredibly foolish, like he'd committed an unpardonable, avoidable blunder. He'd been in too much of a rush - and completely failed to do his own homework. A sucker, played out by that wretch Moritori. Here he nearly screamed in frustration. Why had he acted so suspiciously? And all the time he thought his ancestors were fools, didn't bother to think.

It would have taken him fifteen minutes to disable production - no. Ten. Ten tiny minutes, so inconsequential at first, and yet, now absolutely irretrievable. And he was the pigheaded fool who'd had lost the chance to prevent it. His brows furrowed together, and he closed his eyes in pain. No, he thought. He failed. That was what Dimitri was after - a chance to use the mind altering gas on the leaders of the people, and eventually the people themselves. Catastrophe.

There was going to be hell to pay.

***

His head lay bowed, eyes closed. He hung from two unforgiving restraints in the wall, legs limp and slack. Externally, he was defeated, withdrawn into his shell. Not a muscle twitched; he lay absolutely silent. The interior of his mind, on the other hand, was another matter altogether.

Bubbles of fury rose to the surface of his consciousness, as he raged at himself, for the complacency he'd displayed, for the misjudgement. It was a fault of his character, he screamed. Failure to properly assess a threat and crush it with appropriate force. Defeated at his own game.

And then, he fell silent again, the violent screams replaced with cold metal. He screwed his face up in concentration, blocking out all his feelings. With effort, he forced himself to think. First priority - escape. But how?

The sterile, metal cell that enclosed him was designed to foil absolutely any escape attempt - the design was simple, simply an armor plated metal box, electromagnetically decoupled from the outside. From his current point of view, he couldn't think of anything remotely connected with a successful escape. There was always a solution, his mind told him, always a way out. What was it?

The door swung open, a shaft of light attacking the cool ambient dimness of the cell. Three figures stepped in. Three of the deadliest threats to him. He couldn't do anything about it, of course. And suddenly, what was left of his composure fled, as he found himself giggling madly, the irrepressible convulsions soon heightening into full fledged laughter - laughter that bounced off the walls, echoing off the ceilings, piercing the soul.

The three figures looked at each other.

'Talk. Now.' The thin one.

Ah yes. That would be his former protege, now Judas of everything he stood for..

Let's find out what you're after.

He burst into giggles again, this time making no effort at control, letting the laughter cascade forth. It felt strangely fulfilling.

***

To say that he was baffled would be an understatement. His once totally serious grandfather was currently demonstrating a downright unseemly amount of levity - something he'd been reprimanded for as a child. This weird behavior threw him off balance.

Has he gone mad?

His brow furrowed, as he shifted gears mentally, trying to analyze this new development. His companion was less restrained.

There was the ripe slam of flesh against metal, as a back was slammed onto the unyielding wall by a rather angry Guardian.

'What is going to happen and where?'

The voice did it's best to convey the seriousness of the speaker. It didn't quite get through to the giggling subject. The speaker's eyes widened, and narrowed aggressively. A fist wrenched the now un-giggling head to the side.

'Understand that in case of any more wrong answers, I won't be so gentle.'

He saw his grandfather give a short, sharp bark of laughter, and whisper.

'Go to hades.'

The whisper was loaded with venom. It was the kind of whisper that growled and snapped.

He closed his eyes. This wasn't going to work. He knew his grandfather would never yield to this kind of thing. Intimidation wasn't something you could try on him - the depth of his faith in the cause ensured that. You could be sure he'd mentally stay one step ahead of you, anticipating questions, preparing appropriate lies and half-truths as responses.

He could see Locke wasn't going to get anywhere.

And it was all going wrong.

He stiffened and tried to make a decision. When he turned on his heels, his jaw was set in a hard line. Then he walked out.

'I'm going to the source.'