Shades of Grey by Pundit | Part Two : Requiem (Version 2)
<clx@pacific.net.sg>

I acknowledge that there are characters in this story which belong to either Sega or Archie Comics. The text of 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 please use the above email address. I welcome comment, criticism, or flames, if you've got any. Thank you for reading.
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He can only stare numbly at her. She takes shallow, pained breaths, each one a monumental effort. Fighting to force air into punctured lungs torn open by that cruel blast. He knows she's ebbing away slowly and surely, that each successive breath takes its own small toll, her vitality leaking out with a quiet whistle from the entry wound. With a kind of transfixed horror, he observes the slight bubbling of the blood around the edges as the air escapes, sees the ivory whiteness of her cracked ribs. But she can't be dying. She isn't even old. There are so many more years in the future, so many things to do. And he thinks bitterly that perhaps it doesn't matter, since their lives are forfeit anyway. That they are snared in this conflict that has consumed them from birth, and now the time has come to pay the piper.

The craft banks steeply, slicing through the dense night air, gracefully coming down to earth with deceptive speed. The pilot is taking them in as fast as physics and his reflexes will allow him to, dancing on the knife-edge of control. He's already radioed ahead for emergency medical assistance - even now, he imagines the tense, anxious cluster of people huddled at the edge of the runway, itching to go to work. There is nothing more that he can do for his leader.

Any other time, Kragok would notice and reward the pilot's dedication, but this is not one of those times. Ahead, he sees the silhouette of the base looming out of the darkness, and a solitary row of deep red lights burning in the middle to guide them in. Reflexively, he composes his expression, settling the tortured lines into something that is stony and imperturbable as granite.

The pilot notices this. He idly wonders whether his leader really has a heart of stone, or if he's tearing up inside. Personally he would choose the second one, although such is the mystique that surrounds Dimitri's clan that no one truly knows, one way or another.

The opinion is truer than the pilot thinks. Kragok battles the tide, refusing to let it overrun his external appearance. He can't let the sheer cruelty and tragedy of the situation show. Not in front of all these people who look up to him. He'll be inscrutable to the last, for his pride, and for the pride of his dysfunctional family. But behind his front his mind races through the possibilities, not daring to dwell on hope but cravenly hoping for the best, hating himself for hoping.

The craft touches down with a hiss and a muffled thump. The medical group slides into action. With practiced motions they gently but assertively lift her from her perch on Kragok's lap, making sure to keep her feet above her torso. She goes on a stretcher decked out with equipment the way Xenin's dreads are messy, and then the group is sprinting for the medical tent like so many scuttling ants, white coats flapping in the wind. One of the medics shouts instructions into a microphone for antibiotics, tissue scaffolds, and very specific tools with very specific names, the whole indescribable babble washing into Kragok's ear like a running river. A nurse peels from the group and trots over, trying to attend to the charred mess that is his back and face. He dismisses her with a gesture.

So far he hasn't said a word. For a moment, he struggles and a few cracks appear in his mask. The more perceptive of the people around him see his jaw-line quiver with tension. Moving with the slow deliberation of a drunk, he spins on his heel and quietly pads into his tent. The familiar look of the place, even the smell, comforts him. Briefly. He collapses down at his desk, cradling his head, and whatever's left of the mask dissolves into a million broken lines. Time stands still as he replays the memories in his head, over and over again.

And if anyone had been there, they would have seen a single droplet, pure as crystal, trace its glittery path down the scarred cheek of the leader as he slumped, bent over the table.

***

A few hours later, he sweeps into the medical tent, cloak billowing theatrically. If he looked haggard earlier, he looks absolutely manic now. The undressed lacerations have oozed sticky plasma all over his face in a grotesque parody of tears. Without a word, he displays the pointed finger. Out. The two or three remaining personnel comply immediately, dropping whatever they have in their hands and backing away from the finger at speed. They don't look back.

'You always did have that effect on your subordinates,' she says, slightly haltingly.

She's conscious! He gently pads across the room, a suddenly hopeful expression on his face. Perhaps she's going to be fine after all. Her voice sounds, for a moment, exactly like he remembered it. But he draws closer, and that thought dies a terrible death, dragging his expression into the abyss with it. So pale! She takes a ragged breath, shuddering and grimacing. Dying. Her pulse is weak and irregular, weaving irregularly across the monitors. It's going to be soon and there's absolutely nothing they can do about it. He knows. The medics know; they gave up earlier, leaving a skeleton crew to tend the lonely vigil.

'Lien...' he says, voice cracking like a child's. It's almost a plea.

'Kragok.' And he hears her dredge the depths of her soul to hold out something to him. Some strength, some reassurance. A promise.

'I don't have much time, but I want you to know this. I can't judge you, brother. No one can. Just know that I'll always be with you. I'll always be your sister. I can go in peace... knowing that you know that.' The words have drained her. Her eyelids droop. Slowly, carefully, she reaches for his hand and places something in his palm, weakly wrapping his fingers around it.

'Goodbye...' she says, the last syllable trailing off like a whisper on the wind. She hangs on by a slender thread, eyes closed, lingering over the moment.

As she takes her final breath, she gives his hand a last convulsive squeeze, and her eyelids fly open to gaze at him. He rushes forward towards her. In that instant, so much passes between them. In that heartbeat, they understand each other. And she's telling him it's all right. That however much they might have grown away from each other over the years, they never truly were apart.

'Lien!'

And then she's gone. There is the shrill scream of the electronic monitors, as they urgently seek to summon the medical personnel. The torturous electronic squiggles have gone flat, and the readings are dark.

She's gone - irretrievably gone from him. That fact takes a long time to sink in. So this is how it ends. He was there when it happened, he could have done something. Couldn't he? Surely there were a thousand, a million ways he could have saved her. He should have dragged her with him behind the crate. He should have known that it couldn't have been that easy to escape the EST headquarters. He should have taken that fatal shot for her.

Suddenly, he feels an incredible surge of anger. It isn't the cool, rational anger he employs when plotting against the faceless society of Echidnaopolis. Nor is it the professional hate in his heart that he tends and nurtures like a flower, the kind of hate that makes him just that little bit quicker and sharpens his focus when he's on an operation.

No, it comes from some place deeper than that, a gift from the base and vicious side of him. It is simply white hot, primal rage bubbling up from beneath the surface through so many fissures. The kind of rage that's been a long time cooking beneath the deceptively calm appearance that perches on top of it. Now that the time has come to peel off his facade, he slips into his rage that feels so right and righteous, and there is nothing else to do but abandon himself to it.

He starts with the kind of banshee scream that makes windowpanes vibrate, releasing everything that has been bottled up for so long now. It echoes around the base, silencing everyone within earshot, and leaves everyone in no doubt at all about his actual state of mind. Kragok pivots on his heel, sending the side of his other foot into the cluster of squealing medical equipment. There is a shower of sparks.

Violently, he tears at and flings back the entrance to the tent. A fine rain blows in, a gentle dance of needles swirling in his vision, but he hardly notices it as he breaks into a stumbling run away from the base. Right now, just about anywhere else will do.

No silent prayer for the faith-departed.

***

A steaming mug on a metal desk, gently huffing steam into the air. The room is at the temperature where the mind works best, which means it is absolutely frigid. An imposing hand reaches absently towards it, and only succeeds in burning one of its fingers on the hot surface. The owner of the hand mutters a quiet curse, more out of habit than anything else.

Locke, the owner of the aforementioned hand, currently perches in a rather large, padded armchair. One of his hands gracefully dances across a keyboard, chording and bridging like a particularly imaginative spider. His other hand gingerly feels around for the mug handle, and lifts with caution. He is absolutely focused on the contents of the screen. He takes a contemplative sip and thoughtfully strokes his goatee, eyes narrowing in contemplation. The keyboard clatter fades away.

A sharp beep from the console pierces his ears and he winces as his carefully constructed pile of thoughts crumbles into dust. He bites his lip and reaches over, slapping a big red button with more force than necessary. Remington's face shows up on the screen, eyes wide with tension. There are tiny streaks of blood on his forehead that he hasn't bothered to wipe off.

'Locke! I know it's 4am, but this is kind of important. A triplet of dark legionnaires broke into our prison facility a couple of hours ago. They managed to trash our new security program, and broke out, of all people, Kragok. I've started to organize an islandwide hunt for him.'

The figure at the console nods, mind racing with the possibilities.

'Okay. I'll tell Knuckles,' he says crisply. At four in the morning. Nobody in their right mind is crisp at four in the morning.

Locke's voice is quite a deep baritone that holds a suggestion of hidden intelligence in it. It gives the mental impression of someone who's always calculating and working out the angles. Someone who has something, maybe many things, hidden beneath the surface. The more perceptive will notice a slight brightening of his tone on his last word; Locke is nothing if not proud of his son.

'Oh, and by the way, we got a clear shot off on one of them; a female of some sort, and we're analyzing her blood for both intelligence and identification. Just an afterthought. Probably insignificant.'

'Thanks. Tell me if anything comes of it.'

A few more taps wipes Remington's haggard face from the screen.

'It probably isn't worth waking him up for', Locke mutters to himself. Working with practiced speed, he forwards the recording of Remington's video call to his son's communicator. It'll play the message when he wakes up.

Sighing, he leans back in the chair and starts thinking. Thinking about the ancient war with the Dark Legion, the war that had its roots centuries into the past. What's the line - "Two families both alike in dignity," or some such. And that ridiculous power hungry creep Dimitri. Dimitri who hadn't known when to die. Dimitri and his band of sheep. Dumb sheep too, armed with lethal robotic enhancements and their trademark blind fanaticism, so easily led and goaded into action by a strong leader. Dimitri and his ambitions; Dimitri, living embodiment and proof that absolute power corrupts absolutely.

And even for those who truly believe that technology and advancement is the way, this couldn't possibly the way to bring about change. Why not, if they think their beliefs so truly superior, why not work within the community and spread their message? Why carry out their terrorist attacks? They certainly aren't doing their cause any favors if they expect murder to build support for them.

But here's the rub, he thinks. As much as he hates to admit it, the primal, base instincts of prejudice and resistance to change still have primacy even among the most advanced race ever to walk the face of Mobius. These traits guarantee the doom of almost any effort to convert the people to another way of thinking. And that's for the people who even consider that there's another way to think about it. The vast majority simply reports "heretical views" to the EST the instant they hear them. The EST, of course, will react as it always has.

With understated but firm suppression.

How truly ironic, that a society that's renounced technology has come to rely on a shadowy Brotherhood of Guardians completely and utterly dependent on a base stuffed full of the latest and greatest technological gizmos. He glances idly at the display panel in the corner of the console with the heading 'Medical Bay'. One corner of the display has the word "Hawking" hastily taped onto it. The readings are currently nominal. Yes, the Guardian Hawking who is at the very limits of his lifespan. He's only alive because of limited somatic cell regeneration therapy, prototype nanotechnology, and enough designer antibiotics to drown a whale. Technology, right?

He takes another sip, but the drink has cooled and the taste is suddenly metallic and unwelcome in his mouth. Does tradition really show them the best path now? Has it ever? He closes his eyes and arches his back, trying to dissolve the tension in his neck. Sabre will be along any minute now...

'It's my shift,' comes the voice behind him. The dry but warm voice of his father.

Turning around, he sees a familiar shape. It's Sabre, who is thirty years older than he is, instantly identifiable with the missing eye and the white bands in the hair. And then of course the archaic outfit that would be quietly but definitively sneered at in fashionable circles if Sabre ever deigned to step into the gaze of the public he's spent his entire life protecting. Sabre, who was forced to grow up in a very huge hurry at the age of eight, and now exudes absolute peace from every pore. His shoulders aren't the least bit bowed by the weight of his responsibilities, which he has cheerfully been carrying for the past fifty years or so. Locke still wonders how he manages it.

'How can he do it? Where does he get it from?' Locke ponders, as he always does when he sees his father. The truth is that it depresses Sabre to see this mixture of wonder and sadness on his son's face, although he has so far been careful not to reveal that Locke's expressions are like an open book to him. Locke has never been able to understand his father, how his father has the intact marriage, how he always manages to stay on top and ahead of any problem. Locke always gets just that little bit quieter when Sabre is around.

And now Locke rises gracefully, the accumulated weariness receding from him. He turns and acknowledges Sabre with a respectful but reserved quarter-bow and strides wordlessly from the room, never one for unnecessary speech. The door glides shut behind him with the barest hiss.

***

The rain pelts down with fury now, a dark and merciless hail that stings and pummels Kragok through his customary tattered cloak. The wind is relentless, whipping through gaps in the trees in unexpected bursts. Thunder, a booming that he doesn't hear as much as feels in the pit of his stomach. But all the majesty of nature is just a footnote to the turmoil in his head.

He hears the quiet analytical voice in the back of his head asking if he sees this as punishment. Self-flagellation. Some odd form of atonement, even. And then his anger flares like the sun, sweeping the voice away with it. It doesn't matter, nothing matters, and he doesn't care. Anywhere but here. Slashing and tearing at the branches, pounding the ground into mush with his feet.

The quiet voice is back. For a moment he sees the situation in its entirety, the way he scurries through the forest like a scared rat running for his life. He sees how he is puny and weak compared to the grandeur of the elements, how small he is compared to the forces around him. No, not like a rat, the voice says. Like a frightened pathetic little child running and crying for the parents it never knew.

The thought zips through his head like a wire snapping. His mind goes blank white for a moment, and he stumbles forward, almost falling. The red mist lifts from his eyes as quickly and suddenly as it came.

For the moment, he is an island of stillness amid the thrashing foliage around him, with the dull burning in his legs and the deep throb of his blood for company.

And he doesn't know what to think.

***

The communicator has been designed to be gentle, at least at first. It normally begins with a discreet winking of its lights and synthesized birdsong, progressively raising the intensity of the alerts when it needs to catch the owner's attention. Its perfectly executed design has always been held up to echidna engineers as an example of what can be done with enough care and thoughtfulness.

But this particular communicator has long since left discretion dead in a dark alley somewhere, and gentleness may never walk again. This machine has lost patience in a big and spectacular way. The kind of flooding, overpowering cacophony with its dissonances and spectacular crashes that issues forth from the speaker could only technically be considered sound.

The figure on the bed grunts sleepily and rolls over the edge of the bed, promptly crashing headfirst into the floor with a skull-shaking thud.

'Bah,' Knuckles coughs, rubbing the now rapidly developing bump on the forehead with an oversized hand, 'I'm awake!'

Grumbling indistinctly, he plods over to the still-screaming communicator and scoops it up with drowsy fingers.

'How... how do you turn off an alert from Haven... *mutter*... stupid electronics... stupid alarm...'

After quite a few seconds of undignified fumbling, his thumb catches a button by accident. The speaker goes silent with a squawk, and the quietness blossoms in the room. A short communication begins to play, and he raises an eyebrow as that familiar face begins to speak.

Remington. Even though Remington's maybe a decade older, and has something like the entire security apparatus of the government under him, Remington's always been extremely respectful to him. Remington even calls him 'sir', which is something Knuckles doesn't hold with, not that he's had any luck getting Remington to stop.

He shuts the communicator with a snap and stumbles for the shower.

This isn't the first time their paths have crossed, he thinks. These two children of the vendetta - him and Kragok, are by now practically old enemies. They're familiar with the finest details of each other's lives, aware of every little personality trait and characteristic. It's like a friendship really, only potentially lethal. And now it's time to find a way to drag Kragok back into the cage.

Well, he can think of several ways to do that. Right off the cuff too.

One invigorating shower later, he finds himself walking through the forest with a steady stride, relishing the early morning coolness before the heat of the day takes hold. The air is fresh and inviting. It rained the night before, he observes, leaving a damp but agreeable sheen over everything. He sighs happily. Sometimes one just has to take a step back and enjoy the simple pleasures of life, like the fresh scent of grass and the caress of the wind at his back. In his heart, he knows that he will never feel as home in the city as he does out here.

This is his life. The regular patrols round the island that he's come to value as his personal "me" time. Keeping the island and the city safe from those that seek to harm them, namely the Dark Legion and various other sundry villains. The particular strain of duty and obligation common to the Guardians is strong in his veins, and he knows he does his job well. Of late, he has started using this time to plan and strategize in the broadest terms, the way Locke taught him to.

Although it isn't something he'd admit to anyone else, Kragok's abrupt and unexpected escape worries him. Kragok isn't just another Legionnaire - he's an adversary on a really fundamental level. And he's twisted like a spring, as it were. Servant and offspring of the power hungry maniac Dimitri, likewise twisted. There's no telling the kind of vicious retaliation Kragok has in store to avenge his incarceration. 'We simply need a massive campaign to root out the Dark Legion base...' he thinks, 'and throw those creeps into the ocean.'

And it is as simple as that, isn't it? The Dark Legion presents a threat to the security of the Island, so the Dark Legion has to go. There is no other possible conclusion. The only question is the how.

Knuckles evenly walks along the forest trail, lost in his line of thought. He doesn't realize that his concentration has strayed from the immediate, that he is no longer aware of his surroundings.

Nor does he realize he has been thinking out loud.

***

Kragok sits crumpled in the shade of a particular tree, an indistinct black tatter against the brown roots. His eyes are bloodshot and his face is stained with black streaks of dried mud and debris.

Tentatively, he opens his palm, revealing the object that he's clutched in his fingers for the last few hours. It's a banal little thing - a polished ovoid of resin shot through with red wispy swirls. The swirls are Lien's blood, spilled on a whim. She wore it on her belt, he thinks.

Her belt.

Lien.

His hand closes, fingers gripping the object like a vice. Trust her to come up with something like this.

And behind him, he hears a twig snap. The sound is like a rifle shot in his ears, echoing through the trees.

Instantly he's alert. The emotions are forgotten, the posture suddenly upright and attentive. His eyes sweep the undergrowth in measured arcs, searching for a telltale infrared trail.

Someone's definitely approaching.

Seeking to keep himself out of line of sight, he ducks behind the tree with all senses straining for any clue at all. Ah, the sound of a voice. A monologue of some sort, though he can't quite make out the wor-

The realization is a bolt of lightning in his brain.

Knuckles!