Shades of Grey by Pundit | Part Three : No Quarter (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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The adrenalin surges through Kragok's veins, a red tidal wave that suffuses through his body. His heart pounds in time with his shallow breathing, preparing him, winding him up like a spring. In those seconds, he passes right through the bubbling rapids of rage into the calm pool of hate on the other side. Right here and now as he stands with his robotic arm charged to the limits of its capacitors, the metal tips sparking and spitting a little hint of ozone into the air, what he feels is murderous.

Just a few more steps, he thinks. Go on and take a few more steps Knuckles.

And they are seconds away, poised amid the green stillness of the forest. The sun shines its gold shadows through the trees.

Those few seconds pass.

The sight of Knuckles' exposed back. Right now.

Now.

Kragok shifts his weight off his heel and onto his toe, feeling the mud give way beneath him. With the barest sound of rustling leaves, he leaps forward. There is no scream, no angry shout, that escapes his lips - just a deep breath that sharpens his concentration to a point. His one objective, his enemy, directly in front of him. The root, the source, the target. Things are rarely as simple as this.

All mine.

And Knuckles begins to turn around, obviously off guard, eyes widened in surprise and shock, hands raised involuntarily in a futile effort to ward off the unexpected and unwelcome sight, but it's too late for that now, oh yes it is, and they both know it. Beautiful.

As he dives through the air like a bullet, with the breeze ruffling his spines and the smell of the forest in his nose, the only thing he can think of is how right and natural all of this is. Then the moment is over and he feels the impact of bone on bone from his wrists all the way up into his shoulders, his joints grating their silent protest. Truly, he thinks, a tackle worthy of Knuckles himself. Then the two of them splash wild rooster tails of mud into the air as they meet the sodden ground, faces inches apart, twisting and flailing like wild animals - a confrontation that is all the more dramatic for its complete silence.

Above him, and through the doubled vision that he hasn't quite recovered from, Knuckles sees a face both familiar and unfamiliar - those features that he knows almost as well as his own, but transfigured by the dirt and the fresh blood and the calm but icily determined expression into a spectre straight out of the farthest reaches of his imagination. But all that is not quite as disturbing as Kragok's refusal to open his mouth- and then he feels the warm sting on his face as Kragok spits on him.

An instant later, Kragok sweeps his robotic arm across like a billy club, aiming for the face of his opponent with high satisfaction. From a faraway place, he hears the tips of the claw scream their passage through the air and observes idly as a fresh thin scarlet line skirts its way across his opponent's cheek. And then his fist, landing with the new sound of bone on flesh and smearing blood, forceful enough to splash Knuckles' head down into the rapidly softening ground. The sun glints off Kragok's teeth, exposed in a wild and curiously skeletal rictus that seems to have consumed the lower half of his face.

But although these two blows would have been enough to incapacitate just about any ordinary echidna, they seem to slide off Knuckles like drops of water in a pan. The truth is that the current Guardian's already taken and given out far worse in the course of his tenure, and already his hands are grabbing and searching for leverage. Already his leg twists and braces against the ground. Already, and the thought almost gives Kragok pause, Knuckles seems to have shaken off the initial shock at his appearance.

Kragok doesn't even have to think about what to do next. He seizes his opponent's throat, his hand crushing and squeezing the flesh against the metal arm behind. It looks, to the disinterested observer, like a particularly enthusiastic bear hug. And then the two are nose to nose, their hot breath condensing wispy clouds in the early morning coldness, Kragok's back arched against the sky like a swan's neck, eyes wide with the strain.

As he tells himself that he cannot, absolutely cannot black out now, Knuckles manages to work an arm free and clamps his own hand around Kragok's arm, the fingers gripping like a vice. And while Kragok cannot see any of this happen, he certainly feels it, and realizes - much as his sister might have hours ago, that he's made a mistake. A very serious mistake. The veins bulge on Knuckles's forehead as he grunts with effort, the relaxation of the pressure on his neck a wonderful thing, but not as wonderful as his realization that he has an opening.

Bingo.

Knuckles kicks upwards, his feet shooting out like pistons.

It takes a heartbeat for Kragok to realize that he is no longer on the ground, and then he finds himself flying through the air in an oddly graceful twisting parabola, the world silent around him except for the rushing in his ears. The brown ground fills his vision, and then he rolls once, twice, the new pain a kind of exaltation.

Blessing, even.

***

On a certain day decades past, Lien finds Kragok sitting up on the infirmary bed as she tries to tiptoe into the room, the guards having been "persuaded" to dispense with the formalities. For a moment, she finds her mind blank and can't think of anything to say or do. Neither can he, apparently, because they stare at each other for a good minute.

Her eyes wander towards the extensive scorch marks and black spots on the woven kevlar blanket, and he meets her gaze halfway. The constant electrical sputter and hiss fills the silence, and fills Lien with distress because it's the last thing she wants to mention. Finally he answers the question in her eyes.

"I'm fine. I just hav-haven't got used to the interface yet."

The dancing sparks around the tip of Kragok's new arm seem to burn into her retinas, and she fights to keep down the bile in her throat.

"You sure?"

It is exactly the wrong question to ask, Lien realizes as the words leave her mouth. His eyes open the barest fraction wider.

For a cold instant, the word seems to hang in the air.

Before she knows it, Kragok is tearing at the yards of micropore holding the needles in his torso, grabbing at the multitude of fine plastic lines, the drip fluids scattering brown, red, and black streaks on the walls.

"Of course I'm fine! I'm on top of the world!"

And then the scream of the monitors as he rips the bunch of electrodes out of his scalp, the whole assembly splashing dead and limp against the wall, hanging forlorn from a loom coming out of the ceiling.

"I'm BETTER than fine! I'm perfect now!"

She recoils as he lurches drunkenly from the bed towards her, metal arm swinging dead like a pendulum, his step heavy and lopsided, cold smell of drying epoxy rich in her nostrils.

"All I ever wanted, Lien! This is ALL I EVER WANTED!"

The blood begins to ooze through the dressings wrapped around the place where his flesh meets his metal, bright red ring against the silvery metal, the red strands gathering speed as they waterfall down his shoulder. He stands in front of her now, torso twisted from the weight of the thing, and she sees the flame that burns at the very center of his remaining eye. Haltingly now, the claws twitch once, twice, and then with a furious jerk he manages to raise the whole arm.

With a devil's strength he twists, and sends the arm crashing into the wall, missing Lien by inches. Again and again, until the spidery cracks in the concrete widen and blossom. Again, until the metal is barely visible under the red dripping tracery that covers it. Again and again, gathering speed, the crashing sound loud and immediate in the tiny room.

"Stop it."

It comes out a strangled whisper as she tries to find her voice.

"Stop it!"

Maybe it's the sound of the plea in her voice, maybe not, but she sees him hesitate. And then she grabs him in a bear hug, the metal now slick and sticky in her arms. She tries to find his gaze, to hang onto that too, completely oblivious to the pools of tears that are gathering at the corner of her eyes.

He is still and quiet now, the flame extinguished. His legs give way without warning, and they both slump to the ground. They spend what seems like eternity like this, Lien propped against the wall with Kragok in her arms, the room sprawled around them. The last thing Kragok sees before he passes out is Lien's delicate fingers on his metal arm.

***

Kragok and Knuckles circle each other warily, the former subtly favoring his left foot. Kragok is couple of inches taller, but less solidly built. His robes, after a night out in the rain, and a dip in the mud, give him a rather manic, animal appearance. He has the cyborg classification B-prime, which has certain implications, the chief of which is that he is at least a quarter robotic. The prime designates the existence of certain kinds of cyborg goodies - the really baroque stuff, not just boring replacement limbs and all that. In Kragok's case, that comes in the form of a prototype lightning gun that any aspiring supervillian would be proud to have in his arsenal. Knuckles is shorter, heavier, more powerful, and owes at least as much to rather inspired bio-engineering as he does to nature. Having dealt with the initial threat, he is now supremely confident and currently in possession of a rather amused, smirking face.

The truth, then, is that Kragok has never even come close to defeating Knuckles without whole armies of robed assistants pitching in. Also true is that Knuckles has managed, in a meeting some time ago, to put a ninety-degree bend Kragok's metal arm with one hand. Finally, there is the acknowledgement that the lacerations on Kragok's face have mainly to do with their last little scuffle.

"Piece of cake. Looks like he's saved me the trouble of looking for him," Knuckles thinks.

He puts on a grin of his own.

Kragok remember this last encounter. Vividly. In his EST cell. The memory of that humiliating encounter. That Guardian, like a doberman, or a robot of some sort, faceless instrument and expression of the will of the society, tossing him around like a used rubber duck, on the orders of someone else. Job requirements : Takes orders, carries them out like a good soldier. Doesn't think for himself. That, he thinks is what he especially hated about the Guardian. Every single one of them.

But not this time. Not today.

Both of them are concentrating intently. Looking for that involuntary movement, the almost imperceptible weight shift that gives but a fraction of a second's worth of warning. On the watch. Stalking each other.

And Knuckles leaps towards Kragok, the movement mongoose quick. His dreads splay out behind him as he readies a spiked fist. Kragok, however, has seen it coming and sidestepped at the last moment. He shoves the Guardian in the back with all his might, watching over his shoulder as Knuckles rockets past and goes sprawling into the ground.

But then Knuckles is back up in an instant, leaping to his feet, jaw set and eyes blazing, eager to settle it. He is all over Kragok in a heartbeat, an irresistable tidal wave, a mad and furious whirlwind. They are too close now, Kragok realizes, biting his lip. This is not his range, this is not his style. Knuckles is stronger, has more endurance, generally does more of this sort of thing, and is, he realizes, definitely getting the better of him. The blows come faster and faster now, and he finds himself drowning beneath the onslaught, his entire being focused on the here and now of the block and the parry, thrust and counter, each motion coming in with miliseconds to spare.

It's not enough.

He doesn't see the powerful uppercut that stuns him and snaps his head back, the world fading to white for a long moment, and then the breath fountains out of his nostrils as another fist buries itself deep enough in his abdomen that it feels like it touches his spine. Kragok stumbles backwards blindly, panting and coughing, painful rasp in his throat.

Class B prime, he thinks. Prime. Of course.

Smoothly, like it's a natural limb, like he was born with it, he points the lightning gun in his metal arm at Knuckles. Pausing just a fraction of a second to aim, he releases two powerful pulses of electricity in the general direction of the Guardian. The light, constant buzzing intensifies momentarily, and then there is an almighty crack as the capacitors discharge their payload. For an instant there is a jagged yellowish blue arc between the two enemies, shining brighter than the sun.

The air buzzes with residual energy as the arc dissipates, and there is the lingering, powerful stench of ozone around them, creating an oppressive lid over the surrounding area.

With a supernatural kind of clarity, he sees Knuckles hesitate and take half a step backwards, limbs quivering from the passage of several kilovolts through them. That momentary hesitation is all Kragok needs. It's now his turn to rush his opponent, and he charges in without hesitation, trying to score as many hits as possible. Trying to make them count. Just swinging madly in the Knuckles' general direction. He manages to open up a gash over the Guardian's right eye that bleeds freely, and he thinks that at least they're even now. Sort of.

Blood on his hands.

But then Knuckles dodges a reckless swing of Kragok's, the force of it sending him flying past the Guardian. Exposed. The next thing he sees is Knuckles drawing his hand back for a massive, possibly final haymaker. It hits, with all the force of a piledriver, the angry laceration on his cheek, sending crippling spasms of pain that go all the way through the rest of his body. He lands on the ground with a soft moan, digging a wide furrow in it.

Knuckles steps back, his breathing heavy.

'Whew,' he thinks, 'he sure put up a fight.'

He sits down on a nearby rock to catch his breath, gazing numbly at the ground.

***

On another day in the distant past, the Dark Legion is withdrawing.

Around them the sound of crates being unloaded, the almost imperceptible hum and chatter of the chorus of metal limbs a kind of weariness that hangs in the air like smoke.

Off to his left, the veiled presence that is his father, his expression grim and inscrutable.

His comparatively young mind understands why he is here, why his father has insisted on what might at first seem like a pointless gesture. They are here to project strength and certainty, just standing at the top of the podium in the middle of hangar A. They are here to convince the rank and file that the leadership remains resolute and committed. That the Legion will return, someday.

He knows, instinctively, that he cannot allow himself even the barest hint of a slouch to favor his aching left side, that he cannot let even a flicker of the pain he is currently in flash across his expression. His new robotic arm is a blessing, a powerful gesture of solidarity, and his mission is to convey that with his presence.

He feels the trickle of sweat in the small of his back as he shifts, imperceptibly, trying to keep the muscles in his shoulder from seizing. And he wonders, in that inimitable childish way, how much more his father expects of him. Or his father's father.

But behind them, a thin and hollow footstep as his father's assistant appears around the corner, and a new knot tightens in his stomach. The assistant whispers in his father's ear, but Kragok doesn't need to hear the words. His father goes momentarily stiff, as if he is carved from marble, and then Kragok can sense the tension in his father's gesture as he turns.

"Kragok. Come with me."

The words coalesce out of the air and fall like pebbles. And then they recede down the corridor, the sound of the assistant's nervous trot echoing in his ears.

***

Kragok finds himself on the floor. He must have blacked out for a moment, he realizes, and the pain brought him back.

I don't do failure.

Get up.

Slowly, unsteadily, he climbs to his feet. He feels his heartbeat redline, his anger pulsing madly in his veins. Some rational part of his brain remarks that whatever happens next, he'll remember it for the rest of his life. Maybe.

Channel the rage.

Use it.

The image of his sister popped into his mind, the way she hangs suspended in the air lanced on a white beam. The way her blood scattered on the floor. The look on her face as she fell, and the gnawing emptiness and guilt inside of him. His sister, lying cradled in his arms. His sister, dead. Because of them.

'Is that the best you can do, you bastard?', he snarls, and the sound is like a brick thrown through a window.

Knuckles looks up, only to see the now standing Kragok charging him again. 'Why isn't he down for the count?', he thinks. He has never, ever seen anyone get up by himself after receiving a punch like that.

Kragok is quite a sight, bleeding from so many assorted injuries that it's a wonder he doesn't faint from low blood pressure where he stand. But Knuckles doesn't have the time to contemplate that, anyway, since Kragok has closed the distance.

'My sister!', he shouts.

Kragok's concentration is furiously sharp, focusing on the immediate task of ripping that guardian apart. With the metallic arm as a bludgeon, he beats the guardian about the face, shades of a certain dark night years past. Again and again, until the flesh splits. Again and again, until the deed is done. Right now he is in some heavenly place beyond pain, beyond feeling. He ignores whatever Knuckles manages to land on him because he isn't ever going to stop, not until it's done. Because it isn't over yet.

He reaches for the Guardian's shoulder and tugs, feeling the resistance as Knuckles instinctively digs his heel in the ground.

Perfect.

And he reverses the motion, turning the tug into a push, a surge, aided by Knuckles' own resistance. It is Knuckles' turn to go flying.

Not today!

He is screaming now, though the rational part of his mind can't really make out the words. Kicking and hitting.

He sees the lifeless form of his sister in his mind's eye. The bubbling chest wound.

No!

'I am going to make you pay today.' Quiet words.

***

The assistant brings himself to a juddering halt. He keys them through the door and closes it behind them as they step through, all the while keeping his gaze on the ground.

Inside, Kragok sees his sister standing to the side of the bed, a cowed and humbled look on her face. And the wasted form of his mother- their mother, sitting up absolutely straight, the face hard and angular in the shadowy light of the room. Whatever she's suffering from has seemingly aged her by decades.

He takes a sidelong glance at his father, but there is nothing to read in Luger's expression.

"So..." The voice is dry and crackly like old parchment.

"I have decided that the time is now."

His mother pins him with her gimlet gaze, glittery bright like diamonds.

"Luger, I... have always loved you. But you will resume the invasion when the mourning period ends. You owe me that much."

He senses his father's facade crack beside him. But his mother's eyes are already on him, and with the intuition of a child he appreciates that those last words are really for him and his sister.

"Kragok, child. You were given a valuable gift. Every day you will wear it as a reminder and as a symbol. We were cast out generations ago, but we have not forgotten. We remember and we will return some day. Wear it with pride, for your gift is also a promise. This is my final lesson to you."

She bites off the last word, and it is all he can do to compress his jaw and suppress his trembling. He wonders if his mother sees it.

"And now, Luger. Soulmate."

He sees his father through a gathering haze of tears, as Luger steps forward and picks up Merin's withered hand in his own, leaning forward and kissing it. Luger steps back with heavy hesitance.

"Lien. Beloved daughter."

His sister numbly stepping forward to give his mother a kiss on her left cheek. Lien leaves a wet trail of tears on the floor.

"Kragok. Beloved son."

He almost stumbles, but keeps himself steady as he replicates his father's movements. Her hand might be frail and withered, but it is also warm like the sun. He wonders, with innocence, if they will ever manage to do her proud.

There is a tray next to Merin, a black vial and a syringe. She picks up the syringe, movements weak and jerky but never tentative. With effort, she plunges it into the vial, drawing its entire contents. Then she holds the syringe up, glistening velvety black.

She sweeps each one of them with her gaze.

"We will abide. We will not go gently."

As she plunges the syringe into a vein, emptying it, every passing second is like a squeezing hand around Kragok's heart, tighter and tighter.

"Goodbye," she says, the word loud and final.

And then it's over.

***

He charges the gun, presses it against his opponent's midsection and lets him have it with both capacitors. Electricity flows in a torrent through the Guardian's tortured body, burning him up from the inside out, short circuiting his organs.

The guardian screams in pain, and the sound is deeply satisfying.

'I could kill you now,' he whispers.

This is the moment he's waited for for so long. His mother's words - a gift, a promise. An objective within his reach. It would simply take a few more amps to wipe this blight out of his life. Easy enough. He can imagine his mother and his sister watching him now, from some place beyond.

Mother, this is for you. This is my promise to you. You too, Lien.

And he tries to muster the willpower to drive the final fatal pulses through his opponent's body. His metal arm comes up, and he tenses in preperation. But he just can't do it. Not even to his worst enemy.

A promise.

'Lien,' he says, somewhat shakily. 'This is for you.'

Promise.

And Lien's words come back to him. 'I can't judge you, brother. No one can.' The words hit him like a taser in the head. He closes his eyes. Is this weakness? Why can't he do it?

Suddenly he is drained, emotionally and physically spent. The adrenalin is gone, and the rage is done with. There is nothing but a clawing black emptiness inside him.

Blood on my hands.

He turns on his heel and vanishes into the thick forest, limping away, leaving Knuckles unconscious on the floor.

***

'He's waking up. Go get Locke.'

A voice.

Some voice that sounds like it speaks through a huge wad of cotten wool, all muffled and indistinct. He feels like he's underwater, struggling to reach the surface. He tries to take control of his body, to open his eyes, move his limbs. Only one eyelid bothers to respond.

His vision swims indistinctly for a moment, focusing and unfocusing. Gradually, the familiar sight of his father's face above him comes into view, the brow thick with subtle tension.

'You're in the Haven. I ran a check for your location, just to check up on things, and we found you lying on a path in the forest with what looks like too many cuts and bruises. And electric burns.'

Locke finds that he can't keep the concern out of his voice.

'No prizes for guessing who,' Knuckles mutters.

'I've informed your mother and the Chaotix. We thought of bringing you to a hospital in the city, but they don't have access to some of the more *ahem* advanced facilities we have here.'

He closes his eye; his entire body is one dull wave of pain. He begins to think about his encounter with Kragok. Tries to analyze it, work out the angles.

'It's going to take about a day or two before you can open the other eye.'

The effort is too great for him. He lapses back into unconsciousness with a quiet murmur.

***

The next day, he awakens to a hug and a caress.

'Oh my,' she says. 'You look like hell.'

'Thank you, Julie, for being the tenth person to notice,' he says, managing a small smile that reveals a missing tooth.

'So, who was it this time?', she said lightly, still hugging him. Under her apparent lightness, she can't keep the edge and the protectiveness out of her voice and they both know it.

'Kragok. It was Kragok,' he says, a little muzzily due to his missing tooth, and the compression in his ribs from the hug.

Her face darkens and she lets go. 'And he did this to you? I mean, I knew him from childhood, and he's really cruel, good leader and all that, but the physical stuff really isn't his thing.' She chuckles at the thought. 'I used to wipe the floor with him in training, not that anyone else ever got to hear about it. Was there an army of legionnaires there to help?'

'Just him. Alone. But it's strange. In the middle of it, he shouted something about his sister, and then he was screaming "Lien" something like that when he stuck that damned lightning thing in my ribs.'

'Oh my. Guess you should know. Remember Remington's message? The DNA test results came in yesterday. The mystery girl who was shot isn't some two bit legionnaire. It was Komissar herself - his sister as you know. Her real name is "Lien". Apparently she hated my guts. But she doesn't usually go on operations like this. It's not her style.'

He shakes his head, sighing. 'Look, he could have killed me right there and then. He had me; he could have done it. But he didn't, just disappeared into the woods and left me there.'

'Why?', he asks as he stares into the forest from the window.