Shades of Grey by Pundit | Part Six : Redemption
<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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It was white all around him, he observed, a soft white, comforting to the eye. He seemed to be alone in this world, adrift in nothingness. Indeed, there was no ground, no reference point from which anything could be measured. Only him, a puny, solitary figure floating in infinite space. He flexed his fingers, clenching and unclenching, testing his limbs. They seemed perfectly functional, although what he was supposed to do with them, he could not imagine, gazing across the void, searching for something, anything to anchor his perspective.

He gave a start, and looked back at his own body, clad in black robes.

What is happening?

His left arm was not formed of the cold metal instrument he was used to. It was fully flesh and blood, a totally organic construct. And the feeling in it, he thought. So real! Measurably, according to the precepts of science, it was absolutely inferior to its robotic counterpart, so fragile and so powerless. Yet, there was an intagible sense that he was really feeling, not simply touching, a sense that what he felt was natural, that he was once again in contact with the environment.

And the cyborg eye, he thought, placing an exploratory finger on his brow. It was gone; the stark machine replaced with flesh, flesh that was that was warm to the touch, flesh that bled, flesh that felt real.

Is this a dream?

He was moving now, the plaything of a wind that rose up silently and unexpectedly, carrying him away, with effortless force, farther and farther into the void.

There was a speck on the horizon, he saw, wishing with all his might that he could possess the blessed functionality of his cyborg eye, without losing the real one. That was irrelevent, however, as with a sudden gust, he was thrust forward, moving directly toward the speck.

It was her, he saw. She wasn't clad in the black outfit she favored, nor was her hair plaited with white ribbon. She was just standing there, a vision in a pure white, flowing gown, hair flying out behind her in the wind, eyes closed. An angelic statement, so far removed from her habitually cynical, skeptical visage.

In a moment, he was directly in front of her, facing her, two perfect organic beings brought together in space, with nothing else around them.

He knew, painfully well, how this could be nothing but a scene conjured up by his tortured psyche, knew that the next morning the pain of her loss would overwhelm him again, knew that as flattering sweet this moment was, that it could not last, and that it could never be true, never ever be anything more than a blind hope.

He stretched out a hand, touching her on the shoulder, feeling, sensing the contact. She opened her eyes and gazed at him.

For a long moment, neither spoke, just stood facing each other, the silence conveying more than words could ever hope to.

And then, he was leaning forward, sweeping her into his arms, hugging her and not letting go, holding her. The moment seemed to last forever, and he wished it could. It was all he wanted.

'I'm proud of you,' she said, giving him a smile. Not coy, not coquettish, not sinister. A real smile, glad for him, celebrating because he'd finally found the courage.

'Love you too,' he said, features softening.

As he lay asleep in his quarters, he smiled, for the first time in a long time.

***

Working with practiced ease, he activated the appropriate decoder program. The plastic sheet Espio had brought back was sucked into the reader, with an accompanying series of stroboscopic flashes as it was scanned. On the screen, a large grid formed, jumbles of symbols tumbling into it as a trickle, then a flood as the reader speeded up. Gradually, the flow of symbols ceased.

On the grid, the symbols were shuffling around in groups, weaving in and out of the grid as the program ran, searching for the passphrase. Slowly, the message accquired form, shape and order.

Patterns in the jumble.

Behind him, he heard the hiss of the doors, as someone strode in. He grinned, discerning the unique, slightly clumping, step of his son.

'Hello, Knuckles,' he said, not bothering to turn around. In front of him, a group of symbols were circling around like lost sheep, looking for a place to insert themselves into the jumble of characters.

His son raised his eyebrows in mild surprise.

'I am your father, you know.'

'So I've been told,' he replied coolly, taking a seat next to his father.

'This is Kragok's message.'

'Yeah, well, considering it's from him, it's probably a trick, a threat, or some ridiculous gloati-' He was cut off by the computer.

'Analysis determines that data type encoded on media is interlaced fullscreen video with monoaural sideband. Loading and playing.'

The screen blackened momentarily, and then the face of Kragok filled the screen from bottom to top, robotic eye and all. His usual smirk, as if amused by his own private joke, or the fevered, fanatic statement which he used on Dark Legion business, were both gone. Here, he looked uncertain, as if there was some doubt inside him eating away at the carefully constructed foundation, chewing through to the exterior.

He spoke.

***

Kragok gazed at the rather large printed pile on his table, shoved between the edge of his desk, and the red, 1/2 scale Guardian plush modelled on Knuckles.

He used the toy for stress relief from time to time; it had a few burns and scorch marks in it, and a number of loose threads, having been flung around the room with abandon in his angrier periods. A cut in the back served as a constant reminder of the time when too much coffee and too much frustration were combined a sharp claw, with smashing results, as it were.

Letting off a sigh, he settled back in his chair, picking up the stack carefully, and beginning to read it. He chewing on each phrase with meticulous concentration.

Perhaps I can try to figure out how to stop this.

***

'...Although I still believe that it is wrong to suppress technology, I see that Dimitri is a power hungry maniac, and I oppose Dimitri, along with the misguided and corrupted cause he represents. I'd like to break free and get on with the rest of my life.'

Locke's heart did a backflip.

He agrees with me?

'If you wish to contact me, the technical details are encoded on the other side in similar fashion.'

The image faded out, as the father and the son blinked, stunned.

'Wow. He's a really good actor,' the son commented with disbelief.

The father pulled the recording out of a drive mounted beneath the screen, with a slight heaviness. Even as he felt the grateful gladness in his heart that someone in the other camp thought the same way he did, he felt it replaced by a grim, cold feeling in his heart, as he contemplated the possible outcomes of the meeting with the rest of the Brotherhood. It made him nervous

'Come on,' he said, trying not to let his uncertainty show. 'We'll be late for the meeting.' And he ran out of the room with the disc in hand, his son following at his back.

***

Irritably, he paced at the head of the table, trying to keep his rising temper in check.

'Can't he do anything right? It's half an hour and there's no sign of him at all! And this isn't some kind of trivial meeting either - it's deadly serious!'

His rather whining tirade fell on about four other pairs of deaf ears.

'Everybody knows that, Thunderhawk. I'm quite sure he'll show up. In the meantime, try to do something productive.' This speaker employed a rather cutting, patronising tone.

'Spectre, this is a responsibility; regardless of how trivial it may seem, it is a responsibility and he's got to honor that.'

Another figure spoke up. 'Look, just sit down. Any amount of pacing in the world isn't going to help get my son here quicker. Besides, he may have his reasons.'

As if on cue, the doors at the other end of the room swung open, revealing a rather hurried and flustered pair, who quickly moved to their seats. Thunderhawk - a purplish echidna with a rather sour statement - spoke first.

'We were wondering when you would show up.'

He received a peeved look from Spectre.

Locke wasn't paying attention. Instead, he was speaking fast, in a slightly excited voice.

'Okay, everyone. The data sheet Espio brought back contained an encoded video recording of Kragok. It is, to put it mildly, rather startling.'

He dropped the disc into the player set into a grey hub mounted on the table. A white screen descended noiselessly from the ceiling. The video started to play.

***

He gazed into the face of his grandson, looking, probing intently, seeking every ounce of information he could harvest. Analyzing every little nuance, from the set of the shoulders as they conversed, to the tone of voice his grandson used when speaking about the Legion, or the upcoming plan. There it was, he observed, present in the subtle inconsistencies. So obvious if you were looking for it, yet so concealed to the casual observer. Who would have thought that Kragok, of all people, was wavering?

The two of them were sitting in armchairs, opposite each other, just talking. He shifted in his seat, crossing his right leg over his left, pointing the tip of his right foot at his grandson's kneecap like a loaded gun.

'The two of us will lead the assault on Haven, along with Xenin and Rykor, who will be on the team. I suggest you take the time to familiarize yourself with the layout of Haven in preparation for the assault. I've got the assault scheduled for two days later. Oh, and do try out the new blaster addon we developed - lots of potential in that thing.'

So casual. He might have been talking the weather, or some other kind of dreary topic. Inwardly, Kragok nearly choked on his spittle.

So soon!

Moritori kept an easy, conversational air around him, trying to lull his subject into an attitude of complacency, trying to force a slip, of something, anything. He would ensure the conversation covered as much scope as could be managed, to give him more cues, more places to prod and poke and discover.

'I'm really sorry about your sister's death. Such a loyal soldier.'

See if he pounces on the chance to reassert his loyalty.

'I will gladly defend our great cause to the death, the same way she did.'

Too defensive, too uncomfortable. He's hiding something.

Red flags were popping up all over his mind. There it was. He mentally discarded all the other words, focusing on the ones in the middle. Was that a quaver he heard in the syllable? And the same look in those eyes, that guardedness, mixed with his grief for his sister, along with the defensiveness in his voice. Suspicions justified, after all.

I think we have a situation.

***

Locke didn't pay attention to the video; he was trying to gauge the reactions of the other members of the Brotherhood. Thunderhawk and Sojourner looked disapproving. Thunderhawk in particular, he decided.

No surprise there.

Sabre and Tobor, for their part, wore quite neutral statements, refusing to be goaded by the statements of those around them. Spectre, as usual, defied analysis by wearing his usual face, which didn't do anything much, except to warn against prodding him. Knuckles was biting his lip in thought, silent and introspective, looking down into his lap.

'Anyone?' Locke asked.

'Geez.'

'Good first reaction, dad.'

'I guess it's vaguely possible that he'd turn on Dimitri, but it's just a possibility - I mean, it could be a trick. Won't be the first time.' Sabre offered.

'Are you guys kidding?' said Thunderhawk, cutting in. 'It's them against us! I mean, do you seriously think anyone in the Dark Legion would dare to even consider questioning Dimitri's madness? They're all brainwashed fools! And it's not some ordinary legionnaire, it's Kragok saying this. Think, man! How many times has he gone against us?'

'What if he had a change of heart?' Tobor said reasonably. 'The death of his sister must have shook him up pretty badly.'

'Umm... if anything, considering what we know of his personality, it should make him angrier, and therefore more against us.' Sojourner spoke slowly, trying to decide for himself.

Knuckles, who had been perfectly silent so far, said 'He did seem pretty worked up about her...'

'And he was, no doubt about that. I think this is simply a cheap trick designed to blind us. I can't believe you don't see that. After all, we don't want a repeat of that business with Moritori. ' Thunderhawk said, trying to keep calm.

Knuckles was thinking, mentally blotting out the argument around him. His sworn enemy, his adversary. How could he trust him? How indeed? He then remembered his father's speech delivered to him as he lay in the medical bay. Could he give Kragok a chance, just this once? And then he pondered Kragok's inner struggle, remembering how easily he could have died, realizing that Kragok had, somehow, for a reason, refused to kill him.

Maybe I can.

'Knuckles? Your vote? Contact him or not?' Spectre was looking at him quizzically as he shook his head, returning as he was from the heights of contemplation.

'Contact him.'

'Good', was the reply.

Thunderhawk stood silently, eyes blazing. Wordlessly, he gritted his teeth, and strode from the room in a huff, the door shutting behind him.

***

He hefted the blaster, feeling the coolness of the metal. It felt compact and powerful in his hand. With a shudder, the prototype addon mounted on top of the blaster buzzed to life, humming as it drew power from the battery pack.

He walked over to the range, picking out the target already set out for him. The was a potato, inocuously mounted on a ceramic pedestal. Ridiculous, but it was part of Moritori's instructions. With a shrug, the gun was lifted, as he sighted carefully. Dead center. He pulled the trigger, and there was an almost invisible, faintly violet beam emitted from the barrel, barreling towards the helpless vegetable.

For a second, there was almost no visible change, just wisps of smoke rising from the surface of the potato. And suddenly, the vegetable bulged, expanding outwards, and exploded in a mess of organic matter, tiny pieces spattering the floor around it, charred and blackened. The ceramic pedestal, though designed to withstand high temperatures, had a badly scorched surface.

'Try to imagine that effect on an enemy,' Moritori had said, rather gleefully.

I will not fire that thing!

In a fit of pique, he slammed the blaster onto the table, turning around. Just then, the door slid open, and the cyborg walked in.

'How've you done, Xenin?'

'I was looking for you - the two of us have managed to convince a number of people to help. Have you got a reply yet?'

'I'm going to check. Come with me.'

They walked out at a trot, heading for Kragok's office. As they entered, he noticed the red light flashing at his console. Priority one message, he observed. He opened it, eyes flicking towards the door furtively, where Xenin stood guard rather nervously. There was an agonizing wait, as the message was decrypted.

Yes!

He picked up the communicator sitting next to the keyboard, stuffing it into his clothes.

'Get Rykor to meet me at the vehicle bay at once. We're going out,' he said to the cyborg, who nodded and ran out. Quickly, he scooped up the stack of plans and a little grey box, hurrying out of the room, letting the door slam.

I'm due for a meeting.