MORE THAN THERE SEEMS
Post 81:
Dominic Smith
"Who are you, what are you, where are you, why are you?"
J'ran wanted to scream, to tell 'it' to stop doing whatever it was doing but she could not. The reason for this was she had no mouth, no throat, no teeth or tongue she was completely without any physical form at all.
Her thoughts were erratic and inconsistent which was quite understandable when you considered that she had no brain. Memories from the last few strange days mixed with those of her entire life to create a disturbing, nonsensical mess.
"Who are you, what are you, where are you, why are you?"
The words, or what she interrupted to be words came at her again. She tried to answer them, the first one, 'who are you' she did not know. Ok try the second, 'what are you' it was similar to the first she realized, but it had a slightly different texture, in any case she was dumbfounded about the answer to this one too. No problem there's always the third, 'where are you' are this was very different, she tried to look around but anger struck her when she remembered she has no eyes but then curiosity overcame her, what were eyes, am I supposed to have them and what function do they serve? No answers came so she tried again to answer the question, 'where are you.' She knew there was absence where there should be...should be something and yet there was something's where there should be nothing, it was all so very confusing. If she was to answer the question she knew she had to focus on the something's, she did not know how she knew but right now she was not interested in questioning what little she did have.
Perhaps it was lucky J'ran was in the state she was, for it meant her mind was more open to except the impossible, if she or indeed anyone else had tried to focus on the things she did with their rational mind in tact the effect would have been catastrophic.
Smelling texture, tasting sound, feeling smells and hearing light were by no means what she was experiencing but with our conditioned minds it is perhaps the closest we could come to comprehend them.
Yet through it all an answer finally came, 'where was she' why she everywhere. The dimensions of time and space no longer bound her, she came to understand the absence she had felt was not really an absence but mealy the lack of overwhelming restrictions placed on the senses she used to preserve the Universe. The reason she had thought she could not see was because she was seeing everything, the reason she has thought she could not hear was because she was hearing everything and so on and so on. Infinity was nothing to her, now she could understand it all, all the information in the Universe from it's violent birth to it's eventual death, only to be replaced by something else entirely and she could understand that too was within her grasp.
She would exist this way forever, but something was wrong, infinity was trying to absorb her, it was not content that she remain a separate entity and so her consciousness began to stretch and twist through space and time. She wanted to scream again but on a level so much stronger than before, the horror of being powerless to prevent the knowledge escaping her was unlike anything else, to go from something nothing is tragic enough but to go from everything to nothing, that was indescribable, incompressible.
It was at that moment that something touched her, which took her by great surprise because this event has just happened rather than will happen, was happening and has happened like everything else.
As it struck her she felt narrow paths open up in infinity paths that led to specific pieces of information, as though they were somehow more important that everything else. The paths led to names, faces, places and sensations why are they important she wondered. The names, Derek, Sprocket, Nayr what of them why do they matter she continued to wonder. But then something strange happened, she found herself being, pulled, urged, and coerced down the paths. She did not what to go for the paths were narrow and she would lose nearly all of the knowledge of infinity, only vague impressions would remain but then is was still better than being absorbed completely.
As She traveled down the paths the questions came again, one at a time.
"Who are you?"
I am J'ran came the answer, she fought against it rejecting it; no I am everything!
"What are you?"
Echidna tried to come to the surface but J'ran suppressed that as well, I am the birth of Stars, the expanse of space, the energy that's binds atoms together, I am the past and I am the future!
"Where are you?"
I...am, but already J'ran's resistance was failing as the knowledge left her, attempts to retain it were as futile as trying to hold water with a sieve. I...am...on...the...planet-
"Mobius."
What? She tried to focus on where the word had come from, but she was finding it hard to adapt to the sensory limits of a mere Echidna. She looked up, or what see thought could be considered up, moments ago she had be beyond such petty concepts. There he was, she could see him now, distorted somewhat, as though he were underwater, no that's was not it, it was as though she were underwater and he was above the surface looking down at her.
"Nayr" she whispered, then gasped amazed that she could say it, somehow she had a body, it was not a real living form of flesh but one projected by her mind, but it was a body non the less.
Cutting through the surface Nayr's hand came reaching out to her.
"Take hold" he said, "let me give you my energy."
J'ran was in shock, so many new concepts we overloading her, they were all so small but somehow they felt so big and then it dawned on her, they felt big because, she was small to. She began to cry.
"I can't!" J'ran shouted, hoping he would hear her above the surface, "I don't want to live like that, small and empty!"
"Then you will be absorbed and die" Nayr said.
"No!" J'ran yelled, "somehow I'll find another way, somehow, I will not live like again that not now, not ever!" Then with the power her brief stabilization had brought her she willed herself away from Nayr's outstretched hand.
"J'ran!" Nayr shouted and reached down farther, letting in most of his body and risking getting absorbed himself, but it was too late. Already J'ran had entered the maelstrom; already he could see her form begin to brake apart. "J'ran" he said softly, his voice tainted with regret. He had failed, him the last of the Sadosii perhaps the most powerful warrior on Mobius, he shook his head, this was not right. With determination he willed himself out of the astral plane and in the physical plane he collapsed to floor.
***
Nayr stirred, as consciousness slowly returned to him. The first thing that registered was pain, lots of pain. He sat up clucking his head disorientated only to feel several pairs of hands easing him back down again. Instinct told him to resist but a soft voice cut through it.
"Easy now, just relax everything going to be alright." The soothing voice went.
It trigged the thought process in him and everything started to come back. Slowly he opened his eyes and saw the gently unthreatening face of Rosie along with several wolves.
"You had us worried there for a bit" Rosie said, "gave us a case of the willies dropping over like that."
"Well I'm fine now" Nayr said cross at himself for shoeing such weakness and in spite of the protests was able to extradite himself from the bed and stand up. Once he was sure he was back in control of the situation he inquired about J'ran, "what have you done with her body" he said, "I'd like to pay my respects."
"Body?" Rosie said startled while the wolves looked at her assuming she knew what he was talking about.
"J'ran's body!" Nayr snarled.
"B...but she's not dead," said Rosie confused. For half a second Nary accepted it, a small trace of denial still in him then he grew extremely angry.
"Don't try to hide the truth from me women! I witnessed her death on the astral plane, her very soul disintegrated while I watched powerless to stop it! Do not think that your are protecting me, for I have seen more death in my lifetime than you could possibly hope to imagine!" Nayr's breathing was fast and he had to fight the urge not to reach for his sword he spied on the table and threaten her with it.
"I'm telling the truth, see for yourself" Rosie said desperately pointing to a bed on the other side of the room.
Nayr knew it was impossible but yet Rosie's tone had been so honest and just what would she have to gain from lying? He dashed over to the bed and saw J'ran lying there under a blanket while a nurse attended to her manually checking her pulse, for they lacked any machines for such a task. The nurse was startled when he appeared next to her, for although he had been shouting very close by she had ignored it and focused on the job at hand. Looking down at her Nayr knew she was alive, he could sense her life energy, however faint it was.
"How is this possible?" He whispered and his mind began to rationalize. She had said she would find another way, he had thought he delusional, crazed by the experience of remaining on the astral plane too long. No soul should ever inhabit that place for more than the briefest of moments, it was alien and dangerous. Although his powers had increased far beyond that of a normal Sadosii he had never until today been there himself. He drew power from there all the time as did every physic but going there, only the powerful Mages had been able to actually visit the place with any degree of competence and even they he knew had lost thousands of their kind to it. J'ran had gone there by accident, it sometimes happened when a physic pushed themselves to near death. It had been an irrational and foolhardy thing to do but then by doing so she had saved their lives.
So how is this possible? He asked himself again lightly stroking her hand and then carefully tucking a long quill that draped over her face behind her ear. He remembered he final words, 'somehow I'll find another way, somehow...' had she found a way? If she had remained on the astral plain she would be dead, her brain would have suffered intense internal hemorrhaging. So if indeed she had left the astral plain the question was, where had she gone?
***
Unlike Nayr J'ran could chose whether she wished to remain conscious or not and exactly how much information she could access from her mind along with the speed at which everything took place. She chose the naked truth and soon had access to her memories, relief rushed over her, she had retained much of the Universe, there were gaps no doubt about that but they would be filled in time. She allowed access to her senses, one at a time. She began with smell and was washed with a rich aroma. It was familiar, the sea she was smelling the sea! Next she chose her hearing and was unsurprisingly greeted by the sounds of waves crashing against the shore. They sounded very close by and so she activated her sense of touch and felt sand on her body and face, along with the pull of gravity. Taste was disappointing with only dryness that because of its unpleasantness she decided to switch it off again. Finally she activated her sight.
J'ran had expected to be greeted by a view of sand and perhaps the ocean depending on weather she was facing it or not, instead she found out she was drowning. Water, it was everywhere she panicked, tried to swim but she struck, sand? What was this? She took a handful of water in her hand, it had the appearance of water, the transparent quality for example but it felt and behaved exactly like sand. J'ran opened her fingers and watched amazed as the grains of water fell through. She looked up towards the sky but instantly cried out in pain. Her visor was gone, so were her cloths in fact, although she was not bothered about that since she was any longer affected by such a primitive concept as modesty. The sky, if you could call it that was just an expanse of intensely bright light and where there should have been a Sun if she were on Mobius there was only a small dark circle, not that you could look at it though due to the closeness of the light. It puzzled her that her body was not reacting to the light like it should, but there were bigger mysteries at hand. Shielding her eyes with her hand she got up and looked out towards the sea, she saw the waves of sand acting like water, crashing down on the water that behaved like sand.
J'ran looked towards the mainland but it was difficult to very look far because of the light that forced you to look downwards. This place did not match J'ran's nearly complete memories of the Universe, either I am somewhere that's covered by the missing fraction, she thought, or somehow I'm somewhere that is completely unconnected with it, someplace that goes beyond even my knowledge. The thought made her shiver and slowly with her head down she began to walk toward the mainland, she wanted answers and fast.
***
Freedom fighting, the words bounced around the inside of Nic's skull, how utterly pathetic. The mild respect Nic had secretly began to develop for the group of defiant kids evaporated with those words. She cold always shoot that pretentious little bitch in the leg, it would not do any good, and she'd lose out for damaged goods, but it would be worth it to see that cocky smile replaced by fright and panic.
It was than the idea came to her with the same force as the lightning outside, meteorically speaking of course.
"So Sally" Nic said her confidence coming back, what are you most afraid of?"
"I can't say" Sally replied, "Us Princesses have such a sheltered upbringing you know."
"How about watching one of your friends slowly and painfully die in front of you?" Nic said slyly, "Surly that must rank, oh at least in the top ten?" Then without even looking at Sally she stood up, aimed the laser pistol at Bunny and fired.
The children screamed as they rushed over to her, while Nic chuckled lightly to herself.
She decided to give them a moment or two to calm down before speaking.
"As you can see, she said eyeing Sonic who applying as much pressure as he could to the wound with his hands, I have shot your friend in her right arm. Now you have two choices" Nic was thrilled, this felt like she was making a sales pitch. "Either we all stay here and wait for her to bleed to death after which I will pick another one of you or we all head off to Achten Sie island right now where if we're lucky she'll receive the proper medical attention and live."
"But, you can't kill all of us" Sally said her strong mentally poisoned with a dose of harsh realty.
"But don't you see, that's the beauty of it, I won't have to kill all of you even if you all decide to stay her, watching your friend, wait a minute what is her name?"
"Bunny" Sally said quietly.
"Ouch" said Nic, "having Weasel as my second name I can relate to her though. Look at things from my perspective, while there's no certainty that you'll give in, although I doubt you've got that much bottle and your right there is no profit to be made in killing all of you, on the flipside there's no profit to be made if we all stay here and at least this way there's a chance at profit. Anyways the guilt you'll feel from knowing that you could have saved Bunny bit didn't will eventuality take it's toll if you decide to stay whether you like it or not.
"The only person here who has any reason to feel guilty is you!" Sally screamed doing her best to block the volcano of hate that was burning inside her for as overwhelming as it seemed she knew it would be of no real use to her.
"So Sally, her life is in your hands, weather she lives or dies it up to you." Nic said with a calm degree of patience.
Sally looked around at her friends, Dulcy and Antoine were both whimpering away as expected, consoling each other so they did not bother anyone else, I should be grateful for that she thought. Bunny did not look good, she appeared very weak indeed and going into shock and by her side Sonic was tying the laces from his sneakers onto the spots directly above Bunny's wound under Rotors direction. Oh how much she loved them, all of them even Antoine had him moments, if it was her dying then leaving would never have been an option, she'd sooner have pushed the trigger herself, but since it was Bunny, well that was different.
"Well Sally, times a wasting if you really do hope to save Bunny's life I suggest we get going now, you do what to save her life don't you?" Nic said slyly.
Post 82:
Ealain Vangogh
He didn't know when it had started--how it had grown to this. He didn't recall waking up one blessed morning and feeling enraptured by the thought of one of her rare curled, ebon-lipped grins, the supple contours of her body as she danced before a bonfire, or the sound of her voice, soft, rich and contemplative. He did not know how this exquisite inner beauty had begun to thrive--and lent itself to one name. All he knew was, after the first one who could stir this deeper sensitivity inside him had surrendered herself to a robot's laser shot and to her own spilled blood, the name that was his salvation, like a turning tide but in the same deep ocean, became that of another. The name of another, the same conjured rapture. The same feeling of warm soft fleece blankets, and the sweet taste of chocolate chip cookies, and the seductive aroma of a woman's fine mysterious perfume, chasing fireflies at dusk and other simple pleasures he'd either forgotten or been denied. One name only.
"Lupe." Sprocket almost gagged on the greeting, for it came out his mouth in a peculiar manner--at the same time he was gulping back an urge to turn and flee.
The lovely gray Chieftain had slid silently into the chamber--silently, he at least CONJECTURED, for the agonizing plinking of chisel against his metal core had not yet fully ceased. Rather, his makeshift doctor had grown more aggressive, honing in on his shoulder blades and gut and almost slamming the tool against a hollow shell that should seem free of all pain or feeling. SHOULD. But "should" was the most futile word in the vernacular language, incapable of accomplishment or promise. "Should" was a word that had been far too often used in the past few years, often linked to regret, to events surrounding the coup, to fruitless dreams and vulnerabilities exploited. But so much for regrets. They were only a ball and chain at the moment, here, as he sat wounded and weak before his true liberator.
"Sprocket. I see you're still lucid. Always a good place to start." The wolf smiled subtly back; she never chose to make sport of a friend's offbeat behavior, so, gracefully, his awkward hello was dropped.
She also never laughed, no matter how humorous the provocation. Nor did she cry, nor lose her temper. Lupe had learned long ago to withhold all her real emotional content, to store it up for when it was truly needed, "so that," she had once told him her father had advised, "you never feel a drought in your soul's river." Lupe was a fortress of iron. That fortress seated herself next to him on his woven cloth cot, legs crossed nimbly and tail curved about her lace sandals, and rested her chin in her hands. Her muzzle quivered and she suppressed a sneeze; the dust from the chisel was being flung into the nearby air by the force of its impact to Sprocket's chest. He tried to exhibit a wobbly smile, unsure as to whether her presence or the chisel were making him tremble.
She spoke while gazing straight ahead through the richly painted wall, into a far off place of rumination. "I seem to have rubbed against your companion Derek Hadrian's . . . grain. I am seeking a solution to the matter as we speak, and yet I can't fully blame him for his pugnacity. Perhaps, though we are all joined by the same cause, our styles vary enough to give us reason for contention."
"I can't believe that," Sprocket replied, though doubt was already seeping into his circuitry.
Lupe eyed the nurse of sorts with a piercing scrutiny. "You've had a GREAT deal of time to use our friend as a cave sculpture. What's the diagnosis?"
"Fine." Sprocket's voice injected tightly; ever aware of the communal nature of the Wolf Pack, he had overheard a young female discuss the dismal conversation Lupe had exchanged with Derek, and wasn't about to make himself a burden to a society he cherished--and would rather die than see floundering in starvation. "I'm fine. Just. . . need to take it easy for . . ." damn, but he was a hideous liar, especially when it mattered ". . . for maybe a week. Then I'll be on my way."
A grumble of dissent sounded in the chiseler's throat; he shook his head once, sharply, at Lupe. Sprocket glowered at him, grabbing him at the laboring arm; despite the damage to his limb his grip was formidable enough to pop it nearly out of its socket. He then turned back to face the creature who had taken his spirit captive. "I don't want to put you in danger of losing opportunities for food and shelter because half of your labor and hunting force are tending to my needs. You can't ask me to stay here, no matter how much my heart yearns for it."
Lupe fixed her predatory gaze on the canine, an icy mountain stream that refreshed and retreated all at once. Earnest honesty, as kind and yet as unadorned as it could be, coated her words. "I wasn't going to ask you to stay."
Sprocket's world fell apart. He felt like he had metamorphosed into a pool of molten lava and was sliding, burning for something and yet too insubstantial to grasp at it, through the cracks in the cave floor. "What?" he breathed. Not now, no, he wouldn't stay with her now anyway, but later. In the future. After the King was restored. The tyrant overthrown. His body returned to a state of fur and flesh, ready for fruitfulness, for romps and revels and the siring of many puppies with her . . . Later--but he had to be DESIRED in order to EVER be able to return to her. The fact of her immediate rejection crushed him.
The Chieftain rested a gentle paw on his most dented shoulder, stroked it softly--she was asking him for patience. Her eyes, however, fell on the chiseler. "Give me an accurate diagnosis and then leave us for a few minutes."
"Severe internal damage to the circuits connected with his shoulder blade units--the tendon like structures that connect the outer units to his very 'guts.' It's easily repaired, but in short it means that if he were even to take an hour stroll around the grounds he might dislocate literally thousands of vital circuitry implants . . . and kill himself.
The Chieftain rested a scolding glare on the canine, who cringed despite himself. "'Just fine,' are we?"
He grinned winsomely, trying to forget his confusion of seconds past. "Relatively speaking . . . give or take a few vital signs." He shrugged, and immediately groaned at he pain the movement induced.
"Very well, Sprocket." And then Lupe stunned him. She laughed, low and sultry, and waved the chiseler out of the room. It made the dog bot shiver.
The moment hey were alone, he had to ask. "Why, Lupe? Why the yanking away of the welcome mat? I always thought I'd become one of the pack after those years living with you . . . Is it . . . is it Nakuma?"
The Chieftain turned away quickly, her jaw muscles tensing as though her clenched teeth, under her lips, might break themselves apart. "You are far too perceptive, old friend. Yes, you remind me of the sister who loved you so dearly. And of my father. And my people. And my home, all lost because we were invaded by a brutal human and his. . . " She picked up the chisel, plinked it mildly, but enough to illustrate her point, across the tip of his glimmering metal finger. His METAL finger. " . . . . and his robots. I know you, Sprocket. You are my forever friend. You are my . . . my . . . ' She traced his back enticingly with her finger, from shoulder to tail, and, again gulping hard, he knew her meaning. "But I . . . I can't help but think every time I realized\ you have oil in your veins instead of blood, that what if something in your system malfunctioned, and you went ballistic?" Sprocket decided now not he most opportune time to describe that exactly such a thing had just happened days past, as she continued. " What if your laser fired the wrong way or your hand accidentally crushed the skull of one of our pup’s heads with your cyborg powers--"
"Oh, Lupe," Sprocket curled into a ball away from her on the cot, cradled his head in his hands, "of all people , I thought you to be the one who could see my SOUL behind my SHELL!"
"Sprocket," Lupe's whole body, taut with frustration ,seemed to want to convey something more ,but she was imprisoned by these excuses she was spouting, these excuses that they both knew to be hollow. Her ears flattened against her skull. "You MUST know that I . . . SOUL?" Suddenly the word registered, and seemed to draw the wolf's mind back to a remote place of reverie and worriment--the look of a leader surveying her realm for dangers--the look he'd often seen on young Sally's face. Sally . . oh, God, Sally . . . .who could be dead, or enslaved, or mutilated . . . Lord God, how dare he indulge in such egocentric desires even for a minute, when that brave child and her friends were lost to despair? He was opening his mouth to take it all back, to swear his apologies for his outburst on his dented knees, when the wolf continued, "your friend Derek . . . he said something that disturbed me this afternoon, just before he left with Ms. Wells, the Sadosii, and Mr. Weasel. He said . . . Sprocket, you must understand, I did not mean to eavesdrop, but my hearing is too keen for my own good--he said that he had learned, of his own foolhardiness, that HE HAD NO SOUL. And I can't help but think that he is beginning to be right about himself--perilously right. Something lost in him . . . a luster lost in his eyes. Something was off. And your human friend--he behaves similarly--lost, forgetful of his own purpose."
Sprocket swallowed hard. " I saw that too. In . . . in BOTH of them." Suddenly he felt like he was ready to trip and careen into an abyss. He was consumed with fear for Derek, for his disillusionment ever since their separation at Achten Sie, but he had fully unexpected her to mention Snively, and again initiate their dance in a high wire over a pit of snakes that was the human's barely concealed hated identity. They would all be up to their knees in stinking brown matter if Lupe knew Sprocket was consorting with a relative of her world's killer. Worse--she would never look him in the face again. A flame in him would be eternally snuffed, as it almost had been the day Nakuma had been killed. Fragile flame indeed.
"A peculiar thing . . ." Lupe ran her claws through her vicious Mohawk, and fingered her scar. "There are moments when that hairless boy almost seems . . . familiar to me." If they could, Sprocket's neckhairs would have risen on their hackles. For it had been SNIVELY, Sprocket's historical databanks told him a week ago when this mad quest had only started, who had ordered a patrol of Buzzbombers into the Wolf Pack's sacred grounds to kill any survivors of the coup, SNIVELY who had allowed them to pursue a tall, gray female decoy wit h a black Mohawk . . . SNIVELY who had told their Aerial Commander to corner and combat the Chieftain's daughter, and leave a mark on her she would never forget . . .
Snively who had ordered the deliverance of Lupe's facial scar.
Lupe must not . . . she could not . . . it would be the end of them all if she . . .
"Sprocket." Her voice--as ever, it wrenched him back from the world of demons and phantoms that was his new reality.
"Yes, Lupe?"
" I will be honest. You need not eat, or drink. You can work your keep. You are safe to the children here than an angel. That is not the issue, not the reason why I hesitate to ask you to stay. What if I told you that . . . the real reason . . . made the others in my pack very resentful, untrusting--that your presence would rip our union to shreds? I can not even assure you that they would not rip YOU to shreds, the moment my eye was turned. They are peaceful, loving family, my Pack, but times have made them hard."
Sprocket shuddered. "Another mutual philosophy that my two soulless friends share."
'Indeed." Lupe nodded, "But . . . but tell me, Sprocket--what, again, did you say was the name of your human friend?"
"Lupe," a panic made a lump in the canine's throat. Bizarrely, it catalyzed him to express what had been on his chest since he'd first seen her again--if nothing else, in order to distract her train of thought. "Lupe, I . . . I love you." And with that he locked his arm around her waist, pulled her close, and kissed her--metal against flesh, it mattered not to him--for physical discrepancy bowed to thriving passion in that split second--and Lupe felt it too, so that his cold smooth lips were forgotten in the truth of his devotion. It tore her innards to shreds. She let out a yelp and pushed back.
"There," he concluded, pulling back away to face her, "tell me you felt nothing."
"I felt nothing," she lied.
And at that moment, someone standing in the doorway cleared his throat. The two lovers leapt away from each other, so much that Sprocket nearly fell off the edge of his cot. The interrupter, a much bandaged and crutch-bound Snively, suppressed a scowl and a roll of eyes. "I beg your pardon. I think perhaps I should return later . . ."
"No, no," Lupe chuckled, rising, and apparently grateful for his intercession. "We were just talking about you. . . ?" her voice rose inquisitively, clearly asking of him what Sprocket had been too terrified to fib about.
"Colin," he supplied with perfect non-Snively sangfroid, wise not to involve the "Junior" or his surname in the title. It was a gamble, using his real name and betting that Lupe would not link it to his overlander warlord father Colin Sr., and uncle Julian, but it was one that ended up in his favor. She smiled benignly, buying it, and quickly exited. ". We'll discuss this later, Sprocket," she tossed over her shoulder. 'Oh ,are you feeling better now, Colin?"
'Smashing," Snively grunted. Because Lupe was unaccustomed to his subtle manner of sarcasm, she only replied, "Excellent. Good evening, then."
Sprocket's eyes lingered longingly after her. "I'm going to marry that woman," he cooed.
'I came to ask what your furry friends have planned--when we are getting OUT OF HERE," Snively gritted, hobbling up to the cot and collapsing on it. 'So that I can get free and KILL EVERY LAST ONE OF THEMMMMMM......"
Sprocket was oblivious to his seething hatred. "Yessirree, there'll be white roses and white swans, and a beachside reception party ,and a--"
'Sprocket." A tone thick with annoyance, followed by a pointed sigh.
"Yes, Snively?"
"What the hell do you think you're doing?"
'Indulging in pleasant thoughts. It's a healthy thing. You should try it sometime--"
"You
are fourth in command of the entire city of
"As usual, your skill at saying the word 'bloody' far too frequently, and at deflating my enthusiasm utterly, are impeccable, Snively." Sprocket's wry grin faded. "Anyway, it seems I'm only dreaming. Lupe has some strange reservations against my robotic state, and while its tearing us apart, she won't confide in me."
The silence that ensued alerted him to the fact that something was terribly wrong--that something had triggered dangerous knowledge in Snively. The Overlander had gone chalk pale, fingers playing with the stray bandages on his leg, chest, forehead and arm.
Sprocket didn't want to ask, but . . . "What?"
Something almost akin to sadness and pity welled up in Snively's features. He was gentle now--unusually patient and gentle. "Sprocket. Shit, I should have just told you this the first chance you and I got alone here. Burt somehow I . . .Alright, listen, I can explain for Lupe's hesitance. I . . . think your historical databanks have been damaged by the rock avalanche."
Horror hit before Sprocket even knew his once friend's meaning. He felt his throat close. "What do you mean?"
" . . . How do I . . . how do I SAY this?" The human struggled painfully to his feet, wincing fiercely as accidental weight was placed on his injured leg. He was moving so hastily, scrambling to his feet, as if in desperate desire to escape once he'd made his confession, that caution regarding his wounds had been forgotten. It must truly be hideous; Snively NEVER neglected to look out for his own interests first and foremost. "Sprocket, can you tell me what Commander Bot was leading the Buzzbombers the day that your lover Lupe got the battle scar she is so fond of showing off?" For a moment the old venom, the old scorn, returned, with the words 'lover,' and 'showing off,' but was lost again in Snively's resurfacing desire to be forthright to his only real friend.
"Well, I always thought it was the #1 Buzzbomber of the unit who stung her with its. . . ." and then he understood. He understood before the words were even out of Snively's mouth. "Oh my God. Oh . . . no. No."
The human spoke softly but plunged on relentlessly, despite his own fear of being slammed against a wall or killed by the nearly apoplectic dog standing two feet from him. Robotnik's nephew tried to make distance towards the door as he spewed the truth, but it was too difficult for his buckling, weak legs. "I'm afraid it wasn't a Buzzbomber. Sprocket . . . . that was a priority operative, calling for the most efficient, the more ruthless--w-well, the wolves were, you see, quite a threat to that BEAST'S"--referring, with uncharacteristic contempt, to his uncle--"empire. The . . . the Aerial Commander of the Buzzbomber unit that day, the one who wounded Lupe's cheek with his . . . with his canine fangs . . . it was y--"
"NO! NononoNOOOOO...." It came out of his very core, a wild wailing howl, as he gripped his head, and leapt form the cot, devil may care for bodily damage and injuries when the injuries of the spirit were at stake. His eyes glowed a furious hot molten gold, so far from the warm and benevolent canary yellow of moments past, and he started for Snively. The human moaned a whine but was hardly able to move two steps before the canine had him by the tattered shirt collar. "I did it? I? YOU MADE me do it, DAMN you! WE did it TOGETHER! We, with our indifference!" It was the angriest Sprocket had been since he'd killed those two bounty hunter pilots--the anger of pure spiteful pointless vengeance. He knew he was going mad, but in that moment he didn't care. It was his only was to keep from desiring to return to that unconscious, robotic state of several years past, this rage that kept him awake and alive. He rose his hand to strike Snively good and hard across the cheekbone . . .
The human cowered, eyes squeezed shut. For once, he put up no fight . . .
It was as if Sprocket had become, in his eyes, his uncle. Except for one crucial difference--Snively CARED for the wrathful creature gripping him now--and felt nothing but guilt. But he was still terrified.
Ten eternal seconds passed, and Sprocket, with a fierce effort, lowered Snively to the cot unbruised, and slammed his own forehead against the doorframe. "God," he half wailed, "I WISH I COULD HATE YOU!"
"Go ahead," came a dejected wheeze that he hardly recognized--he must have involuntarily squeezed all the air out of the human boy's neck, "I wouldn't blame you. No one would. In fact, it would do you good."
"Don't you even START that!" A roar, utterly unbridled; it would have knocked Snively over were he not gripping the cot post, eyes great blue saucers of regret. He bit his lip as the canine pivoted and ran down the hall, in the direction of Lupe's quarters. "You'll HURT yourself," the nephew of Robotnik choked in the direction of the empty doorframe, much as Sprocket had, hours ago, warned Derek in utter futility. And then, for the first time since he'd been captured, Snively bowed his head and wept bitterly.
**
Sprocket cornered his lost lover making her last surveillance of the canyons out of a crack in one of the cavern's outer walls. She held a torch and wore nothing but a transparent cotton shift over her tall, slender frame. The first bloody creature in this whole inane escapade who was exactly his height--who saw him eye to eye. Damn him--damn them all.
He straddled the hallway between the wolf and her chamber, stabbing an index finger at her. Why couldn't he cry? God, he had taken for granted the glorious relief of purging his anger and sorrow in tears, and now it too was lost.
"Why didn't you TELL me?!!" Fury at her, at himself, at his fate and at his universe, made his voice hoarse. Doubtless his voice roused the entire rocky corridor of inhabitants.
Somehow, Lupe knew precisely the awful truth to which he was referring. Her expression did not change once. "I'll answer that the moment you tell me what good telling you could have possibly done." She took a step closer to his tortured face. "And the moment you tell me HOW you found out."
Sprocket, because of her last question, was rendered mute. Because, again, of preserving Snively. So Lupe brushed easily past him, one hand clutching the infamous scar, and left him there, retreating to her chambers at the farthest darkest tunnel. The torch she held died in to the blackness like his vision of their future together. Sprocket bowed his head, for the pain had now returned to his body, and it was nearly debilitating. He had a long walk back to his guest chamber.
A black moth, a silent messenger of a soul killed, descended from a stalactite and landed on the canine's nose, recognizing him as no more alive than any delicious article of clothing on which to feast. And it was right. For Sprocket knew in that moment what it must be like to feel one's joy die.
But one's hope? He thought of Derek, of Rosie, of Nayr, out there alive, generated by hope, out there trying to secure the lives of the Princess and her friends. Those children were a beacon to him, a security deposit of a brighter future. No, he still had a few tricks up his sleeve. "I won't be made into a mere memory THAT easily, Lupe," he breathed.
Post 83:
A. Fleury
Tears. His tears were like rain in a desert. Elusive. But now they came down like a torrent, burning; a desperate attempt of his body to purge the acidic feelings within. But the rain dried up. His shoulders kept shaking but his tears had withered to dust. His eyes stung.
He opened them, focusing his gaze dully on the far wall. A chair was there, and a small worktable with a mallet. They blurred before his eyes, his vision going out of focus, staring, staring dead like a zombie.
For the moment, he felt so empty inside. A gaping hole. He should feel good, then, feel thankful for the absence of thoughts and emotions...but no...this emptiness was horrid. If he were to feel like this forever, a breathing corpse, then he would surely take up that mallet over there and beat himself to death with it.
It was pointless to exist without feelings...but no...maybe it was for the better? To be numbed...to become cold? He wouldn't feel the guilt then...or the hate. He wouldn't feel, or care, at all.
Maybe, he would become a frozen corpse, a living thing that was dead inside...maybe that was the cure to all this pain.
He indulged in this fantasy for a while, until he shifted and pain shot through his injured leg. He was jolted from his trance, and with a groan, he struggled to stand.
He finally managed to get to his feet, gritting his teeth, casting an anxious glance to the door. His 'old friend' still hadn't returned... 'well', Snively thought, trying to be contemptful, 'the fool is probably crawling along the passageways, destroying his insides'. "Good," he said aloud, "Good..." He had to keep his voice hard and harsh, because he couldn't break down again. Too vulnerable. Too weak... He couldn't cry like that anymore.
And why was Sprocket crawling? All for her...that woman Lupe, and his lip curled. Oh, the pain was retreating, but numbness was not replacing it. It was his usual animosity...jealousy, could it be?
He laughed out loud, a harsh sound cut off abruptly by stabbing pain in his ribcage. He groaned and put a hand there, but his eyes still burned a sick flame; Jealous? Of what? Of Sprocket's hopeless love? Jealous that he didn't have a maid to run to, also? The small human sniffed.
In times like these, he couldn't afford a lover...no...not with Julian...not with him...not with what he would do to her. Julian had made him roboticize his best friend...what would he force his nephew to do to his lover, if he had one?
He staggered towards the door. Wise it would be, to get out of here before Sprocket inevitably came back. He would be broken by the wolf maid's rejection, because Snively knew she would reject him. Or he would come in steeped in anger, and that anger might be thrust upon Snively again...he shivered. Sprocket had never shown such violence towards him before, ever, and though it was warranted... ('I surely deserve it', he thought sourly) he was horrified of it. He did not want to face it again.
Or...maybe Sprocket would come back, fueled by that anger and that spurned love; he would come back with Lupe and her pack. He would tell them who Snively was. And they would rip Snively to shreds.
Wise, yes, wise it would be, to get out of here before Sprocket returned. So whimpering and complaining from the discomfort of his body, he made his way down the stone corridors.
Torches danced from niches in the walls...it was all very primeval. Eerie. His shadow cast out long before him. There were crevices in the rock, deep and long, curved...they reminded him of that ragged scar across Lupe's cheek.
He paused for a moment to catch a breath, his eyes bright in the light of the torches, but deeper inside those azure irises something dark lurked, a turmoil of troubled memories.
Uncle was so sick. Sick how he'd hand-picked the perfect warrior for the destruction of the wolf pack...all those years ago...
And Snively remembered...
**
"I want the wolves destroyed," Robotnik said, his fat lips twisted in a leer. "They are strong people, Snively...and I want to see them break. I want them to see their strength is nothing compared to mine... like an ant under my boot. Oh yes, Snively, an ant can lift ten times its weight...but still it is crushed so easily under a child's foot..."
The young Kintobor wasn't paying attention; his gaze was staring out the window of the command center, looking down on the miles of city they'd converted. Beautiful stone and lush gardens were now smooth metal, and robots marching, marching, and smog clouds rolling.
"SNIVELY." His uncle growled, and he turned with a jolt. Sweat beaded on his forehead and he wiped it away. He felt so much colder lately, ever since he'd lost his luscious mop of hair to the blue hedgehog, Sonic. Snively narrowed his eyes at the thought of that miserable rodent.
"Yes, sir?"
"I'm putting you in command of their destruction."
The boy's eyes widened and his hands began to tremble. "I, sir?"
"Oh yes..." His uncle stood and approached his nephew; Snively backed up to the window, his slight body pressed against the glass. He cringed as a hand descended, but it only rested genially on his shoulder as Robotnik continued. "This will be your first solo mission, m'boy...I'm quite...interested in seeing how you'll handle this."
"Of course...sir..." The boy's voice wanted to tremble, but he held it steady. Uncle was trusting him, now. He had to strengthen himself for this task. He had to succeed to make Julian happy! Maybe it would make Robotnik take back those words that he'd spoken before...? 'You will call me sir! You will do exactly what I say!'
Snively wanted so badly to have those words recanted. He wanted the knife wound in his back to heal, the hole Robotnik had ripped in his heart...he wanted it to stop bleeding.
He just wanted Robotnik's approval...
"I won't fail you, sir."
"Good, Snively..." Robotnik squeezed his nephew's delicate shoulder. "And I know exactly what Robot I'll be sending along with you..."
*
So young Snively had flown out to the desert on his first solo mission, and the robot who was his assistant? None other than the freshly roboticized Sprocket, his eyes no longer a gentle gold, but a fierce blaring yellow. His body was a formidable weapon, his long canine teeth were honed and gleaming. He was quite the creation, except for the fact that he WASN'T a creation...not a creature borne of circuits and wires...he was someone who used to be flesh, flesh and a young thinking mind!
And now, nothing.
"Sprocket..." he glanced over at the robot. The dog sat upright in the chair, stiff and cold, mindlessly piloting their craft. "Are you in there...?"
There was no answer. He really was dead.
'I am a murderer...'
Snively tried not to look at Sprocket again through the entire flight.
**
At last, they reached the Great Unknown, and they came across the wolf pack. They were so fiery! The tall canines did not run from the sight of the Robotropolis ship; they came forward, throwing stones and spears, howling battle cries.
"You won't be so brave in a few moments," the boy muttered as they landed. There was a troop of SWATbots in the back of their craft, and he sent them out with orders to capture those who surrendered. The ones who did not give up? They were to be killed.
The SWATbots marched out and the melee began. The robots lasers sang through the air, cutting through fur and flesh. The wolves' spears and rocks dented armor and skewered SWATbot heads. Snively watched through the windshield, gnawing on his fingernails. He gave a few half-hearted cheers as he watched a few wolves fall dead, seeping blood. Julian would like that, eh?
He was getting sort of nauseous, watching this. Sprocket just stared ahead, lifeless.
A tall brown wolf, wearing a bright orange bandanna, hacked the arm off a SWATbot with a stone axe. He was promptly shot in the back by another bot, and fell dead to the ground. Snively was stupefied by the efforts the living wolves made...braving laser fire to drag him, and their other dead comrades away. Yes, they were a strong people, indeed.
And then, inexplicably, the wolves began to gain the upper hand. The SWATbots were disappearing, ripped to pieces of scrap metal. Spears and rocks began to outnumber lasers.
Snively reached for the intercom, about to order a retreat of his remaining SWATbots, and have them regroup. He needed a moment to rethink his strategy. He was not going to win this way...
Julian would not be pleased. He would not praise.
He would be disappointed.
Snively's heart plummeted with the thought.
He would...
Snively gulped.
Would Robotnik hurt him...?
Snively didn't want to fear him...he thought he'd gotten away from that when he left his father...away from fearing pain, fearing contempt! Was Robotnik going to treat Snively the same way his father had?
NO! Not if he pleased Robotnik...
And then he saw her. A flash of gray fur, weaving, running, a spear held high. She was letting loose a keening cry of defiance.
Oh Gods!
She was a desert queen, she was their leader, he knew it. He could see it in her stride, in the way their eyes followed her. The wolf maiden, tall and young, lean and muscled. A goddess of wolves, surely.
Chieftain Lupe. She was the reason for their strength.
His SWATbots were scattered and dying. They had no such leadership to direct them. Snively watched the Goddess, his eyes wide and his teeth clenching down on his fingers. A crawling feeling, like maggots, was in his stomach...She made him feel so pathetic. And he wanted to hurt her for that.
He knew her name. Lupe. He knew it, because he remembered Sprocket talking about her. And her sister...
Nakuma.
Snively figured Nakuma was dead, because only a few days ago, his SWAT troops had gunned down a group of wolves, and a young girl had been among them, a young girl who bore a striking resemblance to the fierce warrior Lupe.
Yes...Nakuma was dead, and Lupe was soon to follow in her departed's footsteps.
He smirked at the thought of the chieftain falling down bloodied. All that glory and strength gone. The admiration of her pack would be in vain. All her love would be in vain. All the things Snively didn't have...he didn't need them, right? Because the wolves had them...and they still were going to die.
Jealous. Yes, he was jealous there, for a moment.
But when he turned and looked at Sprocket all his bitterness fled. Shame swept him under and he choked, struggling to breathe. It filled him like stagnant water, and he couldn't fight it...he drowned.
He had roboticized his friend...killed him. His best friend. The only one who...accepted him. The only one who...approved of him.
OR HAD. HAD accepted. Because Sprocket was dead now, and Snively was going to send the robotic corpse out to murder his lover's sister.
Sprocket had been in love with Nakuma, and now she was dead. Dead by SWATbots...they were Snively's hands. He had her blood on his hands, the blood of his best friend's beloved! And now...he was going to send that friend out to murder the rest of her family!
NO NO NO!
Too much for his mind. He was too young. No...too young to be committing this level of atrocity, this degree of sin.
He curled up in the command chair, shivering and clasping his arms around his slender body. The wolves outside had destroyed the rest of his SWATbots and now they were trying to get into the ship.
Snively didn't lift his head. He moaned to himself, his eyes squeezed shut. Tears oozed out from under his lashes; they burned like acid.
He couldn't do this.
*
But he had. Ripped out of the memory, Snively lifted his head at the sound of footsteps approaching. A long tall shadow with a tail...it was a wolf, of course. Was it Lupe herself?
No...she had a mohawk and this wolf coming towards him did not.
*
He had done it.
Robotnik called him from the city. His image filled the monitor, glowering and formidable. "Snively! What are you doing?!"
The boy, still curled and shivering in the chair, jolted upright.
"Hello, sir!"
"How goes the attack?"
"Oh...uh..." Stuttering, Snively's eyes went wide and he gulped. "It's going well!"
Robotnik glared at him and Snively nearly squealed. When Uncle looked at him like that...it felt like the tyrant could see right into his mind, his grubby fingers riffling through all Snively's secrets and deceptions. He gibbered. "The wolves...they...they...are very strong fighters, sir..." he confessed.
"Well, Snively, that is why I sent THAT along with you as well..." The monitor image of Robotnik stabbed his finger in Sprocket's direction.
"Oh...uh...yes, sir..." Snively's voice trembled on the verge of crying...Gods, he felt so sick. He was going to vomit...no, he was going to pass out. NO...not with Robotnik's eyes on him! He didn't want to do this...but he HAD to!
"Commander Sprocket," He said sharply. "Switch to battle mode...and go outside. I want those filthy beasts dead, or captured. Get to it, now!"
"Affirmative," the robot intoned, and the dog bot rose and stalked to the door.
Robotnik snickered. "Very good...let me know when you're finished, Snively..." And the monitor faded to black.
Snively stared out the windshield. Sprocket was out there, driving them back. They were stunned at the sight of him, so stunned they retreated without a jab of their spears. They stared at him, as if expecting him to talk, or greet them with jovial words, but Sprocket merely stood for a moment with his ears laid back flat and his eyes glowing.
He was switching to battle mode. Lupe came forward, her braid blown back in the wind. She opened her mouth to speak -
And Sprocket lunged.
Three wolves leapt between him and the Chieftain.
Three wolves were laid low, fur flying, blood glimmering on the dog's metal hide, his teeth and claws slashing. Snively covered his face with his hand, peering out through the fingers.
'Don't want to see this...' But he couldn't tear his eyes away.
They knew him as a threat then, and they attacked him, but Lupe seemed utterly crushed. Hurt flashed in her eyes and she sprang forward, trying to pin the dog down, screaming at him, but Sprocket fought her with no emotion, no realization for who she was, or had been to him. Because he was dead. He was a zombie now.
She realized that finally when his fangs flashed...and they ripped the cheek of the Goddess Lupe wide open.
She fled, finally, with the rest of her pack.
Dead dead dead. Dead wolves. Dead love.
Snively could see his own reflection in the windshield, distorted and pale.
Dead soul.
He called his warrior back inside and they returned to Robotropolis.
But Robotnik didn't praise him. He insulted his nephew's inadequacy. Because Snively hadn't captured a single wolf...and he hadn't killed all of them. Robotnik lashed out his hand and it split open his nephew's lip with a hard vicious slap. Snively tasted his own blood, and it tasted sick. Tainted. It was on his hands too...and he couldn't seem to wash it off.
*
The wolf approaching down the corridor had reached him now. Snively was still leaning against the wall, his breath coming in heavy, and his eyes bright with a film of tears. Sewage water in his eyes...tears laden with guilt, his bitter shame...his weakness...
His cowardice.
"It's the Overlander," she said, stating the obvious. She had a honeyed voice, rich and unintentionally seducing. Snively turned his head away from her and blinked the tears away. When he looked back he found her eyeing him rather suspiciously. Her ears were laid back on her head.
"What are you doing about at this hour?" Her fur was an odd color, a sort of dusty pink, and her hair was a muted violet, braided in cornrows along her skull.
She was a bit too close for comfort and he backed up, wincing and biting his lip. Gah that hurt, stabbing pain through his leg. "Merely returning to my room." His voice was weak and strained, his mind still reeling from the bitter memory he'd just relived. He really wished he could be amnesiac sometimes.
Her eyes, the color of pewter, were sizing him up. Her tail swished. "Well, then, perhaps we should escort you...to ensure you don't..."
He gasped as another wolf, nearly identical, stepped out from behind the female. His eyes darted between them. The only difference was the newcomer wore her violet hair loose. She continued her twin's sentence, "Stray off the path..."
"Well..." he stammered, obliging them, "Perhaps that would be a good idea. As I don't rightly know my way about this bloody- er... place..."
They walked, one on each side of him, and he felt smothered between them. If he faltered or stumbled in pain, they were pulling him up. He cringed at their touch; Gods...if they knew who he was...
He pictured a rope toy between two dogs, each canine tugging viciously on an end until finally it ripped apart...yes, that would be his fate if they discovered his identity!
"What do you call yourself, boy?" the wolf with the loose hair asked. She had her hand hovering near his arm in case he staggered again. He did and she steadied him. Her grip was gentle, but firm, and he shuddered. He could feel the controlled strength in her hand. This was an ill place for him to be...a weak fragile human amongst these furred fighters! He gulped and felt sick, but her question was hovering in the air, and delaying it only meant arousing further suspicion.
"Colin," he said, strongly resisting the urge to wrinkle his nose. The name brought images of his father and his condescending frown.
Colin Jr...he sneered inwardly. How he hated that name. Implying he was a cheap clone of his father. Implying he was to follow in that bastard's footsteps.
"Here is your room," they lilted in their seductive coo, halting him before the door of his chamber. It was a small room with one bed, which wasn't really a bed by his definition. It was actually a woven pillow of desert grass with a colorful knit blanket thrown over it. He had been laying there earlier before going to see Sprocket, and it seemed comfortable enough... (though it had made him itch)
"Many uh...thanks..." he gritted, watching as they slunk away into the flickering torchlight of the corridor.
He had a feeling they would not be straying too far from his room. The wolves seemed hospitable but they certainly weren't stupid, he knew that much.
Indeed, the snippets of conversation he caught confirmed his thoughts.
"What is an Overlander doing with that group? It seems odd."
"Does he seem familiar?"
"I can't place him, but there is...something. Something familiar."
He strained to hear them, but they were getting too far away and he caught only one last sentence.
"And what about Sprocket? What are we going to do about him?"
Snively stumbled back from the doorway, his leg hurting. Time to lay down, then. He took a few deep breaths, trying to fight down anxiety. As if he could sleep with these animals all around him...probably all thirsting for his blood. Or would be...if any of them pieced together his true name and nature.
He collapsed onto the grass bed and lay there until morning, hardly sleeping, tossing, turning...and itching.
**
Nighttime sped by; Snively had, despite his fears, succumbed to the need for sleep.
The two females came to retrieve him and he was brought to a large chamber which seemed to be a gathering place for the pack. Lupe was there, and Sprocket too. The dog-bot was seated, watching silently with forlorn eyes as the rest of the pack enjoyed their morning meal.
He and Lupe did not seem to be speaking. Snively raised an eyebrow, pondering. This was perhaps a good thing; at least his old friend had less a chance of revealing Snively's identity this way...but at the same time...being on the good grace of Lupe and her vicious pack seemed like a good idea as well.
'I'm going to die here.' The small human looked about the cave walls with the crude murals of sunsets and cactuses. They would probably use his blood to make another painting on the stone...
"Are you hungry?" the woman with the braided hair asked him, and Snively nodded. Her words brought painful realization to his body...he hadn't eaten in...his stomach angrily gurgled...days. Days, wasn't it? And barely any liquid either. No wonder he felt like shit.
The two females - who seemed to be assigned to keeping an eye on him - acquired him a plate of the food. It was some kind of chopped up plant, maybe a tuberous foliage, or cactus perhaps? He wasn't quite sure. There was also a portion of meat, rabbit, he guessed, not exactly cooked to his satisfaction. But he was too hungry to be fickle, so he ate it all... quite sure he was going to die of some horrible food poisoning later.
After the meal, the wolves dispersed. The females...Snively sighed and asked them their names... because he was getting tired of referring to them in such informal terms.
"Lyco," the woman with loose hair replied, while the other revealed herself as "Leeta."
"Where is everyone going, Leeta?"
"Daily work," she said. "Hunting and security, and the like. Some of us are going to salvage your wreckage....you don't have much use for it anymore? Did you have any possessions on board we should look for?"
Snively shook his head. "No..." He looked down at himself...this uniform and his gun (which had been confiscated when he was first captured by Nayr and Derek) were the only things he'd brought with him. No contact to Robotropolis. Stupid, stupid of him! But alienating himself from the city right now was a good thing. The only way he was going to stay alive.
When the bus had crashed, and Snively had tried to dig the group out to no avail, he had searched for some kind of help, or tool, to help them out. He had heard the wolves coming, a growl, a shifting of footsteps on the loose cave earth...and he had suddenly, joltingly, remembered his hated identity. Commander of Robotropolis! All alone with Mobians approaching him! He had already ripped off the robes he'd been wearing as disguise in Achten Sie, and now his uniform was revealed to all... so he had grasped his red armband with the blazon 'R' logo and ripped it off. It had been tossed and fluttered somewhere to the ground.
And when they reached him...Snively was dressed in a nondescript gray uniform, he was of unknown affiliation. He was a lost boy, a scared young Overlander who needed help for his trapped friends.
"I find it curious, Colin, that you were traveling with a band of Mobians." Lyco's gray eyes were searching his face.
"They're my friends," he lied. "I...I don't have..." This was such a struggle to say, but he was a good fibber, "any prejudices towards Mobians..."
She raised an eyebrow. "You must understand, it is hard for us to trust an Overlander...after what's happened."
He nodded, his eyes wide, shining blue innocence. He could look quite the harmless sweet boy when he wanted. "I understand..."
She seemed satisfied for the moment. "Very well, Colin. Leeta and I shall be off then. Make yourself comfortable here, but do not stray from these main rooms. The others might not be so friendly with you...and the caves can be dangerous..."
He nodded and thanked her. They left him then, and he turned away, his features transforming from charming to a dark sneer. How annoying it was to be civil to these dirty beasts!
Another transformation overtook his face as his eye fell upon Sprocket; the dog-bot's eyes were upon him. The sneer dissolved, replaced by the meek guilt of a puppy caught piddling on the floor... and he gulped. Tentatively, he approached the seated dog... "I thought...you weren't supposed to be moving around..."
"I haven't been moving," the robot replied with an atypical distance in his voice; no, he was not happy with his human friend, and Snively knew it.
He tried to retreat, but there was not really anywhere to go. He didn't want to wander the wolf caves alone, and his leg hurt besides. With a sigh, he settled into a sitting position against one of the cave walls. He wished he had a book to occupy his attention; he stared at the floor instead.
"I didn't pick you personally," he muttered, cryptically, not caring if Sprocket heard or understood...he just wanted to purge his guilt. Julian was always using Snively's hands to perform atrocities, and it was the boy who ended up with blood under his fingernails. The boy who couldn't get the images out of his mind. The boy who...
...had willingly let his hands be used.
**
In the outer caverns, the wolves were starting to tear apart the airbus, piling up panels of metal from the walls (or what remained of the walls) and electrical components, oily engine parts and heaps of rubbish from the bus's former owner. There was not much treasure to be found, but the wolves were resourceful. They would find some use for the junk here.
Lyco followed a trail of debris, a small canvas bag in her hand. She collected a few screws and washers, wrinkling her nose. There was no treasure trove this way. She turned to head back to the main wreckage, and her foot stepped upon something soft. She peered down. It was a scrap of cloth, red. Blood? She picked it up. No, it was dyed red and in bad condition, ripped and frayed. She frowned. There was a letter on it.
An R.
An R...?
This could be...anything. Unimportant, she thought. But nevertheless, she shoved it into the bag. Maybe one of the others would find some meaning in it.
Post 84:
Ealain Vangogh
Eight years ago. . . .
The wispy, black nimbostratus clouds that crept over the canyon horizon that morning taunted its inhabitants with the denied sunlight, teased them with threats of rain, clung pettily to the dusty land's terribly needed moisture, and finally relented around five that afternoon-and did not cease. It was Sprocket's first week with the Wolfpack, his first week away from his dear friend Griff's foster home: He had been terrified, in this barren, rocky new land, that his entire new family would wither away of thirst, or starvation, or both. But the rain proved him wrong. The rain proved that just before hard times became unbearable, relief and hope came washing over one's deepest fears.
There was just one catch: Today was also Snively's thirteenth birthday: The storm that had begun a blessing grew into a torrent that drowned the canine's joy, for his foster father, the Chieftain, had forbidden him to leave home-to leave the annual First Rain Dance. And so had Lupe and Nakuma. Safety from the lightning that crackled the testimony of the Great Unknown's legendary tempests, as well as avoiding the painful threat of disappointing the two women whom he had begun to deeply admire, finally enticed Sprocket to stay put . . .
Even though he had promised Snively he would be there to help him blow out the candles-their very first year that Snively would not have to hide his best friend from his father on his birthday, for now he too was living among Mobians. It had seemed fitting, the human boy had said, in a rare burst of affection, that the only person who made breathing-living-a hell of a fun time for him, would finally get to share with him the anniversary of the day he took his first breath of life. Sprocket had agreed-and then turned back on his word.
It wasn't the first time he'd broken a rendezvous with Snively on his birthday-it wasn't the first time he'd broken his promise. Exactly a year earlier, on the human's twelfth birthday, an early spring snow had been merciless to the fragile budding greenery in Megacentral. Still, Snively had asked Sprocket to come to their evergreen tree and spend an hour just talking or horsing around as a means of festivity. That day, a young Griff had fallen off his ice-laden roof while trying to repair a thatch that leaked snow--and fractured his delicate goat kneecap.
Sprocket had no choice but to assist the family in any means possible as they transported the injured youth to the local hospital. The befuddled canine failed to contact Snively to cancel their meeting-and Snively stayed outside for three and a half hours: waiting. This had earned him a hideous case of frostbite and, as he had neglected his advanced chemistry homework that evening, a vicious twenty lashes by his father's belt. He hadn't blamed Sprocket-but he never waited for him to show up more than five minutes late after that day. It was the sign of trust eroding.
One year later, then, after unintentionally assaulting the same trust, shame was a much louder voice in Sprocket's ears than the lilting howls and chants of the wolf dancers about the cave bonfire. He sat at the dark corner of the cave, unwilling to enjoy himself at his abandoned friend's expense, gnawing on a loose strand of hair and watching the shadows of the dangers flickering and bouncing off the limestone. He searched the images pensively, vigilant for the outline of the person he knew he wouldn't see.
But then something happened, something aching and stunning, and awful. He heard the cessation of the flute and drums, the grating of claws on rock as four of the dancers left their posts growling to crowd the cave entrance. Sprocket turned, puzzled--and a bit nauseated, for violence was not in his blood--to watch: At the head of the mob was a brawny white-coated youth named Drago, flanked by three other raging adolescent males--Diablo, Canus, and Lobo. The pearl furred male had a snarl poised on his fangs, his shoulder and neck hairs bristling, and his voice, low and throaty, was quavering from a hiss to a roar and back as he questioned some smaller individual, one so short as to be below the horde of wolves and beyond Sprocket's sight.
"What. . . what is it?" the canine mustered, frown creases curling his gray forehead into a prune.
"Intruder," Nakuma murmured, taking his hand and leading him closer. "One of the elders is coming to question him, don't worry."
For a moment, just a millisecond, Sprocket's heart twitched with a jolt of apprehension. " 'Him?' " No. Surely not . . .
But then he heard a voice, belonging to no wolf with whom he was acquainted, rise in frail protest. A voice barely digging into the depths of puberty-one that broke with boyish self-consciousness, like the SOUND of pigeon-toes-and a marked nasal undertone.
"N-no,
I'M not an
"Spit it out, HAIRLESS!" Drago, rarely a bearer of charity, snarled, flinging the most popular of human racial slurs in the face of the intruder. He bent over and grabbed at the alleged spy, egged on by the growls of his compatriots.
"NO, don't TOUCH me!" the intruder barked, then, greeted with bays and snarls, a scream split the silence as Sprocket, with Nakuma in tow, approached; no sooner was the dog at the foot of the line of interrogators when a pale, grappling, soaking wet mass, an Overland Boy's Academy uniform clinging pathetically to its skinny frame, barreled through the crowd of fur and teeth and flung its arms around the foster boy's waist. "Oh God, Sprocket," a too-familiar shriek escaped the ashen creature's lips, 'SAVE me!"
Sprocket's jaw dropped; he seized a strandful of the dead-rat-brown, leaved, thorned, and nettled mess that was the creature's hair, pulled it from the intruder's face, tilted the white chin up into the light, and found himself gaping into the petrified aquamarine eyes of Snively Kintobor. "What on MOBIUS. . ." he began.
"Owwwch!" the human boy roared, at once withdrawing, and vainly attempting to smooth his mudcaked locks. His eyes flooded and spilled over tears. "Bloody hell, that HURT! You HURT me, why did you HURT me like that?!" Sprocket might have laughed at the absurdity of the situation, out of good-natured relief, and stupor; however he bit his tongue, realizing the boy spoke of much more than his harshly yanked hair. Indeed, Snively collapsed on a boulder in the middle of the entire company that instant, forgetting to care for his own immediate peril, his shoulders wrenching with childish, however pitiful, sobs.
Sprocket hunkered down on his knees at eye level with the friend who had been so desperately lonely as to brave a storm in the Great Unknown. How could he ever have forsaken someone that miserable-someone, more importantly, for whom he cared so much, for whom he had always pledged to exhibit the same devoted brotherliness? "Oh Snively, I'm so sorry, I wanted to come so badly, but I had no CHOICE . . ."
No choice. Never any choice.
But then the boy told him what he already knew. "You did have a choice-we both did-but I ACTED on it, damn you!"
These were the words that would haunt Sprocket to his grave-that would permit him never again to give up on the skin-and-bones-and-bitterness that was his human brother.
"Who the Nostrils of Lazaar is THIS?" The bullying youth, Drago, snarled, coming forward. He reached out sinewy hands that were hungry to volunteer Snively's blood as his next cave painting. The boy shrieked again and dodged behind Sprocket, who was prepared, this time, to defend his unlikely friend.
Before he needed to, however, Lupe, her father close behind, interceded. Years later, this was to be the greatest, and cruelest, irony of all. "That is ENOUGH, Drago-can't you see this child is miserable?" The Chieftain's daughter rebuked.
Drago, rows of fangs glistening and reflecting the crimsons and oranges of the bonfire, took two steps backward. He tried to buoy his courage by increasing the raucous tones of his voice. "Typical of you, Lupe," he ranted, words bouncing madly off the cavern walls, "to be soft on a filthy HUMAN. Don't you know who this kid IS?"
"Yes," the wolf maiden retorted, "He's our GUEST. He's Sprocket's friend. And that's ALL that matters."
"I hope you don't live to regret this." The white wolf, dead sea blue eyes narrowing o Snively's shuddering, thin form, cracked his knuckles. "I really do, Lupe."
"I hope I simply LIVE," Sprocket's new friend and budding romantic crush grinned, betraying the façade of civility with her own pair of formidable jaws. "But how long we live is not up to ANY of us. What IS up to us is how we treat others." She offered the simpering Overlander her delicate, however firm, hand. "And I think I'll choose to be KIND to you, Mr. . . . ?"
"Kintobor. Colin Kintobor, Junior." He sniffed loudly, accepting her offer, and came to his feet. "Thank you . . ." It was to be the first and last time that Snively would show Lupe the Wolf Chieftain gratitude instead of hatred. For shortly thereafter, dripping dry in front of the fire as the festivities recommenced, he demanded an explanation for Sprocket's absence that afternoon. For his broken promise.
Sprocket could do nothing, under the vindictive blue-hued stare of his judge, but tell the truth-that convenience, politeness and romantic intrigue had caused him to choose one dear friend over the other. "But I hated choosing between you," he insisted in a frail voice, for Snively's glare had grown all but withering. " Really, I DID-"
"But you HAVE to choose. We all do." A strange, superior tone, one laden with a detachment, a numbness, that of a professor wearily and impatiently lecturing a particularly slow student, seized Snively's voice. "Even when it's important. And we only get ONE shot at it, Sprocket. You can't go back and fix every poor decision. You're DEFINED by your decisions, never forget that." . . . In short years, another cruel irony to pass. . . for no one was to make a poorer choice than Snively, when he swore allegiance to . . . to . . .
"I won't," was all Sprocket could say at the time, for that was all he knew of choosing . . .
At the time.
Snively caught a flaming fever within an hour and was bundled up in a cot in Sprocket's chamber; he was not allowed out of bed for five days at risk of death, at which point Sir Charles was hailed all the way from Mobotropolis to come fetch the dog's poor friend.
Sir Julian was too busy to come see Snively safely home. Too busy to assure the welfare of his own blood.
Sprocket should have known that very day what was amiss about his human brother's kinsman. Ironically, though, it was Julian's callousness that he later, when he had passed by the opportunity of knowing the location of the fiercest of his post-coup foes, regretted. So, in the end, the canine supposed, it was another blessing in disguise. At the time, he was consumed with guilt, and all but groveled to the partially recuperated Snively in apology-for the boy's illness, his disappointment, his abandonment. "I never wanted to choose between you," he pledged. "And I NEVER will again." The human accepted through tight lips and glistening azure eyes as his feeble frame was lifted onto Charles's airbike. But he did not turn or wave goodbye as they jetted away into the horizon.
And a week later, on Sprocket's birthday, Snively remained pointedly absent from the festivities-even though he had promised to come.
Promised. They had both promised. Trust had been violated, and disillusionment had been the gift both boys had received. A gift too hideous for a glossy wrapping or a frothy bow.
Sprocket barely managed to get through his presents-a rawhide bone, a new set of drumsticks (despite his meek demeanor, he was a percussionist at heart), and a kiss from both of the Chieftain's daughters-before retreating to his room to cry. Strange tears, these were-for Sprocket's rose-tinted spectacles rarely got a smudge or a crack wide enough to feel any means of grief-and this weeping was not just of disappointment or hurt feelings-it was one of loss, deep, core-shattering, loss-the kind which is irrevocable, like the death of a brother who never knew how much you really cared . . . . waving goodbye at the body as it descends into the dirt-hewn grave, trying to throw a rose for remembrance across the pale crossed arms, but being sealed off from communication by the tombstone of alienation. . . .
"Penny for your thoughts?"
The question wrenched Sprocket from his reverie. Meek fingers brushed across his shoulder.
He wasn't sure how long Snively had been sitting there next to him in the pack's bonfire den, in the only place where they both could be assured safety, but it was clear that every fiber of the human's consciousness was currently focused on him-his thoughts-his intentions. The boy's face, still cracked and bruised, tensed with something faintly resembling concern. He winced and the hand of greeting gingerly flew to his injured leg and massaged it. "Well?" He attempted, unsuccessfully, to sound free of pain. "You look troubled. Is it. . . . Lupe?" When no reply came, the Overlander resorted to babbling nervously, proving just the discomfort he was trying to hide. He leaned back on his cot, pretending to sprawl luxuriously, and rested his hands on his stomach. "I do say, though, there is one thing these savages ARE excellent at providing-excellent gourmet! Why, I mean, corn, squash, fruits of all sorts, meat I've not savored in . . . ah, heh, um, well, just look at me! I'm fit to burst!"
Sprocket glanced half-heartedly at Snively; however irritating his blabbing was, there was truth to his crude, bigoted compliments: Where usually a ribcage jutted, a round bulge had gathered about Snively's gut, swollen, making the change of clothes the wolves had provided-a tan buckskin shift and pants-all but snug. And no wonder-the boy had pounced on his five or six portions of food as if anyone might suddenly be compelled to snatch it away from him and leave him to starve. The canine wanted to joke that if the boy weren't careful, he might someday be a competitor with his uncle for the highest number on the weight scale . . . but to do this, to simply indulge in little careless fun, would blow their cover and get them killed. And this fact only made him angrier at his friend, who was wholly to blame.
The awkward silence finally compelled Snively's prattle to cease. "So . . . so out with it: What's troubling you? Your silence worries me."
For a moment, Sprocket was touched by the ghost of his brother. . . but then he remembered Snively WAS a ghost-that all Snively cared about was whether the canine was spiteful enough to reveal his identity, to have him flayed or burned at the stake or knived. All Snively cared about was Snively . ..
Wasn't it?
If there was something Sprocket had learned in the past 24 hours, it was to assume the direst of any situation. So he recoiled.
"You don't want to know," he retorted, scooting a few inches away from the human and folding his arms across his chest. The candlelight flickered too brightly across his metallic chest, burning his eyes and, he could tell by the grimaces of nearby wolves, those of his hosts as well; grunting, he tried to shield them, squirming even farther back into the corner. But no angle was completely immune to the light.
Snively hissed a sigh. "Don't move too much, you'll injure your-"
Sprocket snapped back around and flashed his fangs once at the human. "What do YOU care?" the canine growled. Snively let out a stunned yelp and scuttled back several inches, hands still clasped to his aching gut. All in all, the dog's emotional outburst generated a great deal more commotion than would have been wisely nondescript.
Roused from their contented fellowship, a number of the wolves turned frowning, and one of the females stood and queried, "Everything alright, boys?"
Both young men shot ramrod stiff under the sudden attention of their company. As ever the impeccable liar, Snively took hold of the situation. "Oh, fine, Sprocket just moved a bit too suddenly and strained a muscle...er , a gear," he managed in a tone of practiced sweetness, resting a falsely nurturing hand on Sprocket's shoulder. Oh, to bite off every individual finger of the traitor who used the canine as a tool of murder, and then dared to judge him. To hate him. That vile creature had been inside Snively all along, gestating, gleefully awaiting the opportunity to rear its gruesome head . . . even on the day the boy had accused Sprocket of cruelty for ignoring his birthday. Lurking always, waiting to strike. It was NOT fair--how DARE that filthy monster of a human judge ANYONE?
The floodgates of pettiness and resentment were gaping now, and try though he might, Sprocket could not stop them.
The moment all eyes of the wolves, who had gathered around the cooking kettle over the crackling fire to collect portions of their meat, strayed back to the source of the rich aroma, Sprocket bucked the false kindness off his shoulder. "Quit that," he hissed. "Quit lying."
"Ah, yes. And finally we reach the crux of the matter: Will YOU, the champion of 'truth' and 'trust' and other myths?" The human's whisper was taut. "Will YOU be honest . . . at ANY price?"
Sprocket repressed the urge to explode a second time. He calmed himself by drawing a deep breath-an absurd habit, as he had no lungs, that died hard. "Do you remember your thirteenth birthday?"
". . . What of it?" Warily. Snively's eyes narrowed; they scanned the canine's shimmering iron façade like a heat sensor, a cold, merciless robotic probe.
Sprocket returned the glare, only mingling his own harsh scrutiny with sincerity. "I meant my promise-the day Sir Charles took you back to the city."
"You've got a poor track record," Snively hissed, pushing himself up heavily and leering in close to the dog's face. "I don't believe you anymore. NOT EVER AGAIN."
Sprocket did not flinch, nor pull away. He drew yet closer, thrusting the challenge back at the blue-eyed specter of brotherhood, so that they were nose to nose. Flashing his fangs again to remind the arrogant youth of who could still come out superior should they come to blows. "Then why ask, if you've already MADE your final judgment of me?" Damned Overlander. No, damned OverlanderS. ALL of them-every one of them seemed to have an aggravated, heightened paranoia about every potential betrayal, every possible cruelty, most of which were total fabrications of the imagination. Damned warlike creatures. Usurpers.
He thought of his parents for the first time in years-of them precisely, not just their death itself-of their faces, and voices . . . . even their names. . . ? His gaze returned to Snively, and his rage destroyed the faint recollection at which he'd just grasped. More than usurpers . . . MURDERERS. Why had he EVER befriended one? Old Colin, old daddy dearest, had passed on to Snively more blood-lusting genes than the boy knew . . . Suddenly he was nauseated with his own loathing, like he'd swallowed poison. It quivered in his words. "I could hear you in a whisper, Snively, but you can't even hear me scream* -not even after all-all of this MESS-that we've undergone. How can YOU doubt ME?" (* Evanescence reference ;) )
"Why give me CAUSE to doubt you, you . . . you . . .worthless MOBIAN? DAMN you! Sometimes I am SURE the worst decision I ever made was to save y . . . . " The most hateful of undertones wove itself into Snively's words, just before he caught himself.
It was the first time Sprocket heard hate, and ONLY hate, in Snively's voice, when directed at him. And it passed, and was instantly replaced by regret, but it had been there. It had BEEN there. Worse than the day he grabbed Sally and tried to run off with her on Achten Sie, for that was self-preservation. Survival. This was HATE. This was a desire for another soul to be extinguished-a pure maliciousness. Fleeting though it had been, it had been REAL. And in that moment, purged of any guilt he might have felt for his own contempt, the canine knew exactly what he chose to do
"No, Snively. . . the worst decision you made consisted of your OWN cowardice and a roboticizer tube." Sprocket thumped his fist against his side, and metal resounded against metal. Giving reference to Snively's worst crime. His worst betrayal. "Tell me, was I your first REAL victim inside that thing? Or did dear old uncle just suggest that you PRACTICE on someone you cared about first, to get the old numbness flowing quick as possible when it became a HABIT?" He forced a laugh. " Like brushing your teeth, or making your bed? You kill people like you cut your toenails, and YOU expect ME to acknowledge an accusation of trust broken?"
This attack alone bested Snively. His jaw hung ajar. But not with guilt, with rage-choking, unbearable rage. A vein pulsed against the soft skin of his temple, one long-lashed eyelid twitched ever so slightly, like a nervous tic; it seemed Snively, a self-proclaimed victim of his own conscience, no longer fancied being reminded of his fleets of transgressions . . . or facing up to his responsibilities.
It seemed.
"WHY . . . mention . . . . THAT?" he managed to whisper, his whole frame trembling.
Sprocket shot to his feet, a rocket sizzling to the end of its fuse and ready to throw hazardously hot sparks at any standing too near. Only he, unlike a mindless weapon, was aware of his danger to others. "Why mention what? The TRUTH? Oh, DEAR, I forgot-the truth's just, oh, what did you say? A 'myth?' My MISTAKE." The dog snorted, harnessing his uncharacteristic sarcasm.. " . . . I need some air . . ."
"Don't." Snively too rose, recovering reflexes with remarkable speed, and grabbed him harder, by the arms. The look on the boy's face alerted Sprocket to just how he'd stayed in firm command of all of Robotropolis all these years. He was intimidating, in some strange, serpentine way, terrifying, even at his stature and poor state of wellness. "FORGET what I just said," the snake hissed, " It meant nothing." Words too, somehow, like a puppy's cry.
Still Sprocket guffawed. "Like HELL it did. You're scared witless. It's all that matters to yo-"
"SIT. NOW. I won't have you hurt again on my account. Besides with the other bleeding hearts gone looking for their precious little princess, " faint disgust flickered in those azure eyes, "if you are killed by one of those brutish young wolf men, I'm as good a digging my grave too."
A long moment of silence, then, atypically, Sprocket would not be appeased by a plea for mercy. "Shove off," he grunted. "Just . . . just get away from me."
But Snively clung to him even as he tried to pass. "You aren't going anywhere, blast youuu!" the human gritted, ending on a lilting, nerve-peeling whine, digging his heels into one of the bunched up floor rugs as Sprocket, determined, dragged him along.
It was a mercy that the cooking and crackling meat, the whoops and howls, the sound of earthenware dining utensils clinking together, and the laughter of the company nearby was so loud, or the wolves would have surely heard and become suspicious-even alarmed-at the two boys' display.
Snively's hands-Sprocket saw they were still scarred from their first confrontation days ago, when he had first befriended and saved Derek and Dulcy-Snively had tried to intercede then, too. To meddle.
But this time, it reminded him of something good he could do with his skills in flight. Oh, yes, he new where he was going now.
"You're right." Sprocket dropped his voice low, flat, menacing, glancing once their way, the refocusing murderously on his once-friend. He seized Snively's arms and pried the boy's fingers from his. Every strain on his gears and circuits was agonizing, but it was worth it. He knew where he was going now-Lupe had left the room alone and gone to her chamber to fetch her flute to play for the evening prayer-now was his last chance at happiness--free of sin. "I'm NOT going anywhere, Snively. I'm already GONE."
But Robotnik's nephew was, somehow, perversely, sickly, or perhaps selfishly-covetously-determined to thwart the love he knew Sprocket was departing to kindle. For he too had seen Lupe leave the circle of wolves. His eyes grew frenzied. "I'll scream," he croaked. "I'll scream for help if you go. This is foolish, Sprocket. It's SUICIDE. You KNOW it is."
Sprocket rumbled a growl. "Fo