Threads
"Sonic would have done it a lot faster, tidier too"a bespectacled elderly hedgehog-human hybrid commented after peering down from his Robotropolis Times to check on the progress of his subordinate's work.
"Yeah, but Sonic never had to worry about much at all," a young echidna-human hybrid grunted back over his shoulder as he was knelt down and using both of his arms obvious considerable strength to tighten the final locking bolt on the new Anti-Air Assault Gun prototype. Fellow mechanics often shortened it to the Ass Gun, much to Chuck's disapproval who was coincidentally the elderly hedgehog checking up on Knuckles.
"What kind of a name is Knuckles anyway?" Chuck put his paper down and did a quick visual inspection of the prototype weapon.
It seemed to pass his inspection, albeit how brief it was. Knuckles trusted his judgment though, it had never failed him in his long and distinguished career as a respected doctor of research focusing on the development of artificial intelligence technology and military applications. The Anti-Air gun was one of his many projects. An artificial intelligence controlled the targeting parameters of this weapon. It could shoot a fighter jet out of the sky with ease already. However, with the prototype AI installed in the computer, it would be less costly in misses. The AI would calculate a targets trajectory and correct for deviations in the targets arc of motion like debris getting in the way and the likeliest direction the pilot would be trained to think of as the safest maneuvering option to dodge the obstacle.
In short. It was pinpoint accurate and essentially Death incarnate in combat. No Mobian could ever think that fast or have that level of agility that AI's had. Their processing power was huge, so huge that they experienced time a lot more slowly than flesh and blood creatures. This was what made dealing with a rogue AI considered to be the single most worst case scenario on a battlefield.
"I told you, it is considered an honorable name with my people. You have to earn this name where we come from."
"So how does someone earn the name Knuckles then in your community?" Chuck leaned forward, genuinely eager to know. This caused Knuckles to ponder his answer a moment before replying.
"You get it through making the ultimate sacrifice, but surviving. You see, in battle, the greatest warriors and leaders were always at the front. The idea is that the noblest of Echidna's will lead the charge into battle. The noble are made up of the most wealthy residents to the humblest of them. You earn the right to a name like Knuckles by taking a killing blow meant for a comrade or citizen." he closed his eyes as he recanted the tradition his family had followed all their lives.
"But wait. You are called Knuckles, but you're not dead. How does that work?" Chuck was fully engaged in Knuckles history now.
"Check it out" Knuckles pulled down his lead-lined suit so a horrifically sized scar was visible on his chest. "Yeah, that one hurt alright. Thing is, I did die." the protective suit now off, despite being in a contaminated work-space, revealed a rugged young echidna sporting velvety red fur that shone in the overhanging fluorescent lighting. It was beautiful except for a dinner-plate sized hole in his chest that had seemingly healed over to a degree.
"What the...how did you even survive with this kind of injury?" Chuck's face was now a mix of curiosity and shock at seeing such wounds on a person before.
"I told you. I didn't."
"But you are here now. And alive." Chuck felt the sudden urge to point that out to him. Somehow the work-station sector felt darker in spite of the fluorescent lighting that always had the building lit up a harsh white tone.
Knuckles carried on speaking, seemingly not hearing what Chuck had said. "In our society, those people who do that and survive are sometimes reborn again in a young body with their previous lives memories still intact. However, we also believe in spirits, both good and evil. If you survived what should have been a fatal blow and this is what my ancestors called the Ghost Dance Hour." knuckles emerald eyes flashed a few tones darker. Chuck found himself doing a double take as he had noticed the subtle shift, and he did not like it.
"The longer you are in a coma, the weaker your minds defenses become. It is believed by some people, like my ancestors for example, that it is possible for the spirit of a demon to enter the warriors mind and claim his soul. We used to pull the plug on coma-patients after two weeks of no improvements, otherwise, the patient could become cursed."
"What do you mean by cursed?"
"As in cursed to a life of anger, pain, suffering and hatred. They live forever, if they remember to feast on enough living tissue three or four times a year that is. The catch is, that it can't be just any living tissue, has to be both alive and a lot of it. Say forty kilos and you are in the right ballpark. Do that a few times throughout the year and you'll never grow older. Well, now, you see, they stopped pulling the plug fifty years ago, it was declared a violation of Mobian rights and needlessly cruel, oh and that it was based on ancient superstition."
Chuck felt his throat sinking into his chest as there was no doubting now that the new workers eyes had gotten so dark that they were now black. He did not believe in monsters, but now he found himself doubting that very same sentiment that he had relied on to get him through life with his sanity.
"What are you?" it took a lot of effort to keep his voice steady.
"I'm a Verden Jageren. After two weeks in a coma, that is when someone from our tribe would become susceptible to demonic possession. That would be what happened in my case."
"Okay, now you are just trying to scare me and I'm sorry to say you are doing a good job of it" Chuck forced a laugh from himself and turned back to pick up his paper. Surely he was pulling his leg. But again, how did he do that thing with his eyes.
Wait. Why was it so dark all of a sudden? The lights had been on a moment ago and had all clicked off in one go.
A brilliant orange glow lit up a few feet of the room in front of Chuck. That was when Knuckles reappeared. His face now morphed to resemble a particularly artistic version of the Devil. Or at least, the Devil in Chuck's eyes.
Millipedes crawled from empty black eye sockets, once young flesh gave way to advanced decay and a pallor to match. The mouth hung open as if the sounds of a thousand diseased babies begging to be fed from the dry tit of their dead mother were trying to break through in a rushing crescendo.
The last thing before waking up the next morning, vaguely remembering a nightmare he thought he had last night was that he was certain he was already dead, he just hadn't accepted it yet.
