Note: Don't own NiGHTS, only my full, long-ass names for the characters. Whoo.
Chapter Three: Same Problems, Different Home
"Mon Dieu..." Reala repeated to the sight in front of him.
"What? Do I 'ave somezing stuck to me?" Jackle looked down at himself and made a strangled noise of shock.
In place where there was nothing before, just an empty cloak, gloves, and boots, now held flesh and bone. Lightly tanned skin, dotted with freckles and other signs of sun exposure stuck out boldly from the black inner lining of Jackle's cloak. Lean muscle gave his body shape and form, but not enough to look repulsive.
His wounds had disappeared, and only light scars were left, as if they'd healed on their own.
Jackle reached up to touch his own face and body, in strict disbelief that what he was seeing was true. As he placed a hand over his own heart, a flash of light and suddenly Jackle wore an orange turtleneck sweater, the sleeves cut off, and yellow-orange pants that seemed to be made of some sort of PVC or leather.
"Reala... What... what in ze--"
"I... I don't know." Reala reached forward tentatively to touch Jackle's chest, over his heart. A steady thump, thump, thump at least let Reala know that they weren't dead.
"Que voulez-vous dire, vous ne savez pas ? Vous êtes les élégants!" Jackle snapped in French, obviously nervous at what he was seeing.
"Oh, and I suppose you think I've seen this before? Good God, Jackle, think! I don't know where we are or what's going on!" Reala motioned all around them. They seemed to be floating inexorably in midair over what looked like a city. Tall buildings with smokestacks polluted the air. Cars honking and beeping below them, obviously traveling home at rush hour after a long day's work. A water tower painted in rainbow colors, faded from the smog and age. Drivers below them were screaming obscenities at one another. Everything around them screamed of the harsh, desolate reality parallel to the world of Dreams.
"En ce qui concerne la bataille ? Qui luttera dans notre endroit ?" Jackle asked.
"I don't know! What if we're in some alternate timeline where that war never began? What if we're in the future where the war is already over? What if we're in another world and innocent people are being slaughtered as we speak?"
"We 'ave got to find zomeone 'oo can 'elp us!"
Reala flew forward and landed on the ground. As he did so, another flash of light blinded him for a moment. When the flash subsided, and Reala's vision regained itself, Jackle began screaming.
"Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu! Reala, look! You are not yourzelv anymore!"
Reala looked down and gave a "Gyahh!" sound of shock. He too, had changed form. His black tape across his arms and chest replaced with a mere black shirt. His legs formed light blue camoflauge-patterned jeans, as if his legs themselves stretched and hollowed to become pant legs. There were no legs inside the pants, yet Reala could still move and walk as if he had. The jeans stretched to the ground, covering his feet completely. His gloves changed to match his shirt. He no longer wore his Persona mask, instead a pair of golden goggles was affixed to the top of his head. His bluish skin turned to a mere ivory white, and the small bat shapes that adorned his skin became powder-blue tattoos. His hair pulled itself back into a low tie at the base of his neck, pleating itself into a long, low braid. His vest shattered like glass and reformed in the air into a red-and-black wooden board, rounded at the edges and had small plastic wheels on brackets screwed to the bottom. The board was patterned like his armor, in flames.
When Jackle landed, his cloak suddenly disappeared, shattered like glass, the shards rising into the air, and re-formed into an orange, yellow, and white wooden board, rounded at the edges and had small plastic wheels on brackets screwed to the bottom. The board was patterned like his cloak, in bright triangles and geometric shapes. It landed in his hands and he was forced to stick his arms out to catch it. His bright orange hair shortened and became slightly curly at the ends, now going only to his shoulders rather than the small of his back, and falling down just over one green eye.
As if they had merely been walking down the street like anyone else, no one seemed to notice the events.
"Hey look, boys. New meat." A sinister voice sounded from behind the pair. They swirled around to see a large, bulky teen advancing on them. He wore a simple band T-shirt and jeans, but they looked worn and old. "You boys new around here? Ya must be, otherwise you'd know that this turf belongs to me."
"Et que devez-vous réclamer des droits de ce terrain ?" Jackle asked haughtily.
"Ooh, a couple of foreign boys. Or just a couple 'a eggheads flaunting their brains?" The teen had piercing golden-green eyes, and a voice that sounded like glass shattering in a warehouse; loud, grainy, and demanding full attention.
"Jackle, we don't know why we're here, so please don't antagonize the locals, alright?" Reala whispered angrily, grabbing Jackle's now-visible arm sharply.
"Listen to yer buddy, there, Red."
"Vous n'avez aucun droit de la demande de moi! J'écoute la Réalité Dure seulement!" Jackle nearly shouted.
The teen and his stooges, who had hung back, began laughing raucously.
"I dunno what you said, smart guy," the teen began, "but I don't think I like it." He finished angrily. "So you better keep your little foreign mouth shut, ya hear me, Frenchy? This is my turf and you're trespassin'!"
Reala stuck a sharply-clawed hand (with his fingers, he saw, were tinted golden, like heavy nicotine stains, while his fingernails remained a bold shade of pink) up to silence the teen.
"No one," Reala started angrily, "And I mean no one on this Earth or any other is permitted to speak to my brother in that way. If you have a problem, you may take it up with myself alone. Do I make myself clear? Who do you think you are?!"
The group erupted in laughter once again. "I'm the guy you shouldn't be fuckin' with. How's about we settle this the old fashioned way? "
"And what way is that?" Reala asked through gritted fangs.
"You dunno? Hey, boys, they must be new! They got skateboards in their hands and don't know how to use 'em?!" The group of punks laughed hard enough that one of them dropped his melting ice cream in his lap and another fell from his seat.
Reala looked down at the wooden board in his hand. He mouthed the word "skateboard?" to Jackle confusedly, as he'd never heard the word before and apparently neither had Jackle, who merely shrugged as if to say, "I don't know either."
The teen leader wiped a tear of laughter from his eye and said, "Alright, boys, you put me in a good mood, so I'll give ya a little handicap. You got three days to learn to skate. Then, you come back here and we have a little tourney. You don't show and I'll come find you, and you won't like it when I do. I'm not the type to be left waitin'." He snarled, pointing a long, silver dagger straight at Reala's throat. Reala didn't even blink, instead he merely shot the teen a withering look.
"Tell me, young man," Reala snarled, "Do you often have dreams?"
"Say what now?" The teen dug the tip of the knife a little deeper into Reala's newfound throat.
"Do you often have dreams?" Reala repeated calmly.
"Yeah."
"About what, dare I ask?"
"None of yer business, girly man!"
"Come on, we're all men here. You can trust me." Reala smirked in the face of Death, his black lips twisting upwards.
"I dream about beatin' up punks like you, tellin' me who to trust! I don't trust no one but myself and those three back there." The kid pointed over his shoulder at his three stooges.
"Hmm. Pity. A dream lost is a fate worse than Death. Come, Jackle, we've got a bit of skating to do, do we not?" Reala backed up a few steps and then turned to leave.
"Je suis juste derrière vous! Nous leur montrerons!" Jackle called as he ran after him. He looked back and gave the group a nasty glare.
"Freaks!" The teen called from behind them. "See you in three days, dream freak!" Jackle stiffened and growled angrily, his glare icing over until his eyes were practically shooting ice from their sockets. Reala kept going, unaware.
Reala turned a corner and found himself surrounded by a crowd of people. He looked around and Jackle had gone.
"Jackle? Jackle? Jackle in the Field, are you there? Jackle! Le chacal dans le Champ, m'entendez-vous ?" He called, using Jackle's native French to call for him. "Blast, I've lost him!"
"Excuse me, young lady, are you lost?" Reala snapped his head to the side to see an ancient old woman, thin and bony, smiling up at him. She wore sunglasses around her neck on a thin rope, and wobbled, holding onto her walker for dear life.
"I'm male." He said simply, before adding, "And yes, I do seem to find myself lost. I've lost my brother in this blasted crowd as well. Have you seen him?" Reala asked.
"It depends my dear!"
"He's about yea high, blazing redhead, dressed in orange, probably yammering to himself in French?" Reala offered, making various hand motions.
"Oh, yes, the boy with the skateboard. He seemed to be headed back that way, dear." Reala followed the woman's pointing finger... back the way he had come.
"Blast! He's gone back to deal with them on his own!" Reala tried to jump and get himself airborne, but only managed to fall back to earth and make a fool of himself by landing in the trash can. People were pointing and giggling. Reala groaned, pulled himself upright, and threw the skateboard down in front of him, jumping on top of it and skating as fast as he could without falling back towards the skate park. He picked up the board and walked in, and saw a flash of orange in his peripheral vision.
"Jackle! Jackle, there you-- Oh, God..."
"Your friend here decided to get mouthy. We did you a favor, Red." Jackle lay sobbing on his side on the ground, blood gushing from between his fingers as he clutched his face tightly.
"What the hell did you do to him?!" Reala shrieked, dropping to his knees to assist his brother.
"We taught him what happens when you get mouthy with the Silver Blade Gang!" called one of the three lackeys flanking the leader.
"La Réalité Dure, la Réalité Dure, s'il vous plaît, oh Dieu, aidez-moi s'il vous plaît! Il fait mal!" Jackle choked. Reala gingerly pulled his hands away from his face and saw a large, long, thick, deep, and nasty-looking gash going diagonally across Jackle's face, having blinded one eye and ripped his upper and lower lips cleanly in two. His two front teeth were knocked out and both of his top canines were broken neatly in half. He sobbed pathetically. He was covered in bruises and cuts. He'd been beaten, and badly.
"Oh, Jackle..." Reala breathed, agonized.
"Oh, Jackle!" The gang leader mocked in a high-pitched voice, laughing maniacally.
Reala growled angrily and leapt to his feet. He flipped around to face the gang and let the tattoos streaking his eyes tell the tale.
"Jackle is the only family I've got left. We fought a war together. We've been defeated together. We've won together. Nothing, and I repeat, nothing you say or do can get you out of what I'm about to do to you. If you value your lives, lost Dreamers, you'll run, and run far. But even then, you won't escape. I'll find you. And I will. Kill. You."
"Ooh, scary! Don't hurt me, girly!" The leader mocked.
"Your overconfidence will be your downfall, you sick bastard!" Reala screamed, and like some sort of twisted magic, lunged at the leader with speed rivaling that of something seen only in a cartoon. In a stunning move of rage and agony, he shoved his claw-like hand forward, and felt it sink deep into open flesh. His hand felt cold once again in open air, and the three lackeys who were previously laughing were now screaming in horror and backing away slowly, transfixed and horrified. There was a wet squelch on the ground and the pulsating object Reala clutched dropped from his grip and landed on the ground in a spray of red. Reala yanked his hand back, and the teen gurgled and fell backwards, where a neat, clean, open hole in his chest revealed where Reala had punched clean through him and torn out his heart. Reala rounded on the three thugs, who were pushing and shoving each other in order to get to the exit first.
"Not so fast, you freaks!" Reala lunged at his skateboard, throwing it underneath him and zooming towards the bulky teens. He then jumped, did a backflip in midair, grabbed his board on the way down, and threw it with as much force as he could muster, where it landed with a resounding crack! against one's head, shattering his thick skull. He jumped higher, did a midair pirouette move, and spun his foot around viciously, landing a sharp, fatal kick to the second lackey's throat.
"Dude!" The third cried in fear, a distinct Hispanic accent sounding to his voice, "Who are you, man?"
Reala smirked evilly, his eyes still flaming with rage.
"I'm the guy you shouldn't be fuckin' with." And, in a twist of bittersweet irony, slashed his claws across the third lackey's face, blinding him permanently. The teenager screamed in horror and pain. "And now, I'm feeling generous. Get the hell out of my sight before I change my mind, and don't let me see you around here again. If I do, you'll end up like your friends."
A siren sounded in the distance. The third lackey grinned. "Ha ha ha! It's the cops! They're gonna get you for what you did to my friends!" He cried, his voice a mixture of cockiness and terror.
Reala cursed loudly and turned back towards Jackle. He lifted his brother into his arms and said, "Entendez ces sirènes, le frère ? Nous devons quitter cet endroit avant qu'ils arrivent un peu plus près." softly into his ear. Jackle nodded and sniffed in pain.
"J'ai cru que je n'allais pas ne faire mal plus..." Jackle mumbled.
"Je sais, mon frère, je sais. La douleur cessera bientôt." Reala replied lovingly before turning and running full-speed, hoisting his brother into one arm so he could quickly grab his skateboard, and Jackle's, on the way out.
Reala ran until his lungs gave out. He put Jackle down underneath a boardwalk on the beach. Jackle was wiping the blood away from his face with his arms. Reala put down the two skateboards and collapsed, panting heavily, on his hands and knees.
"Ainsi il y a la guerre ici aussi..." Jackle said quietly, fingering his blinded eye gingerly.
"Wh-what was that... Jackle?" Reala panted loudly, his lungs on fire and his throat dry.
"I zaid, 'So, zere is war 'ere too...'" Jackle replied in his heavily accented English.
"Hmm." Reala replied simply. Jackle dragged himself into a sitting position and hugged his knees like a small child. Reala finally caught his breath and sat down beside him. "But the war here is subtle and dark. The war in Nightmare is open and bloody."
"It iz ztill war, iz it not?" Jackle asked.
"It is, I agree, but warfare comes in many forms."
"It does not matter! Warfare iz warfare, an' we are once again caught in ze middle of ze fighting. Will it ever cease?"
"No. If there's anything I've learned in life it's that war will always break out, because history will always repeat itself in an endless cycle. It's only a matter of time before this world, like our own, has become so ruined and collapsed that primitive warfare will start again, and swords will be used in duels rather than bombs. It's only a matter of time, Jackle, before this world crumbles like our own is."
"Why do you zink we left our world, Reala?"
"If I recall, you said something about us being there for a purpose, not just to be soldiers in a foolish war."
"Do you believe zis purpose was to leave Nightmare, an' ztart again zomewhere new?"
"Dear God, Jackle, at this point I don't know what to believe."