Rouge looked at Knuckles' sleeping form. The guardian looked completely different when he was asleep. While he was awake he always had perfect posture, a picture of composure and strength. It was impossible to think of him showing bodily weakness while awake; his body's attitude inhibited it.
It was a far cry from how he was asleep.
His hands clung to tufts of grass, as if letting go would hurl him from the ground. His muzzle was buried beneath his shoulder, concealing it as much as possible. His body was curled up, as were his legs, but his legs kept kicking of their own accord.
Was this pathetic creature the same being that could nearly kill her when awake? She couldn't tell.
She lifted one leg and traced the steel toe of her boot along his body, pointing out all the places it could do the most damage. Although most of his neck was covered, she could still hit his trachea from where she stood. She stopped there, because that was where she had control over his life and death.
She waited patiently at that spot. Normally this was where her feeling of power came in. The moment when she had the other person completely in her power, and whatever they did thereafter was because she let them—that was always thrilling to her. It was less thrilling each time she did it, and it no longer had any novelty. But just the cold satisfaction—that alone was enough motivator for her.
Yet here she felt none of that. There was no satisfaction in standing over him with his life at her mercy. Why was that?
As usual, her two different persons answered the question two different ways. Part of her insisted that it was because she didn't have him completely in her power yet. She controlled whether he lived or died, but nothing in between; she needed to work on that before she felt satisfied.
Her softer side had a far different interpretation. That reaction was part guilt, part unwillingness. The guilt was because of his trust in her. She was in her Hunter persona, right? She was supposed to abide by her agreements. To take advantage of him after he trusted her—that just wasn't right.
At the same time, the unwillingness in her refused to admit that he was really in her power. It refused to admit that she could actually kill him if she wanted to. That, too, was a disturbing thought.
She put her foot back down, no longer attempting to make sense of her emotions. Somehow, she couldn't leave—just watching him like this was arresting. Her eyes traced down his body, and she admitted to herself that he was a specimen physically. She stopped at his hands. The tenseness with which they held on to the ground made his knuckle-barbs more prominent than usual.
They were strangely fascinating to her, those barbs. She wondered what they really were like. Did they have flesh over them, or was it just bone? Did they have any nerves? How did they look?
She moved around and squatted down, then reached out tentatively with one hand. Ever so hesitantly, she touched a barb.
Hard. Unyielding. It couldn't be muscle, it was straight bone. Probably no nerves, but there was no way to know.
But what do they look like?
Rouge considered taking his gloves off, but circumstances worked against her. One of his legs jerked again, and his knee hit her side.
She leapt back; he was awake instantly. "What? Hey! What are you doing here?"
"Absolutely nothing!" she said, landing daintily.
"If you…" he stopped. "If you're gonna be around, wake me up. I only went to sleep because I thought you were down."
"That's your responsibility, not mine," she said. A spare second passed uncomfortably. "But I will wake you up next time."
"Well," he said, yawning, "that makes it all fine."
She felt bad for pitying him. "You are so sensitive," she said, turning and walking away.
"Sensitive? How?"
"If one thing is wrong with your sleeping, you can't sleep."
"Paranoia is a survival trait," he said. "I would think that you, of all people, would understand that."
"I agree," she said, "it just seems like you have a hard time practicing it."
"Nobody ever said paranoia was fun."
She smiled, for she understood. It sounded like a glib comeback, but it had some truth—truth she related to from experience.
At the same time, it hinted at something more important. He didn't want to be paranoid. Even if she was here, he didn't want to be paranoid. Perhaps particularly if she was here.
"Good night, Knuckles," she said.
She reentered her tent—but she didn't go to sleep immediately. She went over their conversations from before, poring over details. The things he'd said, they way he'd said them—she was analyzing it all the way.
'I know what to do.'
That was it. That was his weakness.
He was alone.
Much of Knuckles' persona was built around turning that loneliness into strength, but he couldn't help but feel a constant emptiness. He never knew his parents, he was the last of his species, and he had an inherently solitary job as his life's work.
That was why, despite their constant fighting, he was so glad to have her here—he was starved for contact.
She felt elated at finding his weakness—then hesitated. She'd never felt any guilt taking advantage of someone whose weakness was a vice—it put her, perversely, on the side of justice. But to further injure someone in constant pain already…
'Stop being so soft!' she demanded of herself. This was her predator side, of course, but she wanted it to speak for all of her. She wanted to be that predator. 'What is wrong with you? You've never hesitated like this before, regardless of what your target's weakness was.'
'I don't know. I just feel…'
'Forget it. You're here to reclaim your rightful contentment. This is no different than any other job. You've found the opening; now jam your knife in and twist until you get what you want.'
She would, then.
Tomorrow, she would break Knuckles, last of the echidnas.
TO BE CONTINUED…