Disclaimer: Don't own the characters. Don't own the song. I do own the plot, and if I've gotten anything wrong please don't kill me! I'm probably going to write a second and third chapter… tell me if I should!

And with the early dawn
Moving right along
I couldn't buy an eyeful of sleep
And in the aching night under satellites
I was not received
Built with stolen parts
A telephone in my heart
Someone get me a priest
To put my mind to bed
This ringing in my head
Is this a cure or is this a disease

Nail in my hand
From my creator
You gave me life
Now show me how to live

And in the after birth
On the quiet earth
Let the stains remind you
You thought you made a man
You better think again
Before my role defines you

And in your waiting hands
I will land
And roll out of my skin
And in your final hours I will stand
Ready to begin

"Show me how to live" by Audioslave.

Show me how to live

Fifteen years old Spectre the Echidna clutched his chest in pain, gritting his teeth. He refused to cry; he had shed enough tears over the last week. He rolled on his bed, fighting off his sobs. That wasn't any way for a Guardian to behave; he had to be strong, he had to be courageous, he wasn't supposed to break down. And yet here he was…

His ribs hurt again. Hawking had warned him that this might happen, since he just replaced his three cybernetic ribs at the beginning of the week. It did happen… and boy, did it hurt! Spectre hadn't slept for nights, the awful pain keeping him alert. If he were to fall asleep, he was assaulted by nightmares of his encounter with the reason he was in the state he was in now. Enerjak.

It took place at least eight years ago. He was a mere child back then, wondering why he was alone, who were his parents, when Enerjak has attacked him. Quick and brutal, two adjectives that could very well describe what happened. If it wasn't for his ancestors, Spectre would have died on that day. They brought him to Haven, where they tried to keep him alive by all means.

By all means…

These 'means' were the reason why Spectre hated growing more than anything else. Indeed, Enerjak had shattered his legs and his ribs, as well as his left arm, and had broken the back of his skull. Hawking had implanted him metallic limbs and ribs, but that wasn't the end of it: as every teenager does, Spectre was growing, and these cybernetics parts needed to be replaced each time his body developed.

The black echidna gritted his teeth and griped a handful of his sheets. This time the horrible pain had sent him over the edge; he couldn't even tell where it hurt. He felt like his whole body was being crushed from the inside and the outside at the same time. He clutched his scarred chest again, and this time felt something wet and warm run over his hand. He looked down, and surely enough there was blood seeping out of his surgery scars, spreading over his white sheets and tainting them a dark red.

Spectre forced himself to calm down, as terrified as he was by the sight of his own blood slipping from his body. He tried to close his mind, this way his ancestors wouldn't know about his despair and pain; but no such luck. He heard his grandfather Rembrandt send him a mental message. We're coming, Fifth son, hold on.

Oh great. Now he was passing for a weakling. What were his ancestors going to think? His father? They were surely ashamed of him, of his weak state, and kept him alive because he had Guardian blood, that's all.

He chuckled in spite of himself. How ironic. My head is missing spines, and I can't grow one. I'm spineless in every way. What an ironic double meaning…

The young male bared his teeth as the pain came again; he felt like a dagger was being plunged through his torso. By now it was so intense he was seeing white spots dancing before his eyes whenever he opened them. He honestly thought he was going to die…

The door slid open, and Rembrandt rushed inside, followed by Moonwatcher and Jordan. Spectre groaned and turned away from them, not wanting them to see the blood on his fur nor the tears beginning to fill his crimson eyes. He wrapped his arms around his chest and tried to fake sleep, but winced as he felt his metallic arm come in contact with his bleeding wounds.

"Fourth nephew?" Jordan asked, concerned. "How are you feeling?"

Great, I've never been better in my whole damn life. "Fine," Spectre mumbled.

"Drop your foolish pride, Spectre," Rembrandt said. "You know it won't work."

When his fifth son didn't respond, the strangely-clothed echidna came forward and put his hand on the young one's shoulder. He felt him shudder under his touch, and frowned. Something was not right. It wasn't like Spectre to turn away like that. He was preparing to speak when he felt something warm seep its way through his glove. At first he thought it was sweat, but when he looked down, he widened his eyes upon seeing the bloodied sheets and his red-tainted glove.

"By Edmund, Spectre!" he exclaimed. "Why didn't you tell us about that?"

Spectre turned around ever so slowly, his face a mixture of contained pain and… fear? Yes, that was fear that reflected in those red eyes, Rembrandt realised. Fear of what they were going to do to him. "I… I didn't want you to think I'm weak," he whispered. "I didn't want you to get angry."

"Why in the world would we get angry?" Rembrandt asked softly, sitting on the edge of his fifth son's bed. "And we do not you see you as a weak person. I, personally, wouldn't have coped with this the way you did. You greatly impressed me."

Spectre groaned again and refused to unwrap his arms from around his chest. "Be realistic, I won't have that much of a life-" He was cut off by a sharp pain in his solar plexus, and bared his teeth to avoid crying out. Jordan felt a pang of pity for his young fourth nephew. He hated having to watch others suffer, and Spectre's pain was twisting his mind like no other pain before.

The young one took a deep breath and continued: "After all, you might as well kill me now and find another wife for Father, so he can have another son that would be the next Guardian."

"What do you mean, Fifth son?" Rembrandt asked, confused. "You're Tobor's son. You're the next Guardian."

"I do have the blood of Guardians running in my veins. But think about it – who would want some monster such as me for a husband, let alone the father of a child? Which woman would be willing to spend the rest of her life with me? To even be near me? Think about it. I've had more time than needed to do it." By now, tears were spilling over Spectre's cheeks, and he didn't try to hide his wounds anymore.

"Spectre…" Rembrandt reached over and wrapped his arm around the younger's shoulders. Spectre didn't struggle as his grandfather pulled him close and hugged him, careful of his bleeding gashes. "Ssh, calm down… why are you saying that?"

"Because it's true," Spectre whispered. "Nobody will ever want someone like me."

Rembrandt stroked Spectre's spineless head, making shushing noises to calm his fifth son down. He understood his despair. He understood his worry. But there was nothing he could do to help it, besides reassure Spectre as much as he could.

Spectre sobbed into his fifth father's chest for several minutes. Jordan and Moonwatcher could do nothing but watch, respecting this moment. Rembrandt rubbed Spectre's back, slowly rocking him back and forth, giving the young one all the comfort and support he needed. So young… so many years ahead of him… and all of that ruined.

"Of course you'll find someone, don't worry about that," Rembrandt whispered gently. "I'm sure you will."

"No, it's impossible," Spectre moaned. "I'm ugly. I'm a monster. The only thing women will do is scream and run away. I'll end up alone, no wife, no children. Alone for my whole life! I can't bear that thought! Please kill me now and let Tobor have another son before it's too late!" The young echidna was near hysterics.

Rembrandt sighed and pulled Spectre a little closer. His fifth son was a teenager, he shouldn't be thinking about marriage and children at that age. But his accident had made him more mature, more aware of his future – and also more septic. He knew his life wouldn't be 'normal', in Guardians' terms of course. "Spectre, look at me."

Spectre sniffed once and raised his head up, his tears-filled red eyes looking at his fifth father. "Were the woman you love to run away because of these-" He raised Spectre's metallic arm. "-then she doesn't belong with you. Your wife, your true wife and love, should never be scared of you. She shall not care about your physic; she shall love you the way you are."

"But – look at me. Black fur, red eyes, and to top it off metallic limbs. I understand love is blind, but still… there's a limit."

"That's what love is all about, Fifth son," Rembrandt smiled. "Love knows no limits. You'll find that out soon enough. Come on, now, let's get you cleaned up."

Spectre groaned. For a moment he'd forgotten all about his bleeding scars, and wished they'd just go away. But no such luck; he winced when he felt pain returning once again. Rembrandt frowned. "Can you walk?"

"I don't know," Spectre said through clenched teeth. He forced his remaining muscles to work and sat up in his bed, wincing every step of the way. Well, he'd managed, hadn't he? Now to stand up… He yelped when he put his cybernetic foot on the ground, pain sweeping through his thighs where metal met flesh. He fought off his tears, and stubbornly tried to get up. Landing square into Moonwatcher's arms.

Spectre had the sudden urge to whimper. He was so weak he couldn't even walk. Such a Guardian you are… He felt Moonwatcher pull him upright, holding onto his real arm as Rembrandt wrapped the cybernetic one around his shoulders. No revulsion. His ancestor smiled down at him. "I know you don't want any of us to carry you. But I'm sure you don't mind us helping you to walk."

Spectre nodded, and they began walking out of his room, Jordan following closely in case the younger tripped. Spectre winced at first, not liking the feeling of walking with these things one bit. It was painful, but he got used to it and showed less and less difficulties to walk. This alone impressed Rembrandt and Moonwatcher, who smiled gently.

"There, you see? You can walk again because we can show you how to walk," Rembrandt said brightly. "You're not going down yet, Fifth son."

Spectre had to smile, but inside his heart sank down. Yes, grandfathers, you can show me how to walk. But can you show me how to live?