Greetings everyone.

Slow work day, slow night. Sorry for only being able to post this short single chapter. But the title and premises should be the deserved justice for my inaction as of late. I will try to get more done, but I'm a bit tired and have an early morning to do.

Disclaimer: I stand to gain no profit from this work and the use of other's creations in the process.

Enjoy, and please review.

Wesson's Last Stand

By: Mauser

The best way to pack after a short stay is not to pack heavy before leaving. Stenson had this down to a science. He could pack only the essential of things: clothes, soap, books, weapons if the place he was venturing to wasn't at all friendly, and do it all in at least two bags that he could carry with ease. Most times he would be anxious to get motivating. Most times he would be laughing at how much Lar-Na would try to pack, but say from the start that she was going to do her best to match him. She was a very typical woman in a very atypical way. And at times he would laugh at her flustered frenzy, checking-bags, rechecking bags, throwing a fit because she did forget something.

But in the dim suite that much reflected Stenson's passive glare, he felt the energy to laugh, to even smile, deplete him. It was he who was packing for Lar-Na, feeling a sincerity of hope she would find the strength to come in and correct his masculine trait of disorderly cataloging of her things. He knew he was doing it wrong, flopping things in just because they fit, and he worried that her excited stress in not finding something she needed right-then would cause her to cough, and what was becoming predictable, fall to his arms before the floor took her in his stead. But he did finally manage to smile, though. Holding her make-up kit in his hand, he wondered if the black plastic kit had ever seen the release of its packing air. For Stenson, it was the very meaning why Lar-Na was a very untypical female echidna; she hardly wore make-up unless there was a very discreet call for it which usually involved him, or showing up the other Legionnaires women at a function which demanded the fanfare of elegant dresses, pressed uniforms and cloaks, and painted application of cosmetics. But as soon as he packed it away in her black canvas bag, his smile left him.

He heard her cough in the main living room, squinting his eyes depressingly out of remorse for her. Why didn't he see this? Why didn't he order her to see someone a hell of a lot sooner than now. Granted, and grateful the Albion Echidna's did take the time out of their "busy" schedule to see her, and they did find what was wrong...but it wouldn't have mattered if they found it yesterday or when she was...

"Dying..." he wept in his mind. It wasn't long before his break down was of the mortal world. He fell to the floor, twisting so his back was supported by the boxed bed frame, shutting his eyes with his hands to make the room darker than it already was.

The Legionnaire in him wanted to lash-out at anything inanimate and let the walls take the brunt of his anger. All his life he has battled foes and friends alike with a realization after each victory, after each defeat, that he could still come out fighting no matter what the collateral costs were. When his chest was ripped open, it didn't phase him for it didn't kill him. When his plans failed to kill the Guardian and the rest of the bloodline of Edmund, he pressed on with the fortitude that things do go wrong and the battle was not yet over.

But now–in his weeping despair in a place of sanctuary he needed to dispense it–he felt a powerless surge that tore at his heart and made him weaker than he had every felt before. For the one battle he needed to fight just for the sake of the one who truly mattered to him was already written to be lost without so much as a flaring insult.

And for him it hurt the worst.

From his thoughts of desperation came his inner-warrior voice, gentle this time. Caring. "Snap-to, trooper. Give her strength by showing your's. Like hell she would want to see you like this just because of her."

And he nodded to the warrior being within him. Shakingly, he climbed back to his boots, straightened his cloak and cotton jumpsuit, and went back to putting Lar-Na's clothes away.

Emerging from the room, he cast a warm smiling stare at his blue echidna wife lounging on the sofa and admiring the streaming rain. Placing their bags at the base of the door to the outside, he walked over to her and sat on the arm-rest supporting her slumped head.

"Did I ever tell you I love the rain, Stenson?" Lar-Na asked in a quiet whisper after the silence of their stare out the window.

For a moment he let the rain tap a lullaby for him, stroking her dreads with the softest touch of his hand before he broke the glooming silence. "Yes," he smiled, "you said it was the most wonderful sight and sound you have ever heard when we left the Twilight Zone." And with his soft words, he leaned down and kissed her on the cheek. "And I couldn't agree with you more, Lar-Na."

Time dripped past like the dropping water. Lar-Na found Stenson's comforting hand and held it against her chest. Then she kissed it; rolling her head on it soon after.

"You are so kind, my husband. Why, of you, to be so kind?"

His voice like a dying whisper. "Because I love you, my wife. It is what I am supposed to do for you."

"And what of me?" she asked, drained of strength.

"Don't ask such things," he whispered as he kissed her head once more. "There is nothing for you to prove to me. You've stood by me for the deeds I have done and there is nothing more I will ask of you than just to be my wife. It's all I want."

A gentle squeeze of his hand. A warming smile from her sweet lips. "Why are you so kind, my husband."

The reply that came to him echoed from the day he proposed to her. But now, he didn't repeat it with the same bearing he had from the past. This time, he said it with compassion. This time, he felt he said it right.

"Because I want you to be my wife."

She relinquished his hand, which was painful to him. He wanted the moment to trail on until the closing night fell upon them. But the signal he felt with his hand becoming free told him time was a precious commodity such as her. Such as their mission to rescue others. Life, he fathomed grandly after rising up from the sofa, was his new vendetta in life; to save it. The brute Legionnaire he felt slipping away was replaced by a guilty conscious, his wife's beauty helping to strengthen the feeling.

Kind. Her words struck him violently that paled in comparison to the acts of violence he wanted to inflict on the Bloodline of Edmund. But what drove him to conceive those plans? And why now to reflect on them with the disgust that was rising from the his stomach for planning them? Was it spite? Or was it acting on a sense of duty rather than right or wrong? To kill a whole family just to settle a feud over the wants of technology for a whole civilization now seemed so grotesque to him that shame fell across his face as he walked to the door. And with the expression came all the answers in one phrase. "Because you were you."

As he opened the door to the hall, he wondered if the Guardians were of a forgiving nature. The boy with the scars on his face almost gave him a false hope about the idea. Sighing, he grabbed the two pair of bags and sat them outside where Petty Officer Trent was waiting.

"Afternoon–well, almost evening, Captain," Trent said, correcting himself while checking his watch. "The Hawking is prepared to get underway, sir."

"That's fine," came the stout reply, "how was your stay, Petty Officer?" Stenson couldn't wait for the answer.

"Comfortable, Captain. And you? I saw the session on T.V. while getting my peacoat from the cleaners."

"Is that all you did while in Albion?" Stenson asked mockingly, noticing the Petty Officer's peacoat was freshly pressed and clean.

"Oh, not all, sir. Did a sailor's tour of some pubs, caught a movie, and talked with some girls. I imagine you two were just in love with the technology here?"

Stenson shook his head irritably. "Forgive me, I'm not in the mood to joke around, Trent."

"Hmm, pity. And I was ready to hear a new spiel about the wonders of technology."

A glowering look. "Trent..."

It was enough to silence the Petty Officer.

Throwing the last two bags out the door, which Trent retrieved, Stenson pressed to the tasks at hand. "Is Ell-Tee back with Wesson from the forest?"

"Ah...no, sir," came the discomforting answer that brought Stenson's head up in an instant. The hard questioning look sent a phantom shiver down Trent's spine. "I haven't seen them all day or at the ship, Captain. Were they supposed to help or something?"

"No, Petty Officer, they were supposed to escort Rob-O and his band back to Deer Wood and get ready to set sail." Stenson grumbled when he peered back in to the room and glanced at the clock. "I sent Ell-Tee to find him two hours ago."

Trent rose his hands up in defense. "I heard no such order, sir."

"And none was given to you, Petty Officer. You've seen Corporal Vickers?"

"No, sir."

"Why our my people AWOL and you're here ready to go?" Stenson asked, embittered.

Trent stepped back from the disorganized question. "Sir, I don't know."

"Well find out, Petty Officer, and report back to me when–"

Theding of the elevator door was deafening over his own voice. The blue clad of Craig and Oscar was louder than Vicker's black robe. Their authoritative swagger was impressive, however, it channeled a troubling feeling through Stenson's body so that he stood rigid at attention to address the upcoming bad news.

"Field Marshal, we have a situation!" barked Craig, Vickers' eyes and face cowing at the sound of his words.

"What you do, Corporal?" Stenson demanded, his voice beating through the hallway.

Craig never gave Vickers the air to respond. "I need you to come with me, now, to the hospital. It involves your Sergeant and Lieutenant!"

Stenson's eyes glared frigid around the three, seeking for calmness within himself to ask the bothering questions. "Vickers', what's going on?"

"I..." Vickers' stammered at first before swallowing his fear. "They never came to the supply-room to get Rob-O. I figured something was up the way Wesson and Ell-Tee have been acting so we went to ask around."

Oscar cut in quickly. "Then we got a call that a disturbance was happening at the hospital–"

"Let's go," Stenson growled unevenly. "Lar-Na..."

She was already standing beside him. "I'm going with, Stenson."

He wasn't going to argue with her renewed strength in her voice nor in her stance. After the surprise of her presence died, he looked to Craig with an affirming nod. "Let's go."

Ell-Tee had never seen this much determination in Wesson before.

Fire was burning in both of his eyes. Even the cybernetic eye took on a fierce character of its own. Wesson was posed like a hurt animal cornered in a cage, wanting freedom. His weapon, gladly, wasn't his pistol that was still holstered on his left hip, but a spare intravenous stand cocked back in his right robotic hand, his left out in defense from a fast strike that Ell-Tee didn't have the heart to give. He bounced with every quickened breath he took, forging something that the seasoned Lieutenant saw as being scared, unsure if what he was doing was really betrayal to duty and honor. Secretively, Ell-Tee felt Wesson's defiance was just. Outwardly, he was ready for an impending fight that he hoped would never come.

He liked Wesson too much to hurt him more.

"Just put it down, Sergeant," he managed to repeat. The plea had been going on for almost an hour after finding him. Behind the posed Legionnaire was Ames and Car-Le, holding each other at the foot of Nata-Le's bed, who was showing the signs of coming around.

"Not until you leave!" came Wesson's hoarse voice in a yell.

"Please, son, do as he says. You're frightening others," said Ames, holding his terrified wife close.

"No!" snapped Wesson, keeping his trained eyes on Ell-Tee. "As soon as I do, he's going to take me away."

"No one's taking you away, Sergeant," Ell-Tee pleaded, shifting himself around the room to keep being a moving target. It really didn't matter; Wesson was too good of a shot. "Listen, Wesson, the Field Marshal just wants you to take Rob-O back to Deer Wood, and you can come back to her before we leave."

But Ell-Tee had a deep down feeling that it wasn't what Wesson really wanted. "Damn birds and the bees!"

The repeated reply was filled with venom this time. "I'm–not–going!"

"You know what," Ell-Tee festered, "suit yourself. I can wait all day and all night until you tire, Sergeant!"

Wesson clinched his teeth tighter. "It isn't going to matter!"

A shift in Ell-Tee's sight brought a new weapon to the stand-off. "It maybe for her."

He didn't have to look far over his shoulder. Nata-Le's eyes were on him, looking to him painfully, scared. Wesson was immovable. Stunned. Feeling shame wash over him at what he had done.

The betrayal in Wesson's posture was an offering for Ell-Tee to seize the moment in the Sergeant's lapse in defense and he began to move in to take him down. He didn't get far, starting with stepping back when his lone step was caught by Wesson's cybernetic eye, in which he reestablished his footing and almost swung the silver stand in his hand. It was all the motivation Ell-Tee needed to back down.

"Come on, Sergeant. Give it a rest. You think this is solving anything. I mean look at her...do you really want to scare her like this? Her family too?" Ell-Tee offered with raised hands as a plea.

Nothing of response. Just the same heavy breathing. The same clinched, betraying face.

"What am I to tell Stenson, huh?"

"Nothing," came the Field Marshal's booming voice. "He can tell it to me directly."

Stenson slipped into the room, his aura of bearing presiding loudly in his presence. His hard stare burned a hole through Wesson, but instead of making him falter to obedience, the Sergeant furthered his combative pose and matched Stenson's face with his.

Ell-Tee stepped to the right of the door, giving the Field Marshal a berth of command and action if need be. "He won't follow orders, sir."

"And why not?" Stenson asked evenly.

"I'm not going, Field Marshal!" Wesson managed to reply.

A shake of the head. "I need you, Sergeant Wesson. Rob-O needs you. The Legion needs you," Stenson reasoned. "So put the weapon down, and get yourself ready."

The harsh face wasn't promising. "I'm...not...going!" Wesson replied slowly, defiantly.

"Wesson, you're the best I've got. Do you think anyone else would last around here?"

"I don't care!"

"Then what am I to do?" Stenson asked as a plea.

Stepping back a pace, Wesson shifted his stare to the doorway, seeing Rob-O and Mari-An were present, huddled behind Lar-Na who wasn't impressed with any of it.

"Wesson?..."

The scared voice of Nata-Le called to his senses and brought his stunned eyes to hers. She tried to get up from the bed, throwing the sheets off her gowned body, but almost tumbling off the side when she tried to use her cybernetic arm for the first time. She regained her balance, barley, causing Stenson to step forward.

It almost got him a lashing from Wesson, the Sergeant ready to swing the stand across the ten foot void to strike the Field Marshal. But he hesitated; finding it hard to decide weather to drop the stand or hold his position and continue in his endeavor to hit Stenson. And in turn, his breathing slowed, his eyes softened.

"Put it down, Wesson."

Stenson's voice of reason sparked his own natural voice within him. It was loud and clear; he didn't want to hurt the Field Marshal. And thus he dropped the stand, the metal clatter becoming the sound of defeat.

He kept breathing hard but not as heavy, his body slumped over his anchored stance. "I'm not leaving!"

Lar-Na's past voice echoed over his mentally. It caused Stenson to look to her at the door and to see if she was saying it now in her eyes.She was.

"Make him choose..."

"Is this what you want?" he asked evenly, turning back to Wesson.

A nod over his charged face was all Wesson gave for a reply.

Stenson looked at him with studying eyes, seeing Wesson was rigid in his commitment. "And the Legion?"

He slowly shook his head with defiant eyes. "Is that what's keeping me from her?"

"I never said that, Wesson," Stenson interjected nonchalantly.

"I know..." –he reached up with his robotic hand and searched for one of his cybernetic locks on the right side of his head– "But it is what's keeping me from her, isn't it? My devotion to them."

Stenson's head tilted under a grave suspicion that ripped at his very soul. "Don't!"

Wesson's eyes said it all.

"It doesn't have to be this way," Stenson craved, lurching forward.

Wesson didn't let him get any further. Gripping his replacement lock in which he sacrificed his natural for in the name of technology, he gave Nata-Le a passionate look before facing his resolved face to his Field Marshal.

He then took a deep pull of air.

And with his cybernetic hand, he jerked at his lock, holding his neck and head stiff as the force was trying to pull him back. The tugging tension came first as an irritation, but not satisfied with the feeling he was waiting for, he pulled harder. With it, the beginnings of a stabbing pain, intensifying until it burned, ached, causing an irritable shooting anguish that forced every molecule of air from his lungs as a scream. Warmness of his blood soon lapped at his mechanical hand, feeling it through the glove and his simulated nerve endings, commanding him to crush the lock as he bit down with another hard tug. He heard the muffled rips of skin and arteries coming undone through his head. The snapping of wires was nothing more than a mere forthought The pain was immense. The blood drooled in abundance.

But he didn't care.

The strand became loose almost with a snap, his lock coming away from his head with a vein being ripped apart as if it were the last chain to his imprisonment. And to Stenson and everyone else's surprise, he didn't scream. He just stood there, breathing in the sterile air of the hospital room as he the feeling of his blood washed down his head and over his back through the collar of his jacket.

And all of a sudden he took a step forward, swaying under the pain when he took another, reaching almost toe to toe with the saddened Field Marshal as he held his pulled metallic and blood stained lock out to him.

"You tell...Kommissar," –he shunted a moan under his gristled voice– "You tell Kommissar, that she can...find me here...and I'd rather die than...ehhh...leavemy equal's side."

With reluctance, Stenson took the lock, feeling the residual warmth around it. "I will, Wesson," he said under a whisper.

A smile, his sway becoming more pronounced. "That's Sergeant Wesson..."

And before he could think, Stenson stabbed forward and caught Wesson before he fell to the floor, holding him in his arms and supporting him under what he felt were tears coming across his face. "Nurse...I need a nurse!"

Lar-Na filed through the door, followed by Ell-Tee, finding themselves gathering around Wesson and helping Stenson hold him from the floor. She took his left arm, his strong side which was weak, and followed his shaking body with her comforting stare. But her gaze strayed from him, feeling hurtful, watchful eyes falling on them. And when she looked, she witnessed Nata-Le leaping from the bed, caring not if she lost her balance and scrambled to Wesson's side. Lar-Na felt her place leave from within her, the caring she had felt for Wesson being passed on.

And she let Nata-Le have his side, working feverishly to get her arm to follow her commands to ease him up.

She succeeded.

"You have a brave and committed equal, Nata-Le," Lar-Na whispered into her ear.

"I know..."

Stenson heard it and smiled warmly, Ell-Tee finding a sponge on a stand beside him as he heard the footstep of a medical team coming down the hall, and dappled it at Wesson's bleeding, severed lock. The touch was enough to make Wesson wince, however he brought his quivering face up to Stenson's, holding on to his consciousness.

"Field Marshal?..."

"Don't say a thing, Wesson. You did enough of that. Your love has done that for you."

His chattering lips perched for a second, before he opened them. "Win for me..." came his struggling voice.

And his head slumped into Stenson's chest, his consciousness overcome from pain.

They all held him tighter, holding him as Stenson leaned down over his head...and kissed him there.

"I will."

Like I said, it's a bit short, but I figured I give you all a nice change in pace from the long chapters I have given you. "Killing Monsters" came in a whooping 12,000 words. This is about 3,600 words. It's not that I had nothing to think about. Far from it: this chapter has been a standing order to do and show with as much energy as I can throw about. I hoped I succeeded.

Here my creativity spawned how a Legionnaire would have to resign his post with the Dark Legion, and sever his belief of technocracy. It's a bit harsh, but so is the Legion. Hope I did it right.

Thanks again, I promise to put more effort into my editing and postings.