The Colour Purple... The King of Fighters '95
Based on the Characters of The King of Fighters '95 Copyright 1995(C) SNK
Original Fan Fiction Copyright (C) 1995 [ENGEL] Design Room 1995
This (chapter) fanfiction was originally written circa: [XX.96] (Thank you)
"Which Character are you?"
Note to self: Legacy chapter numbering (32- - -), does not match.
ORIGINAL CHAPTER
"Mistress," Oswald said. "But maybe one day you will realize, that THING that you need..." IT is indeed what ALL children need. Even when faced against prejudice, slavery, and even genocide, history has proved time and time again, that with IT, even the most HORRIBLE of hardships becomes bearable. "AND, this, is what Wilhelm Heidern gave to you!"
This must be why – all of you treasure your NOTEBOOKS so much.
…
"Aughhk!" Clark hobbled forward with his right hand over his left chest. Under normal circumstances, this was nothing out of the ordinary. With every beat of his heart a slight gush of blood bubbled through the spaces in between his fingers. Taking each step carefully – he tried to keep his mind calm, as not to lose focus and fall into desperation, Clark continued to walk away. Certainly this was a bad situation, but this was nothing he had not experienced before.
When you take a critical wound, the first thing that happens is that your mind begins to panic when it realizes that happened.
One step forward, slowly, and then another, placing one foot in front of the other. This was not a cause for concern, he told himself, because it was not.
Then, your heart rate increases. It beats rapidly. So fast and feverishly you lose your hearing as the only sound that remains is your desperate heart.
This was not the first time he failed to block a devastating attack. Certainly, he had felt Heidern's four-finger attack drive itself into his midsection in the past, yet as a mockery he still lived another day.
CERTAINLY, this was nothing. Clark could hold the blood back as it gushed out his chest when Heidern sacrificed his own body - a crimson sword momentarily impaled his body, and it was a wonder why he was still alive. Even if this was a story about superhuman people.
Limping through the darkness, Clark dragged his feet behind him, just so he could get away. Behind him was a small blonde haired Childrens who followed slowly, just observing each step with curiosity.
The SECOND. IT. HIM. It watched intently, following with each footstep, peeking over Clark's back. IT had kept him alive all this time, because maybe IT had something it wanted to see in the end.
Your limbs slowly grow cold and you gradually lose feeling in your extremities.
Living a peculiar life, it was a strange one to Clark. Walking in between steps in the darkness somehow relying on an imaginary friend.
Certainly this was nothing, in fact, this pain was a reminder that Clark was just, finally, dying slowly, again.
"Cralk."
"RRGhhagh!" Clark swung his left hand behind him and slapped away a red sickle – just meeting Heidern's wrist with the back of his own and barely parrying the attack at the last instant.
The predator and prey in a ridiculous play reduced to slow steps – still going through the motions eventhough both of them could drop dead at any moment. Absolutely ridiculous Heidern and Clark played the part of two geriatric old men who chased each other around a room with axes. But this was what was left for us. Life is TRANSITORY indeed. Going through the motions until someone finally DIES.
Clark stopped, turned around, realizing that he could no longer escape, and succumbing to the realization that all this was just a slow battle of attrition. Heidern attacked again. The old man's attacks were slow and sluggish, it was nothing too impressive. However with both of these men mortally wounded, action and consequence took a different meaning.
As to not lose their sanity; What differentiates men during times of crisis, is the ability to simply accept one's mortality.
"Carlk."
This is the reason people absolutely lose their minds when the prospect of death draws close especially at times where one is left absolutely powerless.
Clark waited the very last moment when Heidern's fingers were about to touch his temple when Clark ducked and threw both hands up, slapping and parrying Heidern's single arm once again from cleaving his head.
Heidern's attacks were slow, unrefined. However.
When you lay wounded and your enemy is slowly swinging a saber at your head, no matter how crudely; The prospect of sudden DEATH has a distinct way of clarifying the mind. It was now no longer any different from children playing a game of high-level rock-paper-scissors, except a single loss meant instant death!
"Crlak."
Heidern sluggishly pulled his arm back and swung forward again. Clark tilted his head back and slapped the back of Heidern's attack past him and twisted his body, the body that screamed in pain.
All of this was no more elaborate than two babies slapping each other, but to the blonde haired man, Clark Steel, it was just clearly life or death only to be determined by the next mistake he made. Clark tilted his head back and slapped the back of Heidern's attack past him and twisted his body, driving his right cross into Heidern's face, just, refusing to die!
Clark tumbled back, barely catching himself, keeping upright and lifting his fists up in front of his face in fighting pose.
Another! Clark parried again with his right hand. He retreated backwards.
Waiting for the last moment to execute the parry.
Clark slapped the same attack with his left arm that slowly becoming numb, rolling his body to absorb the blow.
Clinging to that one thing. That one thing that kept him alive desperately. Is it like an ANT stumbling backwards as a large foot, chasing it as it desperately tried to escape.
The taste of blood had come to the forefront in due time when the red crimson seeped through the spaces in between Clark's teeth. Though one thing remained in the end. I had an obligation, to you, after all.
THERE IS ONLY ONE THING KEEPING ME ALIVE, HEIDERN.
…
1970.
"If you have a moment, won't you stop and talk to me a while, Rugal, my friend." Ivan-Vladm'hr Von Krauser said as a young blonde haired Jewish man walked and stood next to the German Krauser.
The younger Rugal clicked his tongue and sneered with a half grin, exposing his dimples in a smarmy expression. The old German was so corny it did not even merit a response.
"This has all become so tiring. Don't you grow bored of it all?" Krauser droned.
"No." Rugal replied. "This life is wonderful. WE HAVE IT ALL, Krauser. WE. We are the richest, we are the strongest."
"No. We do not, Rugal. I think we've lost it a long time ago."
"What are you talking about old man?"
"Do you know that more people commit suicide today than during times of slavery? More than those trapped in communist gulags and more than your people during the holocaust?"
"…" Rugal rolled his eyes and let out a slight hiss under his breath as he had once again gotten himself trapped in one of Krauser's senile ramblings.
"A reflection of our culture today, Rugal." Krauser continued. "Don't you find it strange that people who were enslaved and imprisoned were less likely to take their own life than now, now when we live in such a world of luxury and comfort?"
"What does that have to do with me, Ivan?"
Krauser with a deadpan stare turned his head to the side and the towering man looked down at his friend. "Rugal, my friend. I fear that if nothing changes, you will lose it all, and you will soon go down this same path also."
…
1989. The Union Building, Pretoria, South Africa. Document room 206.
Even slaves and even those sentenced to an unjust death did not kill themselves in the same amount and manner. Don't you find that strange?
This life of SECURITY and COMFORT, while an inevitable progression of society – this is not the natural state of human beings.
Perhaps MADMEN understood this act of human desperation during times of decadence of apathy, as they rallied society to their true and noble cause time and time again.
"Do you know," Oswald continued, "The only time the suicide rate doubled, the era people had no qualms about ending their own life, was before the war, it was during the great depression."
"And?" Muchiko tersely replied. "So what?"
"I am freely giving you the answer to all of this, the thesis of Wilhelm's magnum opus, and this is the thanks I get, mistress?" Oswald shrugged with both hands up in surrender.
"…"
"…"
"Oswald!" Muchiko said, visibly aggravated.
"Are you upset because I figured it out a long time before you did?"
"…"
"Mistress," Oswald continued. "Even though you now know what the Ultimate Final Solution really means, you, and your boys can't walk away. Do you know why?"
"…"
BECAUSE, WITHOUT HIM, YOU ALL WOULD HAVE KILLED YOURSELVES A LONG TIME AGO.
"Isn't it strange that twice as many free people chose to take their own lives during the great depression as those people the Germans wanted to exterminate? Isn't it peculiar?"
Muchiko, the Whip sighed and let out a deep breath, twisting her lips because despite all she had gone through she was repeatedly unable to topple any of the old man's aloof sermons. She realized it was futile because she had already conceded the argument from the beginning.
"Free men chose to END their lives more than prisoners who were callously sentenced to death. Because… One of them did not give up on hope, and held steadfast to a purpose driven life."
More precious than gold. Than warmth that kept you alive during cold nights.
Firmly, tenderly, embracing you, and before you knew it, morning came again.
"Mistress," Oswald said. "But maybe one day you will realize, that THING that you need..." It is indeed what ALL children need, even when faced against prejudice, slavery, war, and even genocide, history has proved time and time again, that with it, even the most HORRIBLE of hardships becomes bearable. "AND, this, with rigid yet fair rules, is what Wilhelm Heidern gave to you!"
This must be why – all of you treasure your NOTEBOOKS so much.
Those boys and you, were subjected to an existence of constant and unrelenting MISERY. Yet here you are. Do you know why you and I are still alive?
…
"Suffering is an integral and inevitable part of this life, Rugal Bernstein."
During times of extreme suffering, the only thing that kept people alive was PURPOSE. Without a clear and focused sense of purpose, people are unable to confront even the slightest bit of adversity brought about by suffering. And, this is why people sheltered in comfort so easily waste away and die.
…and I fear, Master Rugal, that you are slowly losing this focus too.
…
Oswald D'Arcy nodded, as if to declare his checkmate.
"But, with a clear and easy to understand purpose, even, even the most horrendous of SUFFERING becomes even remotely bearable."
This. From his torment. From his trials. From the slight visions and glimmers of hope he let you see from time to time. Despite your despicable upbringings. Despite all the SUFFERING, the RULES were plain, simple and made easy to understand. If you could one day outrun the chains of that notebook then you would be set free without conditions.
…and mayhaps Heidern would one day reveal to you, to earn your freedom, the GREAT ENEMY that you had to destroy from the very beginning. Even if… Even if.
This is what Heidern gave you from the very beginning.
…
THERE IS ONLY ONE THING KEEPING ME ALIVE, HEIDERN.
That notebook.
If the pact between you and me is…
Boy…
That notebook.
If the pact between you and me is…
Boy…
1990. 12:46 AM. Underground Laboratory.
EVEN IF THAT ENEMY, had to be HEIDERN!
If. IF what I have to do to wipe the slate clean, and if this is what I have to do clear my DEBT. If you want me to KILL you.
"A." Heidern jabbed four fingers into Clark's left ribcage the slight moment the blonde haired man had lost focus. "UGHK!" Clark lunged forward on instinct, putting his hands over Heidern's shoulders to push him away, but in retaliation, Heidern pulled back and jabbed his four fingers again, 2 inches deep into Clark midsection so crudely like a barbaric and unceremonious knife fight. Clark pushed Heidern BACK and retreated, but only to crumble as he stumbled backwards and fell to both knees. Multiple stab wounds now erupted as Clark put his arms around his chest to keep himself from bleeding out.
AGH. So… So… Oh, fuck.
The BEAST – part 33.
How did this happen? Where did I go wrong?
In this artificial darkness, Clark was left alone with a swimming chaos of angst, anxiety and confusion.
Why am I still here? Why am I doing this? Begging, pleading for someone to answer.
Why can't it be somebody else? Why can't it be somebody. Else? Do I have to FIGHT him? POPS?! DO I HAVE TO, POPS!? WHY!? WHY WON'T THIS PAIN EVER STOP?!
"It has to be you."
Clark stopped his thoughts cold. He forcefully stopped his breath, held it with one inhale through his nose and bit his lip in a slow desperate plea for his heartbeat to slow so he would not once again fall into shock. Keeping focus, thinking, wondering, what would have happened if things had turned out differently many years ago.
While still on his knees Clark wondered why he was still alive even as he prostrated helplessly on his knees open to an instant attack. He looked up and the darkness had disappeared. Once again he felt the sweltering Rhodesian heat burning his skin.
Clark was on his knees on the dirty ground and he was 8 years old again.
"It has to be you, Boy."
Because you made a contract with this man in 1972. 18 years ago.
Answering him was Wilhelm Heidern towering over him as he walked over, blocking the sun. Clark looked up and Heidern's right arm was bright red with blood up to his elbows.
"My friends are dead. My wife, and my daughter are dead. And I will destroy the world, unless you stop me. You understand that… don't you?"
Clark, the boy without his dark shades could see so much clearer now, applying constant pressure onto his stomach and left chest as the blood flowed freely over the crevices between his fingers and the edges of his appendages. An anachronistic expression, of a middle aged man smiled across the boy's face. One of the gifts. Yes, I know.
That was part of the contract wasn't it? You cannot commit suicide, so I have to do it for you? Clark looked up.
Again in a flash, he was back in the artificial darkness, back in Johannesburg, but now had calmed his breath and perhaps was able to buy enough time for him to do what he had to do before he bled out and died. But it did not matter if he did in the grand scheme of things, because a lost boy who only knew torment for so very long had already cheated death for 10 years. Just because some old man decided to impart a gift to him.
Clark heaved heavy but slow breaths in order to put oxygen back into his blood, but as he put his left hand on the ground to steady himself the blood began to slowly seep through his fingers, across the ground, away from him as if it had a life of its own.
I see…
It was kind for his enemy to wait. Heidern stood in front of Clark, approximately 20 feet away. The blood ran up his feet, up his legs and was absorbed through the gaps in his uniform.
Heidern was courteous enough to wait and do nothing as he stared at Clark from across the way wallowing in agony trapped in his own private existential crisis. As if to declare so very succinctly that Clark had no choice.
"Oh. Fuck." Clark hissed, the desperation now gone from his voice. He put both palms on his folded knees to sit upright.
When you lose enough blood, your mild slowly starts to lose consciousness.
So you've made, yesterday, and today... Just like Pops said.
…
"Wilhelm did not die in 1944, because I did not let him, Boy." Knight said with a bit of melancholy. "But regret is a lonely prison, and I think that the only thing he wishes, what every one of US wishes, at least once in our lives…"
Heidern, by any means possible, wants to make 1944 and 1990 one and the same.
…
You just won't stop until I kill you. "You GODDAMNED ASSHOLE." Clark reached into the large cargo pocket on his thigh, pulled out a small palm sized foil packet, a plain silver package with the words ZEOLITE-1984, PATENT, printed crudely on the label in large font.
Clark ripped open the package with his teeth and forcefully stuffed one of the gauze pouches into the gaping crevice in his left chest. He then took the second white powdery gauze pouch and placed it under his shirt, roughly covering as many of the 8 finger sized punctures in his midsection, firmly rubbing the adhesive corners until they stuck to his skin.
Suffering in silence, Clark did not say a word even as his face contorted in burning pain.
A contract, with clear, horrible, yet fair, and easy to understand RULES.
Thank you for waiting so kindly. The pain and beaded sweat on his brow - streams of agony dripped down his face, running around the dimples of Clark's snarling, gnarling, beaming, maniacal smile. A familiar smile.
Old friend, I need your help. Clark pleaded silently, in a snide and selfish offer of a semblance of a fair bargain – as if he, some pitiful boy, could somehow reasonably offer goods and services of an equal value that a celestial being would consider fair in exchange, almost like a prayer, as he had now gone beyond any restrictions of pride. I need you to help me, one more time. Lend me your GIFT one more time. Clark beamed a wide maniacal Cheshire Cat grin that spanned ear to ear. One more time.
…
While men prostrate themselves. Do we not pray to God with some manner of hubris as if we, as men, believed even if we did not admit it, could barter our request, and offer in exchange something, as if this something was one of fair market value to God?
…
I have to, after all this time… If you want to see this story to the end… Isn't it UNCONDITIONAL reincarnation you… If you want it, I think you need me too don't…
"I understand. You just won't stop until I kill you, Heidern."
It is better to die fighting than to waste away. This is why young men blindly throw themselves to war as they desperately pleaded for a madman to give their life meaning. During times of chaos, men would even sacrifice themselves to a tyrant who promised to reorient the world back into order – no matter what the cost.
Wilhelm Heidern pulled back and stood up straight as he slowly healed the fatal wound on his heart with Clark's blood. The dry skin and slight creases around his mouth and eyes had once again smoothed back into a youthful supple texture. And with it had ignited the unbridled RAGE of a generation robbed of their youth, but fueled by the burning fire of clear and unadulterated purpose that kept the world revolving. FILLED with the desire to DESTROY EVERYTHING.
Chapter 173: a Purpose Driven Life.
Heidern, if you will not surrender to REASON.
"Clark! SCCHHRRRHHZZGH…. Clark Ajussi…" Jung's voice finally once again penetrated through the static and whispered into Clark's earpiece. "CLARK! The tranquilizer!"
I concede that your mission has merit, old friend. As the searing pain of the combat gauze slowly stopped the bleeding, Clark's heartbeat equally slowed and calmed. I already know – I can already visualize how this chapter ends, and once I do that – I can win.
Clark put hand again into his thigh high cargo pocket.
…
"I understand. You just won't stop. But not today."
Because you chose me.
You've successfully made YESTERDAY and TODAY one and the same.
Heidern was now 13 years old once again.
And YOU, chose wisely.