He who fights monsters should see to it that he himself does not become a monster. And if you gaze for long into the abyss, the abyss gazes also into you.

-Friedrich Nietzsche-

怪物と戦う者たち

Those Who Fight Monsters

The sun inched behind Titania's gigantic moon Oberon, creating a sudden and early twilight. The great silver orb went black with a point of light on its edge. As the dimmed sunlight passed through the dusty air, it created the eerie image of a great black circle on the horizon, set against a blood-red sky. Everything the light struck cast long shadows

With his impact claymore drawn and held in a ready stance, Scott stood opposite of the cause of all his recent agony and rage: a Cerinian. By all accounts, he shouldn't have even been that menacing a figure: dressed in everyday street-clothes, and didn't even look a day over thirty. And to think this little blue-furred twink had been able to cause so much grief...

Harrow just stood there, his odd staff weapon in hand, looking back at Scott with a venomous sneer, like he knew exactly how this would going to play out. It was insulting. Seeing him like that made Scott want to spit in the punk's face, and then go to work on him in the most excruciating ways imaginable.

For a while, they didn't budge an inch. Each spent the silent, tense time scrutinized the other, observing, watching, waiting...

Harrow opened his mouth to speak, but whatever he had to say was never said.

"HAAAH!"

With a savage shout, face twisted in a fierce snarl, Scott shot toward the Cerinian in a ghostly blue flash –the Phantom module– and executed a mighty sword strike with the dash.

* Clang! *

The strike was caught by Harrow's staff, and was only barely redirected away, leaving the Cerinian staggering under the intense force. Scott simply wheeled the momentum of his opponents counter around and spun into another strike from another angle, just as powerful.

Scott's sword technique didn't appear elegant at first glance. That is, it did not at all resemble the showy flourishes of more exotic forms, but that's not to say the terrier didn't have finesse. His form revolved more around positioning, pressure and efficiency rather than show-offish acrobatics. In Scott's hands, the sword was as much a prying lever and grappling tool as it was a striking implement, a true extension of his arm.

Harrow's technique made much use of his extraordinary agility, leaping twisting and flipping both to evade attack, and to confuse or intimidate Scott. He kept himself in constant motion, being able to block, attack, evade and counterattack from nearly every position, including the times he was airborne. Each maneuver flowed effortlessly from one to the next to another, every movement smooth and fluid. It was at once spectacular and terrifying.

If Harrow caught a strike, Scott would simply reposition and torque his blade into a threatening angle, and press in for the kill. Every time though, Harrow managed to break free at the last moment. The persistent pressure constantly put the Cerinian on the defensive, having to catch and completely redirect Scott's powerful and surprisingly quick strokes before attempting a counterattack. Even these were either caught on the terrier's blade and redirected, or he simply evaded the staff strikes entirely.

In those times that Scott closed in when their weapons locked, Harrow might attempt to throw out a kick, but it usually didn't work. With one foot off the ground, all Scott needed to do to throw the Cerinian off balance was apply more pressure in the weapon lock, and the kick was shut down. The only times Harrow could get a solid kick in at all is if the kick-strike was tied in when his staff blocked and redirected a sword blow. Even then, Scott could make an arm free to block the kick, and then move to counterattack.

Thus the deadly duel continued for some time, each fighter matching the other blow for blow, stroke for stroke...

The terrier and the Cerinian locked their weapons again, face-to-face when Harrow said through a sneer, "Would you like to know how they died, little soldier?"

"Stow it!" Scott forced him back, and struck another blow.

"It's a fascinating phenomena, death." the Cerinian mused between blows. He didn't sound the least bit winded, or tired, "At the end, when there is no hope of survival: that is when we act most as our true selves. So in a way, having felt them die, I know far more about your fallen comrades than even you."

The terrier simply ignored the words, pretended not to hear them, and kept right on fighting. As much as he worked to focus on the fight itself, looking for openings to wedge his strikes into and skewer Harrow, Scott still couldn't dismiss from his head what the Cerinian said, and continued to say.

"The old goat thought he was clever, but died a pitiful fool, unable to grasp the truth even when it was placed plainly before him."

Ignore the words, he's only trying to distract. Parry, counterattack, evade, strike...

"The bird thought himself brave, thought he was a valiant hero, yet acted as a coward would when the end came as he begged for his life."

That bastard.

The terrier could feel the emotions swirling in his head, threatening to erode his concentration, break his form. As much as he'd like to slice Harrow up and bleed his broken corpse out over the desert, he had to keep the urge in check, so not to do anything stupid.

"How will you die, I wonder? Beneath your rage, your hatred: what are you, truly?" Harrow asked, and a sinister little smile came to his face, "Shall we find out?"

In the course of the duel, Scott attempted a simple downward stroke, which Harrow redirected to his side, as expected. But just as the block, Scott stepped in, redirecting the momentum of his blocked sword so the handle of the up under the Cerinian's outstretched arm. Scott had him in a perilous bind: the grip of his sword wedged down against Harrow's elbow, while the blade pressed up on the middle of the staff, their grimacing faces only inches apart.

In that instant, the smug visage of Harrow fell away briefly to a twinge of surprise. It was only made worse when Scott spat a thick disgusting wad into the Cerinian's not-so-smug face.

"Your grim bloody nightmare is what I am." the terrier growled, every word seething with menace.

Without a moment of silence afterward, Scott stepped forward and wrenched against the bind. The sheer leverage forced Harrow back on his heels, off balance, and ultimately off his feet. The Cerinian's back slammed into the sand with a dull crunch. Scott had him pinned down.

It was a simple matter at that moment to thrust the sword in and finish him, which Scott did... but to his surprise, Harrow had grabbed hold of the blade in his bare hand just as he was about to be skewered. The Cerinian controlled his grip just at the right pressure that the friction would stop the blade, and his hand wouldn't be sliced open. Harrow glared up at Scott with a maniacal grin, face mired by sand and spit...

Cute trick, but simple remedy.

Scott simply activated the sword's impact mechanism. A dull hum of electricity and a rattling scream from the internal hammer triggered sudden jarring micro-vibrations all along the blade. Harrow's hand couldn't hold a grip against that kind of force, and the blade slipped through his fingers, and plunged into his throat. The Cerinian's dirty, bloodthirsty face bore one last look of utter terror as his blood began to escape, joining the dust and spit on his face, and seeping into the sand below him...

It was over.

It was all finally over.

The battle over and adrenaline spent, Scott at last felt the weariness of the fight, his sore stiff limbs, his breathless lungs as he gasped for much needed air. He yanked his weapon up and–

Something wasn't right. There wasn't any blood on the sword blade. He'd sliced through Harrow's hands, and torn open his throat, but the blade was as clean, like it hadn't been used at all. Scott looked down, and found that the Cerinian's bleeding corpse wasn't there: just sand...

What?

"Did you really think it would be so easy, little soldier?" Harrow's asked. The voice was real enough, but sounded as if it was more than just his ears, like he was speaking directly through the terrier's mind...

Scott made a quick survey of the surroundings: sand, broken walls, crumbling ruins. The sun had long since passed behind the moon, leaving just a great black disc against a dull red sky, darkening with every passing moment. And there was Harrow, leaning ever so casually against the wall of one of the larger structures. His arms were crossed over his chest, and the face had that unbearable smug little smirk of his again.

At that moment the Cerinian stepped away from the wall, and walked toward an opening.

On closer inspection, the structure appeared familiar to Scott. It looked very much like an enlarged head, like the one on the 'Krazoa Golem' he fought so many years ago on Sauria. The structure here may have been constructed from local materials, and broken down by the elements over the years, but the resemblance was unmistakable...

At his easy walking pace, Harrow disappeared into the structure's entrance, the 'mouth' of the head.

Confusion was overtaken by rage. Scott took a stance, lined up, and activated the Phantom module again. The terrier shot toward the entrance in a flash of blurred blue streaks, and rematerialized just inside the entrance where Harrow was– where he was supposed to be, at least.

The entrance led into a corridor, sloping down into some underground compound beyond. A lot of sand had blown into the gaping entrance, settling into the edges and corners. It was a wonder the corridor hadn't been buried and filled with sand under Titania's harsh elements, or perhaps it had been buried and recently excavated.

The stone corridor was lit –only barely– by a strange sourceless glow. Where there should have been utter darkness, there was just enough light to see by, enough light to navigate by...

The terrier stepped further into the ruined corridor, in pursuit of Harrow. At the same time though, an alert curiosity began to manifest. What unsettled Scott most though was how eerily familiar it all seemed.

"You've seen a place like this before, haven't you, little soldier?" the Cerinian's voice observed.

He was right. The broken, crumbling architecture in here was very much like the shrine on Sauria he'd ventured into with Dr. Harrison many years ago. The carvings were of similar design, if a little worn by the invading elements. The eerie glowing light was exactly the same, and grew stronger deeper in, away from the outside.

"And so what if I have?" Scott asked aloud, his suspicious voice echoing and bouncing through the stone passageway.

"Then, perhaps, you may truly appreciate the power sealed here." Harrow's voice answered.

"Power?"

"Get back, Scott!"
Dr. Harrison had stepped onto the platform, and strode toward the statue-warrior's shattered remains with a determined purpose.
"You have no idea what that is."

He was seeing images from his past resurface, hearing long forgotten voices. Even as he relived the moments, he was still very aware of his surroundings, like the past images simply superimposed over what his eyes could see in the here-and-now.

"And you do?" Bewildered, Scott backed away from the glowing apparition and let Harrison take his place.

The slim hound answered Scott's question with a solemn nod as he gazed upon the hazy blue patch with a similar wonderment as a child. "And I'll know even more soon enough."

The cloud descended, and hovered in front of Harrison for a few moments, then surged forward, knocking the lanky canine off his feet as he became engulfed in the glowing aurora, but he didn't fall. Instead, Harrison was lifted several feet off the ground, where he hung in the air suspended by nothing at all. The glowing blue aurora began to fade, and Harrison sank back to the floor on his hands and knees, drained by the experience...

"Power, little soldier." the Cerinian's disembodied voice confirmed, "You've seen it before."

* Crack! *

A flash of blueish light silhouetted the the soldier's head before could finish, and his lifeless body collapsed to the ground as it went limp. Harrison was there on the other side, with an open hand extended where Buckley's head was a moment earlier. His eyes were ablaze with a searing blue light, and his face contorted in a ghastly grimace.

The three remaining soldiers snapped their assault rifles into fire-ready positions, all aimed directly at the crazed figure of Arno Harrison. Their discipline was solid, showing no fear given the unexpected turn of events, but they still hesitated a moment, and that moment was long enough...

The slim hound drew his lips back in a toothy grin as he brought his hands out in front, both of which ignited in a luminescent blue aurora.

* Crack! *

Claws of lightning erupted from his outstretched arms, striking each of the camo-clad figures in their faces before they had chance to fire. The jungle clearing shone brighter for a time, lit-up by Harrison's blazing arcs of electrostatic discharge. The soldiers' agonized cries of pain were barely heard, smothered over by the lightning's screech and crackle...

"But what you witnessed so long ago: it is only the smallest fraction of what is possible..."

That wasn't Harrow's voice this time. It was a woman's, someone Scott was afraid he'd never see again...

For the first time in a very long time, the dark terrier's features became, awash in a flurry of emotion. Anger and fear washed away, replaced by relief, fear, skepticism, but above all: hope. It was a strange kind of hope, one that he desperately wanted to be true, but also not...

"Chaks?"

Scott's voice was weak, trembling. The iron grip of his fist loosened, and all the rigid tension in his body went slack. Then he saw her...

It was little more than a silhouette at first, a dim outline in the ethereal blue glow. When Scott approached closer, nearly stumbling with every step, the outline assumed the form of Chakori Uncia. There was no mistake, it was her, in the flesh. The ashen leopardess may have been a little more haggard than when he last saw her, but it was in-fact her–

Something wasn't right...

It was the eyes. In Chakori's eyes was the very same pale glow of light that Arno Harrison had; the same glow that Harrow had. And the rest of her face: it was the blankest, most ghastly expressionless thing imaginable, like a traumatized thousand-yard stare, but it was more than that. Her features betrayed not one shred of emotion, not one hint of thought.

"Chaks, can ye hear me?" the terrier asked, his weak voice becoming far more desperate, "It's your Scott!"

The was no answer from Chakori, no response of any kind to Scott's presence. She simply continued to stare off into nothing.

"No..." Scott said, nearly a whisper, and shook his head, fighting back the despair and confusion, "No! This is some sort of trick!"

"Is it though?" Harrow's smug voice said, and the Cerinian himself then stepped out into view, further down the corridor.

All of the tension that had faded away and all of the rage that had dissipated returned to Scott at that vary instant. Without thinking, his sword was up, and he was already charging toward the blue-furred bastard with murder in his blood.

"RRAAAAAGH–"

He was stopped.

In the same instant, Scott found himself being flung backward several feet before landing heavily on his back. When he looked up, to both his horror and confusion, he found Chakori standing over him. The glow in her eyes had only gotten brighter, more ominous as she advanced toward the startled terrier, and drew her distinctive forward-deflected knife.

\

/

James McCloud ripped through Titania's Setarea desert, riding a hoverbike borrowed from Ashk'habat's group, with an assault rifle strapped to his back, sidearm at his hip, and survival knife on his belt. The sky had grown suddenly dark during the ride, with the sun lost further and further behind the moon Oberon every minute. It was now reduced to a dark reddish shade, but still with enough light to see by, for now at least.

For a while, it seemed like the featureless desert would stretch on for infinity: a flat plane of bloody rusty red that never changed, never ended, never began, but simply was. James knew the way he was supposed to go to reach the Krazoic ruins Ashk'habat discussed –east– and the compass on the hoverbike pointed him in that direction. If it were not for that simple means of navigation, it would've been so very easy to become lost in the infinite void, in the unending flat nothing. As it was though, it should simply be a matter of time.

Sure enough, some several minutes later, a tiny dot could be made out against the distant hazy horizon. It wasn't much at first, but it expanded and grew larger as James raced toward it, assuming the shape of a larger round-topped structure. It rose some fifty or more meters into the air, or so; scale was a little hard to make out at this distance...

There was something else.

In the sky, far above, another shape was beginning to take form, and a distant low rumble began to overcome the immediate scream of the hoverbike's engine. It was a starship, descending through the atmosphere. As James came nearer and nearer to the Krazoic ruins, and the ship descended further, he soon recognized the shape and silhouette of the descending vessel: the Schwarzwind, Captain Jäeger's ship.

In a few minutes' time, James found himself within the Krazoic ruins, surrounded by broken walls and crumbling stone. He parked the hoverbike next to the large round structure and dismounted, rubbing his tired squinting eyes, and uncomfortably understanding why the riders always wore their goggles. He looked up at the structure, getting a better look. It was shaped something like a primate's head, but it was all somehow alien, foreign, elusive... He couldn't shake the feeling that there was something just not about the whole thing.

The Schwarzwind descended even lower over the ruins now, its massive g-diffusers painting the the dry cooling air with a roar as it hovered overhead. Then another far smaller shape had emerged from the Schwarzwind, and descended rapidly toward the ground with a much higher-pitched whine that grew louder as it approached. Jame's ears pricked up, he immediately recognized the whine of that drive: twin Space Dynamics Shooting-Star plasma thrusters, ones the Cooenys finally installed on the Mercutio, but only after James had insisted, relentlessly, and for many months, that the old bird desperately needed an upgrade.

Rick was aboard the tiny spacecraft, no doubt about it. What could he be bringing to the party here?

The answer would come soon enough, since a few moments later the Mercutio touched down at a flat portion of the ruins, blowing some dust into the air as the craft settled. The boarding ramp went down, and three figures disembarked: two James recognized, and one he did not...

"Jim?!" the raccoon greeted, his voice and face plastered in astonishment, "What're you doing here?"

"I'd ask you the same thing..." James began, but then noticed the others who were accompanying Cooney, "Umm... Rick?"

"Yeah?"

"Did I miss something?" the fox asked, pointing out the white wolf in particular, "Are we friends now, or something?"

On hearing this, that wolf stepped forward. He was dressed mainly in plain street-clothes, but also sported a military-style harness with enough firepower to hold his own in a firefight.

"Oh right, I remember this guy: the grumpy pilot." Wiley said as he looked over James, "Didn't you try to kill me?"

"No." James denied, growing irritated, "You were the one who tried to kill me, after you killed the rest of my squad! Rick, what the hell is he doing here?!" the fox demanded.

"This is not the time–"

"After the shit he pulled, you're working with him now, like nothing happened?!" James interrupted.

"If you got something to say, feel free to say it to my face, you self-righteous little bitch!" Wiley barked, stepping between Rick and James, leering at the fox "They're dead, people die, get over it!"

"Enough!" someone else shouted. It was a woman's voice, someone James didn't know, and somehow carried more weight than a voice ought to...

The voice belonged to a middle aged vulpine woman, with gray fur. There was something about her though that didn't quite feel right...

"We cannot afford to bicker among ourselves," the mysterious old vixen continued, putting herself in the middle of the commotion, "not when we have greater challenges in front of us."

"And who are you, exactly?" James asked her, more than a little suspicious.

"I am Cassandra, another one of Mr. Cooney's new friends..." she answered, taking a good long look at McCloud before adding, quietly, "He didn't mention you... strange..."

Before James could ask what was so strange, Rick stepped in, and steered James away from the others, "Jim it's... kind of a long story. I'll fill you in later. So, where's everyone else?"

As if in response, three different engines closed in all at once. One was the Havoc fighter flying overhead, along with the heavily armed shuttle from Cerberus –the one that had been sitting in the sand– flying alongside. A trio of screaming hoverbikes closed in as well: Ashk'habat and two of his cloaked riders.

"Whoa there Jimmy!" Peppy'd voice barked in over the comm. He was in Scott's Havoc fighter again, "You didn't think we were gonna let you go out here all by your lonesome, were ya?"

"I see the gang's all back together again." Rachelle observed via the same comm channel, "I've got Pigma with me on the shuttle, he's manning the guns." and at that, the turret on the hovering shuttle swiveled all the way around.

At the same time, Ashk'habat and his men dismounted, and the towering reptile approached James, with a look of great concern on his face, "You are brave to pursue your wayward comrade," he said in his raspy, accented voice, "but rash to do so alone, especially in this cursed place."

"You must be Ashk'habat." Rick observed.

"And you must be the other Cooney." The towering reptilian responded in-kind, "Your sister made mention of you, and there is resemblance between your faces."

"I get that a lot, but anyway; wayward comrade you say?" the raccoon asked.

"Scott's here, somewhere..." James explained over his shoulder, already looking around the darkened ruins, "He slipped away from us and came here on his own, going after Harrow we're pretty sure." in his brief search, the fox found patches of recently scuffled sand, leading into the entrance of the large head-shaped structure, "He's gotta be inside here–"

A sudden feeling of dread washed over James McCloud, seemingly without cause. It was like he had seen something horrible, something downright wrong, but couldn't place the source. The simple fact that he couldn't identify the fear was unsettling by itself...

You are too late.

There was a voice, but he did not hear it in his ears. He knew this voice, heard it before, in a nightmare...

"You okay, Jim?" he heard Rick ask, and he came to his senses. He was standing right next to McCloud, looking at him with that same old patronizing look James had grown to know all too well. It was the 'I know something isn't right and you can't deny it' look.

All of your efforts, your steadfast toil: it has been in vain.

"We're wasting time standing around!" James growled as he unslung the rifle strapped across his back, and stepped toward the entrance, "Come on, let's go!"

"No Jim, wait!" Rick called out.

"What?!"

When James McCloud snapped around to face Rick, he was changed. His steel blue eyes glared with a razor sharpness, brow low and solid. Rick had seen that sort of look recently, in Scott, as he was slowly gnawed at by revenge.

"Jim, just... listen to me." Rick implored, trying hard not to sound pushy as he made his points, "Harrow is going to get inside your head, make you see things, hear things, feel things that aren't true. He will claw his way into your mind and find ways to confuse you, make you forget yourself, drive you insane, and Lyla only knows what else. That's what he does. That's how he takes on forces far greater than himself. That's how he has endured as long as he has, against all odds–"

"If you've got a point Rick, then make it." James spat back at the raccoon.

How to explain to him?

James hadn't had the revealing experiences that Rick and Wiley had with Cassandra: experiences that prepared them for this very encounter. As far as Richard Cooney was concerned, the young vulpine pilot simply wasn't ready to face Harrow, not any more ready than the slain Cerberus crew was. The risks here were too great: James would be a major liability going up against Harrow.

There were also the more personal reasons, ones which Rick tried to ignore...

"...That's why I can't ask you to come with me after Harrow." the raccoon finally said,

There was a moment, however brief, that James seemed as though he might relent, but that moment was gone in an instant.

The fox's steely gaze only hardened as he said in a quiet grumble, "You don't have to ask."

He turned away from Rick, and simply marched right on inside the entrance on his own.

"Somehow, that guy doesn't quite strike me as the walk-away-from-a-mission type." Wiley said offhand as James disappeared into the structure.

"True, that one has a strong will, very strong." Cassandra agreed.

"I know..." Rick said with an aggravated sigh, shaking his head, "and it's going to get him killed."

He stopped himself.

This wasn't the time to get frustrated by the fickle tendencies of emotionally confounded people. That's just how people work sometimes. This was instead the time to focus, time to make up a plan on the fly... What were the immediate circumstances? 1) Harrow and Scott were inside the foreboding looking structure, their current situation unknown, likely not good. 2) Jim just went inside, should be easy enough to catch up with him. 3) Cassandra and Wiley were outside, along with Ashk'habat and his two companions. 4) Above was Peppy in the Havoc fighter, along with Rachelle and Pigma in the revived assault shuttle from Cerberus. Higher above was the privateer vessel Schwarzwind, looming over the whole scene.

Time to go to work...

"Wiley, get yourself in there, now." Rick ordered, "Make sure Jim doesn't do something dumb, and... try not to provoke him."

"This just keeps getting better and better, doesn't it?" the wolf scoffed as he went inside, arming himself with the handgun at his belt.

Rick turned to Cassandra next, who seemed to already have a response.

"I cannot confront Haran directly." She began, shaking her head slowly, "He has become too powerful, too unstable, and I was never meant for battle. Yet, Haran must be stopped."

"I'm not asking you to fight." Rick assured her.

"Nor do I intend to." Cassandra confirmed, then gave the raccoon just enough of a smile to dispel any further doubts, "Do not worry, Cooney. I will do what I can to help, but I must do so from out here."

Rick gave the older Cerinian a knowing nod, and addressed the silent towering reptile next.

"Ashk'habat, Can you keep her safe until we return?" the raccoon asked, motioning toward Cassandra.

"I will guard her as I would guard my own." he assured, giving a small nod in acknowledgement.

Cassandra, Ashk'habat and his riders made their way to the landed Mercutio. The desert would get very cold very quickly at night, and they'd need the shelter.

Without missing a moment, Rick activated the small earpiece comm and tuned into the channel those flying above him were using, "Rachelle, Pigma, Peppy, I need you to regroup aboard Schwarzwind, but stay ready. If there's any nasty surprises on their way to meet us, I want you to be the first ones to punch that surprise in the gut."

"Heh, cute imagery for a dull task." Rachelle replied with a little chuckle.

"You sure y'all don't want us down there?" Peppy asked.

"I'm sure." Rick answered, then turned off his comm before adding, "I'm very sure."

Cooney looked up into the now nearly black sky, watching as the two airborne spacecraft ascended away from the scene toward Schwarzwind.

Rick closed his eyes a moment, and simply listened.

With the conversations over, and the whine of engines dying away, it grew very quiet at the ruins. There was little else besides the distant rumble of Schwarzwind, and the gentle whistle of wind and blowing sand...

When he opened his eyes again, Rick was looking straight at his hallucinated duplicate –his "shadow" as Cassandra had called him– and his shadow was looking right back.

There were no words exchanged. Rick simply gave his doppelgänger a pleased little smirk, and started walking toward the entryway, where the faint bluish glow was all the more visible amidst the growing darkness. With a sense of cool-headed purpose in his step, the raccoon descended into the Krazoic structure, side-by-side with his all-too troublesome shadow.

This time, however, the doppelgänger would help in causing just the sort of trouble they'd need.

Author Notes:

Aaaaaand we're finally hitting the home stretch of this story arc!

Like a lot of my chapters so far, this one was going to be part of a much longer chapter, but it swelled. Besides, I want to give the upcoming climax (next chapter, I swear!) the full attention and awesomeness it deserves.

EDIT: Oh, and Jedelas' insightful review on 1/27/13 made me come to a conclusion, one that has prompted a little minor editing at a few key points, and I feel the chapter has come out better for it. Thanks a bunch Jedelas, really appreciate it!

As always, your feedback, whatever it may be, is most welcome.