The Colour Purple Chapter 41: un innocent rêver, a king of fighters fanfic

The Colour Purple... The King of Fighters '95

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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 written 2013]

A forgiving God? Mayhaps a friendly God? Perhaps a God who was willing to overlook any trespass a mortal man may commit while on his time on Earth, for as long as these men were able to surrender hypocritely? For certain… "For certain," the blonde haired, arrogant, evil Rugal answered himself when he paced back and forth in that vast, heavy curtained abyss – his heaven in the sky of his own.

For the sole purpose to none other than bitterly spite God, to aggravate and humiliate that higher power. Rugal Bernstein constructed that man made flying fortress, 'Black Noah' in the sky, that kingdom he lived in above all the peons below, so he would be able catch God's attention. By walking in the clouds this man wanted to defy [it] - eventhough the lord decided long ago that men would NEVER be allowed to live in the sky without wings – Rugal did so arrogantly, while encased in a metal winged castle that floated up high – so try as he may, the God could not ignore him. By flying in the sky amongst the realm where only angels could tread, he wanted to accumulate the scorn of deities.

That man does not belong here – that mortal does not deserve to be among us.

"Oh but I do now!" Rugal sneered. "And what will you do about it?" How disgusting it must be for you to see a mortal man to be amongst you divine, beautiful people!? As I drink my wine – as I partake in my hedonism… with all of YOU.

Rugal turned the pages on an old brown tattered notebook. According to the Israelites, a vengeful God had demanded Abraham sacrifice his son, Isaac, to him. That is the God I believe in. As the Old Testament described, a vengeful, yet fair God. A God of order and determination that ruled with stern iron. It was not this, this man made God who was soft, kind, and forgiving of ignorance or weakness. Yes, the true God was a king who made all right – and that justice was not to come about from weakness. The God who was spineless and welcoming was nothing more than an illusion, an ILLUSION that weak men made to cajole their peers and huddle amongst their weakness. Believing in an ideal that it was perfectly acceptable to be sinful and be full of lies.

No, the true God was summoned to the Earth by Abraham's PAINFUL, HORRID and DISMEMBERING sacrifice to kill his own son. AND – if I were to accumulate in this world, a similar power, a similar pain – God too would not deny me an audience.

"…and this is my purpose." Rugal said, then he tucked his pen and closed the book.

So, in order to force God's hand, a hand that mayhaps swore not to intervene directly in the matters of men, Rugal wanted to coax God to appear before him, and try to strike him DOWN. "If you want to punish me, God, then you must first show your face to me, again!" If I gather for you, a myriad of human souls so enstrangled with pain… If each of them cried loudly – then you would have no choice but to appear to quell their sorrows.

…

If…

"If you beat me... I… Then – Then – I will devote my life to YOU, you MOTHERFUCKING son of a bitch." Robert spat out.

…

"Robert!" a female voice called out softly, but firmly, trying to pull him out of that dark box. "Robert! Wake up!" she repeated again and again. His pitch-black world began to shake – at first slowly and calmly, then when he didn't respond, the tremors began to move in controlled, slightly violent bursts. With enough force to keep his mind focused, but not so much that it would disembowel his mind from his body as the old wives tales always warned.

"Robert… Hey Robert," she said again, reeling him in closer, cautiously like a fisherman's afternoon.

The hard, cold floor that the back of his cranium nestled upon felt strangely soft and comforting now. This young, 19 year old body stopped moving and it was finally over, perhaps. He was not entirely sure what had transpired moments ago, but now he was lying on the ground without as much as a care in the world, and that was sufficient comfort in itself. It was dark again even with eyes wide open – so as an answer, he simply closed those eyes. In there too was a similar darkness, but when he breathed deeply through his nostrils, filled his lungs slowly, purposely, a warm glow radiated throughout his chest, and his mind began to wander; he imagined a place so much different then the place he was now. As he slowly sank in that cold quagmire of a SouthTown floor, he imagined instead, a simply lit glass skylight that selectively highlighted sections of that lobby. The pixie dust, and clumps of monkeys reflected the light, then disappeared in due time.

Robert breathed in through his nose, and then exhaled slowly out his mouth. He opened his eyes and let in a warm glow - a flavor of tranquil peacefulness. In front of him his friend, Yuri, crossed her arms and pouted as she looked down at Robert who comfortably lay in the black leather sofa, just awoken from his light slumber.

"You okay, Robert?" Yuri sighed when she turned round, buried her hands in her apron and returned to her chores to prepare for opening time – just like another day.

Robert tilted his head to the side, caught in between, his forearm and the back of his hand was draped over his forehead to block the sun that burned his eyes that had been kept in darkness for what seemed like a decade now. Robert looked to the side, his eyelids half shut. He simply stared at Yuri, carefully he looked at her feet and his eyes walked up her back and shoulders when she walked away, trying to understand if what he was seeing was real - trying to parse what was happening. Where he was and what was happening. He looked over to Yuri and just locked his gaze in a peculiar stare that Yuri didn't know what to make of.

It was 4 PM in the afternoon, in the kingdom of La Bijoux. The year was 1993 again.

A wedge of silence remained between them. Yuri was not sure if Robert had that look that seemed like he was expecting an answer. "Didn't you hear me?" Robert murmured. Yuri only tilted her head to the side, smirked in confusion. In Robert's mind he had said it out loud, but it never did escape his lips.

Thank goodness. I thought I'd lost you, Yuri.

"Mmmoohh!" Yuri pouted, she scratched the back of her head violently in frustration. "What?! You're catching Ryosuke-oniichan's (big bro's) bad habit! Stop talking with your mouth shut!"

Robert grinned. He supposed he was. He had hung around her brother for far too long... too long for him to even remember.

"You okay, Robert?" Yuri asked now, starting up a conversation while she continued the last of her chores for this section of the lobby. "You were twisting around like you were having a nightmare (or an afternoon-mare, whichever way you look at it)."

Yuri lifted a chair that lay upside down on the table in front of her, turned it round and placed it properly on the ground. "Did you have a bad dream?" she asked.

Robert returned his forearm over his brow like an awning and just smiled.

"No," he replied. Robert replied to her, to him, to the world, and to everyone and everything that he had almost forgotten from a decade lost a long time ago. "I was having a wonderful dream," he beamed widely, brightly, and ever so nostalgically – back from a place he thought he had lost to the cruel tasks of time.

What a wonderful dream… and in that dream, Yuri Sakazaki, we were ALL there, and we were innocent, and we were happy. Because the world was ours, and ours alone.

Chapter 41: un innocent rêver

{WHEN DID THIS 'ALL' START? WAS IT BACK 'THEN'?}

The man loomed over his small body, and with both hands perched up above his head, his shadow covered the boy. With both hands he swung that wooden baseball bat down at the boy's body. GET UP. But he couldn't; instead, he rolled his body to the side and put one arm over the other. The cross block was the only thing that saved him and prevented that bat from crushing his ribs.

If this was everyday for me? If this was the way I lived my life. It was with great love that my father. I love him. It was with great pride, he would say to me. It was with great love and with tender, yet firm, harshness, he told me…

Back then – at that time, I felt cold, and with a blind sense of purpose. Suddenly, only [i] existed in this world. Here, there was no one else in this throne in the sky. I ceased to give a shit anymore!

{JUST WHEN DID I FIRST BECOME AWARE OF THIS SENSATION?}

"Get up. You can't stop…" He warned. "In the real world, if you stop, then you will die. Don't you understand that?" My father kicked me in the gut. Even when I was on all fours on the ground, helpless and grasping for breath.

Do you know? He said to me. Do you know what will happen if you lay on the ground when four bloody thugs gang up on you? He berated me eventhough I was the victim, and [i] was on the ground. With just enough force to not permanently cave in my lungs he sent his heel down to my chest to remind this young 9 year old boy that if he were to fall unconscious, it would not be an escape from reality. I couldn't simply sleep and escape from this…

Do you know? He said to me. Two of them will pin down your arms, then the other two will slowly take turns GUTTING you with rusty knives. …and even if you scream, and even if you beg… They will fucking laugh. They – will – just - not – STOP. They will have no mercy on you!

…and I won't be able to save you.

Back then – at that time, I felt RAGE. A fiery red bloody clawing screaming rage.

{OR WAS IT 'THAT' TIME,}

"ENOUGH! I can't take it anymore, Papa!" I said. With that kitchen knife in my hand, I pulled my head aside by my hair and placed that cold blade next to my neck. "NO MORE! ENOUGH! ENOUGH!" the seven year old boy cried.

But instead, [his] answer sent a cold shock through my already weak body.

"Fine," my father said. Cold and uncaring, he simply turned around and sat on his chair nonchalantly, legs crossed from the far side of the room as I stood by the doorframe, legs shivering. "Fine, if you want to do it… then DO it, but let me warn you," he said, "Let me assure you, that if you do [it], there is NO guarantee, that I will be the [wrong] one."

Sometimes, to prove that you were RIGHT, you simply have to prove that everyone else was WRONG. That I believed. However, if you choose this road, then you are a coward.

There is no guarantee that you will die a saint, that people will revere you if you take your own life.

Without a retort, without a firm, reasonable reply, because I was young and ignorant, my will folded, my knees buckled and I couldn't do anything else. I knelt helplessly and instead, cried yet again.

{WHEN I FIRST FELT [IT] OVERCOME ME?}

So I screamed. I screamed so loud, until I couldn't think anymore, I SCREAMED SO LOUDLY TO DEAFEN MYSELF, that I couldn't hear anymore, and nothing else mattered. I couldn't breathe, because – I came to realize that he was [right]. He was [right] once again.

Back then – at that time, I felt pity. I pitied myself, and felt a sense of helplessness, because I was wrong, it was my fault. It was MY fault that I was born this way.

{WHEN I FIRST FELT [IT] CONSUME ME…}

A small statured Asian woman looked outside the window, perhaps fondly, or maybe wistfully, but her fingers that slowly and constantly crumpled the edge of blanket on her lap seemed to tell another story. Dressed in hospital garb, she looked to the side, holding her breath when a brunette haired nurse entered her hospital room, with a tiny bundle in her hands.

"How are you ma'am?" she asked in a familiar nasal accent. A British tone and manner.

Ignoring the question, she instead turned her attention to the Caucasian nurse who brought an innocent baby wrapped in satin to her. "Is my son healthy?" she asked, in concern, in a worried, tense manner.

"Ma'am… I'm so sorry… but…" the nurse replied in a comforting tone.

From behind the glass window outside that room, I looked in, and I couldn't hear the nurse speak – I couldn't hear. I stood outside, and couldn't hear the words that made that Asian mother put her curled fist over her mouth in crumpled defeat. She tried her best not to cry. Instead she held that baby apologetically in her arms, pulled it close by her face, let her cheeks warm the child's own.

"I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry," was what she said. For all that she was worth, she tried her best, only wanting the best for her child, for her family, she prayed so hard, but instead – this was her reward. This was the reward, from that cruel, senseless, merciless God. This was a God that she prayed to, revered, and rushed to when she was all but lost – if only to receive one sliver of mercy just this one time, but instead, it was for naught. She couldn't reverse the gears of sorrow that made the world turn.

"Please," she begged, "Don't tell my husband yet…"

"Tell me what?" a man walked, broad shouldered and calm faced into that hospital room that I looked into, watching a silent movie. As I looked, I simply watched, my open palms pushing against the cold glass - and despite my dereigned desire, I couldn't do ANYTHING to change the flow of fate. I simply watched, helpless, as the world unfolded without my permission.

"Mister..." No, that was not it, the nurse caught herself, half bowing her head. "S… Sir Knight." A title, so commonly used by Americans, it had lost its true meaning, but here, in this town, it held a certain grandness of high culture and valoured history.

"Tell me." The man, of noble military lineage, dubbed British Royal Knight by none other than the Queen commanded flatly.

"Sir…" the nurse replied, uncertain. When she looked to the child's mother, the Asian woman looked to the other side, hid her face, downcast in the dark in shame.

Again, from the other side of the glass window, I heard nothing. That nurse put her hands on her chest, and in and out of turn, she would reach out, pleading to the Knight. However, he would hear none of it. With a downcast shadow that draped his face, he forcefully took his son in his own arms and walked to the far side of the room without another word. His face was sour, disappointed, and somewhat bitter – contorted.

A Royal British Knight, a man who would have gladly laid his life down for his country, he was an honourable man who could do no wrong, but now it was so HORRIBLE, that he would be punished this way.

He set himself on one knee and laid his son on the cold floor, then plainly walked away. Despite the nurse's distress, his mother said nothing.

{WAS 'THIS' THE FIRST TIME?}

With a helpless feeling of being alone, without the warmth and love around him, the baby's face contorted and trembled, and finally erupted into a shriek bawl. Crying so loud, so loud, he cried, yet no one came to his aid. There was no one who would hold him or comfort him. He cried, until his lungs became hoarse and dry. Then at that one distinct moment…

The prince of fighting – trained since his birth? [What does that even mean?] As the baby cried, they set him on the floor, separated him from his mother. They left him crying on that cold floor, so he would UNDERSTAND how cruel the world was. How from the very beginning, he had to provide himself with his own love?

Then at that moment – when the last of his breath left his lungs and he could wail no longer. His mouth was wide open, and no sound came out, in this simple way, with eyes wide open, the wide world entrapping him, he came to realize…

I suddenly realized…

{THIS WAS THE FIRST TIME, I TRULY FELT THE INSANITY.}

…

"What time is it Yuri-chan?" Robert asked.

"It's 4 PM," Yuri said, "We had a half day at school today," she was quick to append to her original statement. "So I thought to help with set up early."

"Oh… OK." Robert breathed, covering his eyes again with his forearm. He turned his body and faced the backrest of the black leather sofa. "Wake me up around 5:30 before game time, Yuri-chan."

"AaaH-AHH!" Yuri scolded, finger pointed condescendingly as if she was lecturing a three year old. "You can't sleep, you have to help out! You've slept enough Robert!"

"Sorry… sorry, but..." Robert mumbled as he snuggled and buried his face into the dark cushion that welcomed him eagerly. "Sorry, but – there's someone who needs my help right now." Robert waved his hand playfully to say goodbye, then it floated down and was soon beyond sight, as the sun sets, his hand sank and was hidden by his turned body. The only thing that was left to Yuri was Robert's backside as he faded again into the clutches of a darkness that touched all, and offered no spite nor criticism.

There's someone very important who needs my help right now.

…

The hard, cold floor that the back of his cranium nestled upon felt strangely soft and comforting now. His young, 19 year old body stopped moving and it was finally over perhaps. He was not entirely sure what had transpired moments ago, but now he was lying on the ground without as much as a care in the world, and that was sufficient comfort in itself. It was dark again and suddenly he felt a heavy weight fall back into his body, the mass, like a tanker trailer crushed his midsection and his eyes ripped themselves forcefully wide open.

WAKE UP, boy.

Robert began to hyperventilate. He inhaled frantically, repeatedly, but his body had forgotten how to exhale. His spine curled up to an arch, shoulder blades were locked helplessly in place. His mind seemed like it was fully awake, but he couldn't move. His thoughts were flowing but for some reason his commands couldn't reach down to his extremities.

What was happening? The young 19 year old Robert was not sure. He laid on the ground and was unable to move. {It's OK. It's okay.} Robert convinced his body as he unlocked one tense vertebrae from its neighbor, finally relaxing and conforming to the reassuring hard floor.

{STAY with me, boy.}

What had happened? {What a wonderful dream.} Robert smiled. He dreamed that he had just awoken from a deep slumber, freed himself from a lonely prison. There to greet him in that lazy afternoon, was a young lady that looked like Yuri Sakazaki – looked as if she had been able to grow up to a fine young lady of about his age. Robert smiled to himself, jokingly. {I wonder,} Robert began to muse playfully to himself, I wonder if that's how Yuri would look if she was my age? 16? 18 maybe? She looks so cute.

{HEY, are you alive?! Boy!}

Even grown up, she's still so hard to handle. {I'd go out with her in a heartbeat!} Robert grinned as if he lay in a puff cloud paradise, eventhough the floor was hard, cold and cruel. {I'm so happy. Maybe that dream was a good omen.} What was that place though? She was setting up tables, in a wide lobby, and I just napped on a sofa as if nothing could ever harm us. As if all this never happened – as if we were liberated from our pain, as if we had destroyed all monsters, as if all this sorrow would one day become fleeting and inconsequential.

{Ah…} the young Robert sighed as his heavy eyelids slowly began to flutter shut, rolling his shoulders relaxed. {Maybe it will be okay…}

{GET UP! If you don't YOU'LL DIE YOU FUCKER!} Robert heard his own voice slam into the back wall inside his skull. {STAND the fuck, UP!}

Robert grit his teeth and pried his eyes open.

In the exact instant, he commanded his right hand to pull back, just in time to prevent it from being crushed and permanently maimed underfoot. Prince's shoe missed its target. No rest for the weary, Robert threw both arms up and placed both hands on either sides of his head with elbows facing up.

Robert thrust his hips up on instinct and reverse cartwheeled his lower body up and over his head. The prince's foot only hit air as he continued his attack to where the side of Robert's head once was as he laid helplessly half-conscious on the floor.

Robert's mind was a few steps behind, so his body had no other option but revert back to muscle memory, just barely dodging his enemy's cruel finishing blows. Gritting his teeth, tensing his midsection, Robert tilted his right hip up from his face down 'push-up' position. With a mind of its own, his left elbow stabbed into his own belly 90 degrees and lifted his chest up. Left leg cut across the ground like a blade, instantly his right foot thrust up. His left hand crumpled into the ground, and now his entire back was on the ground. Both his feet were now in the air, like helicopter propellers twisting continuously and the back of his spine arched, spinning on the ground like a top.

Even half conscious and just moments from his utter demise – while not as polished or refined, Robert was able to mimic the windmill recovery strategy slightly, before his arm failed him and he folded into himself and crumpled back into the ground.

Despite the failure, it was enough – the display had sufficiently horrified his enemy and gave them enough running distance. It was the windmill recovery Prince had executed moments past, and he was, somewhat, able to replicate it in similar fashion from only seeing it once. What took the prince three years to accomplish, he did it from one viewing! Even if he didn't believe in geniuses, or God given talent, he could maybe respect the fruits of someone who was about to see the end. Robert simply grinned slyly in order to recover fragments of his pride and shuffled to a stand. His knees wobbled and his hands trembled when they placed them on his thighs to support him as he pitifully tried to stand.

Prince's eyes gawked widely in what could be no other than simple and plain disbelief. Without a pause, he put his hands up and retreated immediately from Robert who was now in perpetual motion. Prince shuffled back and leapt with three wide lunges to retreat, putting almost 20 yards between them. He was unsure now, but was not willing to take any chances in the event that Robert could somehow execute an irresponsible desperate attack that may actually damage him. He left no avenue of possibility - he had thoroughly calculated it out. For a 'normal' human being, 20 FEET, endearingly called 'stabbing distance' is the average maximum distance that the human aggressor's body can cover before a defender's reaction time can respond to an instantaneous attack. At 20 YARDS, even if Prince humoured the idea that Robert held some respectable superhuman ability he had yet to reveal, at three times the human reaction distance it was impossible for Robert to launch an attack wherein he couldn't execute a pre-calculated response.

However, if Robert didn't take action soon, the prince decided that he would instead be the aggressor. Not leaving Robert the luxury to recover, he could span the 20 yards easily. Even if Robert had been able to recover from the last attack, it would be the LAST. From Robert's labored gasps, dropping eyelids and shaking fists, it was obvious to Prince. It looked as if Robert had been stabbed and lost enough blood to paint his entire bar. He knew the feeling well, Prince's kick was no different from a cleaver cutting into Robert's shoulder, and it was only a matter of time before he would lose consciousness. What was perplexing was how Robert could be still awake, as if something else was holding him up?

He had to stop and balance himself. Robert put his hands up in a fighting stance one last time, he begged. He smiled and thanked the voice that willed him awake before the prince could maim him forever when he lay in a stupor.

"Give me a break." Robert chuckled, clenching his right hand to ensure that his enemy hadn't damaged it when he stomped down mercilessly. "What's this thing you have with kicking people while they're down, man?" While not perfect, this could be enough to keep himself standing a little bit longer. Robert locked his knees to keep him stable.

…

Do you know - no one, has ever tried this hard to FIGHT me, said the prince from heaven.