The Colour Purple Chapter 42: le petit prince & liaison sans lendemain, a king of fighters fanfic

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

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 2016]

Do you know - no one, has ever tried this hard to FIGHT me.

"If you are tired, and weary… Why don't you stay the night? Just this one time."

Chapter 42: le petit prince [&] liaison sans lendemain

"Who said you could stop? Keep your hands up." His father commanded.

Was it always like this? Had it always been like this? This little prince's breathing became so labored and heavy - his shoulders bobbed up and down in sync with his purposeful, deep breaths. He bit down hard on his plastic mouth guard to keep his arms from shaking from the mounting fatigue. To him, he recalled... it was always like this for as long as he could remember. For me, fighting was the same as suffering, and he would suffer alone, suffer only in silence.

His father's hands held thick padded, red focus mitts that he punched forward continuously, and when his small body began to grow tired, those mitts would find its mark and slap him on top of his head with stinging insult. The father would hit his son on the head – was he just a dog, no better than a lost, petty mongrel, he thought? Devoid of pride.

"Hands up, kid." Right here! The left mitt swung quickly horizontally hooking overhead cutting a line at eye height. For you and me, we would have simply cowered in fear, covered our eyes and cringed to the side when subjected to such rabid violence, BUT, as easily as you and I would have scratched our bellies on a fine summer day, Prince bent his knees as second nature.

With a simple command, his body obeyed faithfully, even if the joints on his arms and legs were about to tear apart into tattered shreds; his 12 year old body was nurtured, with great care and also, with great unforgiving agony it was conditioned. Perfectly. The boy lowered his entire frame while keeping his torso upright, dodging and weaving to the right. Countering the blow, he heaved forward and delivered a resounding right hook, booming into the center of his father's padded armor. Even from that small body, that attack would have been more than enough to fold a normal grown man in half. That thundering hook hungrily sucked in the air from around the pair to fill the void at the point of impact.

"Your body may not be as large or as strong as most fighters," his father said, never slowing his barrage. The right mitt swung around before stopping mid flight, retracting and changing course from a feinting hook to now shooting directly forward mimic a cross to his son's head. This little prince's small-framed body was mercilessly conditioned for American Kickboxing. In one fluid motion, the young prince put his left arm in front of his face while twisting his entire body, never stopping and swung his right leg – in that one swinging arc, he blocked his father's right cross and simultaneously unleashed a kick into his enemy's side like an arcing axe. Defense, perpetual motion, then counter. An infinite loop of commands happening all at once… However, despite the idea that no part of his brain was left unused in order to command the complex marionette, his mind still had the facilities to scream frantically.

{Why did I have to be BORN this way?}

"That's it." His father yelled. "That's it!" Again and again, over and over until it was second nature. Until all you could do was fight every waking moment. Until FIGHTING became unto you, more important than eating or sleeping. Until the day that came, when you didn't care anymore. Or perhaps like driving your car, washing your clothes, cleaning your house – just like that, fighting, it would become inconsequential and it would hold no emotional attachment nor would it have any reason to have a deeper meaning.

UGHGH! The boy grunted to blend into the flow, following up his previous attack, to send his opposite fist to hook into his father's midsection.

"Even if you're not as strong as those other boys, even if you're small and they think you weak, you HAVE to keep going." His father reminded. "You must SHOW them, that with every attack they present to you, that it is [meaningless] to you…"

A kick to the shin – it didn't matter - the child would step in fearlessly, stopping it mid flight with a raised shin made of steel, halving its energy, then swinging punches twice left and right, finishing with a penetrating side kick. If his father curled in and launched an uppercut, he would cross his small arms over his body, heave forward, PUSH down with his hands wide open and use the same momentum used to attack him to instead propel his light body skywards, jump as high as he could to reduce his disadvantage in height, at an IMPOSSIBLE angle to squarely hit the side of his father's head, 6 feet above, where that red focus mitt waited eagerly, despite it being improbably towering for a 12 year old boy to reach.

That sweet sound of flesh hitting that padded glove. That sweet resounding thump was always there. When bone hit flesh, rocking his enemy's body. "Not only must you destroy their bodies…" he said over and over and over again.

His small chest heaved in and out because it wanted to suck in the last of that oxygen from that small room. Fighting since BIRTH. This is likely what it meant.

"…you MUST destroy their SPIRIT," his father declared.

Fighting was simply like clockwork. The little boy swung his left jab and right hook again at his father's command with the affirmative response from the padded focus mitts.

"In the end, fighting can be broken down to efficiency, consistency and reliability.

At the lower levels you can only see obtuse, and flashy moves. However, when you reach a certain level of proficiency, this dance ceases to remain a flashy drama... it became about the perfection of fundamentals. Typically when you reach a certain level, it only boils down to who can last longer, react faster and the loser will always be the first to make a mistake."

The Knight. Stabbing the toes from his one foot downwards, pulling back but then unleashing the other instead deceptively, a quick switch kick hit Prince's left thigh with a terrible force and made it buckle. He had grown too tired, and had become careless. Still reeling from the blow the boy carelessly attacked with a wide swing that missed it mark as the left side of his body trembled. As further mockery, the red glove slapped him squarely on his temple, temporarily blurring his vision. The boy switched sides and attacked with his other hand wildly, blindly, this time, to make the child UNDERSTAND his wasted movements that did nothing but insult the grown man, a merciless spinning back kick from the Knight made his son fold in half and propelled him to the concrete wall with no apologies.

Prince's body became a rocket when it hurtled rearwards at the sudden, violent impact, only to be stopped just as ferociously by the cold wall when his lower back penetrated into it. From his lower back his body crumpled, his spine, shoulders then finally the back of his skull whiplashed back onto the hard surface that refused to give way and rocked his cranium. The pain shocked his body all at once with a cutting, buckling wave of nausea. No, wait, perhaps this wasn't pain anymore. Inertia would have its revenge as it always did, when his moving body came to a complete halt the jolt tore him inside out. Why must I suffer like this? He groaned, coughed and cried when the sweat from his cheeks leapt from his skin and rejoiced in freedom – slowly – eyes wide, slowly, mouth wide agape in weak surrender. Silently, he asked – why?

{Was it… always…} he questioned, trying valiantly to keep his eyeballs from ripping from its sockets as he was thrown back. When his head rocked back and cracked the back of his skull against the hard unyielding wall with a sound painful to hear, beads of crimson blood were a cheap price.

Not only must you destroy their bodies - With every attack, you must defend, and answer with three more successive, critical counters. Make them realize that it doesn't matter what they do - they are INSIGNIFICANT - and you will CRUSH their spirit.

"Don't you dare cry…" his father warned. "Don't you dare…"

In fighting you must not only destroy a man's body you have to also crush his spirit. With every attack he delivers, you have to reply with 3 to counter. Make him feel as if there is nothing he can do. The child slithered limp onto the ground.

Prince knew he had to move, he had to get up and this was no time to rest spasming, wide eyed on the ground. If he stayed still he would just fall deeper, deeper into that silent, yet peaceful abyss. The man calmly undid the Velcro straps on his mitts and tossed them to the side. He walked to the side of the room and pulled out a long object from a tall box in the closet the far side. So dark, and calm. That place? What was that place? He slung it lazily over his shoulder before turning and walking at a leisurely pace towards his son who breathed frantically, hands and arms reaching out to balance his body. The weapons that hung on the wall, the row of closets, then the rack of abused equipment, they started to disappear as the abyss consumed it.

"In truth, humans are built with two hands, two elbows, a pair of feet and knees and a head," the boy silently murmured, mouthed, mimicked his father as he lectured. "At least in striking, there are only a limited number of moves a normally built man can perform. If you can break down each section and have a prompt and effective reply to each, there is conceivably nothing you cannot counter. If you are superior in that way, are Consistent, Efficient and Confident…" then there is no way a man can defeat you.

The distinct, crisp lines of the dojo around the boy began to fade – the lines became blurred as he found himself in a foreign, yet, welcoming 'place'. He kept on talking to himself, to keep pace with his eyes that were beginning to get heavy.

"Get up. You can't stop…" he warned. "In the real world, if you stop, then you will die. Do you understand that?"

His blonde hair was short, and buzz cut in a military like fashion. Even if his body refused to, even if it said it couldn't move after receiving that kick. The prince's mind pleaded to it, begged to it, it commanded it to move – because if not, even if his legs broke in half if he tried to stand, the consequences were far graver. GET UP. GET UP. PLEASE.

The man loomed over his son's small body, and with both hands perched up above his head, own his shadow covered the boy. With both hands he swung that wooden baseball bat down at his helpless 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…

I love my father. I love my father so much. I'm the one who was wrong.

"You must endure," his father begged. He swung the bat down again. This time the prince, perhaps out of savage determination, perhaps out of fear, commanded his body to tumble and roll between his father's legs. He tumbled but was too tired to follow through; eventhough he was able to escape, he couldn't keep hold of his body and splayed open mid roll. He was face down again, panting in a desperate manner you would have thought someone had cut open his jugular.

"You MUST persevere. Because, you must surpass ME… you must SURPASS the entire world," he said so loud. Booming, declaring, roaring, frantically praying to the sky – so loud that the walls of 'that' white, peaceful, cowardly place that wanted to enclose and entrap both of them disappeared into wisps of smoke at the explosion. Prince gasped out his mouth and stared at his shaking clawed hand. He willed it, made it crumple, then he clenched it into a fist to stop it from shaking. He commanded himself to come back to his body so he wouldn't give way to the insanity. To be free from 'this place'. His fist trembling, clutching that last lifeline, convincing himself, silently, that it was not the time just yet. The once blurry lines of that white box that enslaved his will became bold, clear lines once again when he was released back to the free universe.

"No longer will you ever be a slave. You will NEVER fear anyone – or anything." The father turned around and walked towards his son once again, the baseball bat hanging by the side.

GET UP. The prince put up both his hands as he wobbled to stand. When he didn't know what else to do, just put those hands up. That was what his father would say. Hands up – the rest… as they say… will naturally follow. If this happened every day. If I experience so much pain. Is everyone else like this? Does everyone have to live this way? Even at such a young age he was clearly superior to anyone of his peers. Every moment, was this what it felt like to [fight]?

He would take a step forward, but he couldn't do anything when that baseball bat hit his left shoulder. He cautiously took a step back. With every step his father took he took a frightened step back. When he made a motion to throw a punch his shoulders telegraphed it easily, it was if he was telling his father what he would do next. As if they were simply having a conversation. Another hit from that wooden bat made him cringe. "Augh!" he put his fists up to cover his face and his eyes, to cover his eyes so his father couldn't see. He couldn't see – and he wouldn't be disappointed in me. He wouldn't know I was weak and hit me more. He wouldn't…

It was silent. Prince bit down on his lips so no one could ever hear. The prince looked up, wiped the moist dribble that run down his nose. THEN.

THEN…

The sight he wished he didn't see became clear to him as it unfolded finally, after oh so long. If he hadn't looked up, maybe he wouldn't have been drawn back into that world. He wouldn't understand why he had to suffer for those who suffered before us.

Despite being young, and oblivious of the world, this much he could understand. He could justify every single instant of pain, because of just this one instant.

Oh how he wished he didn't look up to see… So he wouldn't realize, that before this small boy lived in a world of suffering, others bore the same burden before he.

Despite trying to desperately hold his tears in, so no one could see. Noone would ever know of OUR pain. We kept it safely hidden inside, deep inside in [that] cold dark room. Let your love rain down on me. How the small child wished he didn't see it. His father stood over him, with that cold wooden bat looming at his side. His face streaked with tears, eventhough he furrowed his brow menacingly and bit down on his lip, he couldn't hide the sorrow that erupted from his face. The face of sadness was now instead painted on his father's - saying how UNFAIR it was.

{No one would ever know of our pain.}

This is the only reason we endure suffering, silently.

No one but the both of US here could understand why we suffer in silence.

Why were you BORN this way?

To have children seemed only like a display of a human's arrogance, and a testament to his vanity. Everyone thereafter would pay the same price, and bear the same burden.

Why must I punish my own child so he could become strong?

This fighting... I hate it. I HATE IT SO MUCH.

Why were you born this way?

Why must I destroy my child's body to make her stronger?

If everyday was like this – can it still be called 'suffering'? If this was my daily life, and I accepted it without regret, can I still say that I am suffering?

…and even if I must call this - [suffering], then I must do it in [silence]. So no one would know. No one would ever know.

In an instant, the prince once again felt the back of his heel touch the wall behind him, and he had run out of room to retreat.

"Don't run away." His father's once calm voice cracked and began to show slight sounds of weakness. He held a firm grip on that wooden bat. I know you can do it. "What are you going to do now?" What will you do if one day you're backed into a corner, with nowhere to go, and I won't be there to save you?

{I – I can't do this… I have to run away, get away,} the small boy panicked. But he was unable to flee when his father's tears locked him where he stood when he looked up.

If a father must suffer to beat his own child. To condition that body, lovingly yet mercilessly. If a child must suffer for the future, then the prince knew what he had to do. Those tears bound him to this world, a world that he stayed of his own choosing.

…

Takuma Sakazaki, the living figurehead of the extreme fighting art – Kyokugen Karate pointed his finger down at the toppled boy who laid crumpled under his feet. "Listen… one day you will meet someone... SOMEONE – who will clearly be superior to you." He warned. "And when that happens, your attack won't work."

"YOOO-KU KIKE, SHONEN!" Takuma warned with his face curling a sour scowl. "Mark my words, boy. When you face someone totally superior to you, if you attack them this way, you will surely die… when that happens…"

While not exactly of optimum condition, it was all that Robert could do now to keep himself awake and alive. His master was right, if he closed his eyes now, the consequences would be too great. He wouldn't simply get up the next day and pretend that nothing ever happened. "I understand…" Robert mumbled out loud, not taking his eyes away from his enemy in that dark place. "But, didn't you tell me, Takuma, that fighting is also a form of communication? Like the art of romance? If so…" Robert said out loud, not caring if anyone was listening or not. If so, then there comes a time when you have to say those words.

Robert cautiously inched forward, but immediately hunched down as his knees wobbled and folded onto itself. All his structural facilities seemed to turn off at once and know how legs were contorted in awkward directions ready to collapse at any moment. Instantly the realization overcame him – a bullet through his brain, it became clear all of a sudden, that his body was no longer responding to his commands. This was no longer an issue of some sort of fatigue, or the task of physiological challenge. No manner of great logic or fiery will could give him a last push. Despite his desperate cries he could almost feel the distinct sensation of parts of his brain grow dim and listless, like a blackout that slowly rolled across a once completely lit, wide cityscape - slowly like a virus, it turned off sections of Robert's brain completely dark one at a time.

"I… I can't keep focused; it's getting blurry. My legs won't move." Robert wheezed. The sudden rush slowly turned thick and viscous, and it turned to a shade of darkness that enveloped his vision.

"Fine… You've come this far kid," Robert heard a voice from the back of his head. An older, calmer, encouraging voice that felt warm and familiar. "Its time for you to decide, if you want to say 'those words' out loud." Let it ALL out.

With Robert's fists by his temples it seemed like it was no longer his head that held his hands up but it was his hands now that were desperately trying to keep him in the world. And when a dark shadow loomed over and shrouded his face, Robert's shoulders started to slump and fall downwards.

…and then… he was gone. His eyeballs were now a clean slate of white that had rolled up back into his head. The prince's last surgical attack was indeed perfect, and beyond reprimand. Robert's body had finally admitted defeat.

Prince grit his teeth and lashed out in a frustrated hiss. "Agh! I'm tired of waiting for you to…" he compressed his arms close to his body and launched towards Robert. His field of vision was tight and compact, Prince focused on his own fists at the ready position, then they looked far, peeked through the gap between his thumbs, down to the ground, across the floor, like a bullet straight at his target. How sad, this story, this all was about to end…

{What did I feel back then? When the insanity devoured me?}

Crying… a soft murmur slowly became a shrill crying.

Back then – at that time, I felt cold, and with a blind sense of purpose. Suddenly, only [i] existed in this world.

A wailing, scared cry…

Robert's feet came into view. I thought you were going to save them? {Didn't you promise this, Robert Garcia?} Were those words empty? You fought SO hard.

{Here, there was no one else in this throne in the sky. I ceased to give a shit anymore!}

A baby crying… in that nightclub.

Didn't you say that you were going to save your friend Yuri? That you were going to save all those women in the world who couldn't fight for themselves? Weren't they going to be the flame that drove your meaning?

I still don't feel anything.

Weren't you going to teach me, the meaning of fighting?

Were you not going to show me, reassure me, that by choosing to continue fighting, that what I did was 'right'? Show me… that the cause you fought for was great, was proud, and there was a reason – and not just the meaning of fighting – but that fighting, had [meaning]? …or do you solely exist, only, only to teach me…

Lovingly, slowly, tenderly – that it was okay… for me to be wrong. So I could find [my] way in this chaotic forest of despair.

Why did you even try SO HARD? Eventhough no one FORCED you to fight. Eventhough you KNEW you were going to lose?

Robert's feet came into view, the prince's vision raced up his shins, thigh, chest and now up to his face.

"A!" Prince's mouth slowly grew wide, when he finally reached up high and met his enemy eye to eye.

{Let it go, my Prince,} he heard a voice say in the back of his head.

A low growl started from Robert's belly before surfacing up his chest, his neck and when it finally reached his mouth, the sounds had become a roar. A loud, fearsome, unchained melody.

{I'll stay with you until the very end!} "Won't you spend the night with me?"

Was it back then? When that man hit me with that baseball bat? Was it that time? When I felt that humiliating kick to my gut eventhough I was helpless on the ground? Or was it that time when I was ready to kill myself? Or… no... was it then? When I was on the cold floor, realizing that no one would save me?

{Even if you refuse, you have to kill me – and, isn't that enough for you to realize what lengths I would go to take you down from the sky, and keep you company…} he thought. I will prove you wrong – you don't deserve to be in heaven.

The baby's mouth was wide open, in this simple way, with eyes wide open, the wide world entrapping him, he came to realize…

I suddenly realized… that I would ROAR defiantly. Welcome the INSANITY.

"A!" Prince stopped in his tracks when he realized that before he could rush forward, Robert was instead, somehow convinced his body to explode into motion, already rushing towards him. A quick violent kick.

Zanretsukyaku.

Just this one night, just this once, and we can be strangers come morning.

…but this, this once maybe you can keep me warm at night.

The sharp force splintered the sides of the large wooden table by his side, a tight shockwave cut through both their bodies and rattled the hanging wine glasses by the bar, and despite Prince's refusal to believe, the 50 pound mass went floating straight up into the air. Prince looked up at the table's harmless vertical trajectory, then immediately returned his gaze to his enemy.

Even with his face limp and lethargic, Robert was able to flash a small smirk. He pointed his left index finger at the prince slyly. "You said it yourself," Robert chuckled weakly, in a voice, Prince noticed, in a different, deeper, confident, and ever so much more arrogantly annoying tone.

{WHAT?} Prince stammered inwardly. {That FUCKING DAGO, he's STILL moving? How can he still be alive?!}

{I was sure… I was sure he was unconscious.}

He was gone, left this world behind. His eyeballs were now a clean slate of white that had rolled up back cowardly into the back of his head. The prince's last surgical attack was indeed perfect, and beyond reprimand. Robert's body had finally admitted defeat.

{…and not just that – he's, he's somehow different…}

Robert was able to flash a small smirk. He pointed his left index finger at the prince slyly. Robert's eyes were half cocked,., not lethargic in a way, but seemingly, like he KNEW something… as if from the outside, looking in – he knows something that was about to happen?

{His [voice]? It's, deeper, raspy, perhaps wounded, slower, even more aloof, more fearless… more annoying! It…}

It seems like…

{It's almost like he's a different person?} Prince tried to make some sense of what the hell was happening as it unfolded slowly in front of him.

The prince's eyes were in shock – in disbelief. Slowly his mouth clenched down snarling.

{My last attack.., how could he? It was PERFECT. PERFECT! The definition of perfection.}

… and in the same instant, compounding his momentum, he had no need to rely on a mathematical COUNTER, instead, creating an exponential force from nothing, now, the prince rose up and helicoptered skywards – and finally, his decapitating kick to Robert's head.

"You said it yourself," Robert chuckled weakly.

{Robert, this Robert Garcia, something's different… he's changed. It's as if he's risen from the dead, and something [else] had taken control of his dreams,} the prince denied, reassured then contradicted himself all at the same time.

{My last attack. It was perfect.}

Countering his counter to a counter – that was the perfection, the thesis of my LIFE. That kick from behind that was impossible to counter and that falling star's sole purpose was to KILL a man.

{LE GUILLOTINE!}

Borne from pain, born from a life of ENDLESS suffering. That final attack.

{Hands shacked behind your back, an attack that you are powerless to defend against. It was a perfect KILLING technique! Yet… you're breathing - smiling at me.}

{Not even my father, the Royal British Knight could ever dream of such a MERCILESS counterattack! However, why can you?!}

The boy bit down HARD, ripping into the edges of his tongue, making the red blood dribble down the sides of his mouth in agony. Pure, putrid, helpless agony.

{Was my thesis not good enough? Was PERFECTION inconsequential to you?}

You said it yourself, in truth, humans are built with two hands, two elbows, a pair of feet and knees and a head. At least in striking, there are only a limited number of moves a normally built human being can perform. If you can break down each section and have a prompt and effective reply to each, there is conceivably nothing you cannot counter.

{WHO ARE YOU!?} The prince demanded without voice. {…and what do you WANT FROM ME?!}

"So THEREFORE," Robert simply reasoned irrationally. "I simply have to come at you from an IMPOSSIBLE angle of attack." Robert wheezed, trying to stay with them for just a little bit longer. Trying to stay to the very end of their affair.

"HAAGH!?" Prince's eyebrows twisted and contorted, his lips puckered at the preposterous notion. The look on his face was disjointed, frantic, and drowning in confusion. Robert could have as well said that the world was flat, and that one had to simply drink poison to grow wings. "WHAT THE HELL?!" Prince didn't realize his defense drift down limply to an open 'no guard' stance when his entire mind dedicated all its facilities to parse what Robert had just said to him – he was so confused, so APPALED that he couldn't do anything else but try to keep his contorted face from coming apart.

{What did he just say?} Prince demanded, wide eyed, locking glares with Robert. {What are you doing?} he refused to let the sight of Robert escape his clutches. His enemy was about to make his move at any moment, Robert snobbishly closed his eyes, pushed his bangs to the side handsomely, arrogantly, he grinned… and when Robert was about to make a move, Prince would…

"If you can do it... [i] can do it too." Robert teased with a smile.

{Sorry to keep you waiting...}

The Prince cussed under his breath, yet under that rancid veil, he told herself softly, just so no one else but HE and IT could hear – "I once knew someone else who said the same thing." A doll faced, fang toothed, visage reflected on his face now.

The prince's thoughts were abruptly cut short when a large mass came crashing down two feet in front of his face. His entire vision was now completely blocked by the mahogany table that, while harmlessly landing in front of him, had effectively…

{…he did it!} Wide eyed in shock as the plain truth became stark and clear to him – the table that he had ignored earlier, had now completely blocked his vision, and this time, it was Robert…

NOW, it was ROBERT'S turn, and now he was who had disappeared! Prince's bewildered seed of disbelief, his constant denial that nurtured it, had now come to full beautiful bloom.

…

…the little prince [&] a one night stand.