The Colour Purple Chapter 119: the 6th Everyday, 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]

[NOW.]

Now, consider for a moment, if you may. What. What would be the expression that plasters itself on your face. IF. For the first time in your life, you witnessed a man, on his own, WALK on water?

"You could not answer my question, so…"

[EVERY]

question MUST have an answer. Or else. It cannot exist.

…I made an answer present itself.. to US.

…

In our youth, we may have been foolish, we may have been ignorant, but our anguish, though considered somewhat petty now, was no less real at that time. THAT is something, adults were so easily willing to forget.

Drops of water streamed down her face. In this familiar place, in this room – a large and dark room so much larger than all of the 'other rooms' in this world. Back in a time when we were young, and we thought that we could die at any given moment.

Did I not give you what you wanted?

Had I not given you want you needed?

Across from King, the blonde haired CHILDREN put all five fingers of his right hand into his mechanical trapjaw mouth and gnashed down in glee. Could it be? "What if…"

"If I begin to DOUBT your righteousness," My friend. The divinity of your infallible gift, then would YOU, my friend, disappear? King thought out loud. By sacrificing ourselves – you and I – when the tears would calm our hearts and our hatred kept us warm at night - could we have been WRONG all this time? "My Prince."

Hey. A sequence of meaningless events linked together by night and day – only to end with death. Was our childhood meaningless, then? And now, our suffering would be replaced with APATHY? Was it all, meaningless?

…

"I have WON; and you LOSE! CLARK STEEL!" Yuri ROARED at the top of her lungs – unleashing that small voice that was once trapped in that ROOM. In 1993, was I…?

IT WAS NOT MEANINGLESS!

…

Once upon a time, a KING wanted to make his skills ultimate.

What is the purpose of all this? Why am I even alive? DO I have a purpose?

"CERTAINLY."

Certainly, when we looked back at [it], with a slight taste of bitter nostalgic longing - all the suffering we endured as children seemed so very distant and insignificant now as adults. We, WHO, so easily had forgotten that, during that time, we, felt as if we were fighting tooth and nail – for survival - each and every, single day. As we were enslaved by ADULTS. At least, that was what it was like BACK then, two decades before 1993. That was a time, a concept, that would seem so preposterous today – only a half a century later.

While the every day was engulfed in TRAGEDY. All the CHILDREN thought that their plight was the most noble, their suffering, was the most horrible – and their justice… was the most infallible…

Hello darkness, my old friend.

RIGHTEOUSNESS and VIRTUE. Like a gleaming spider's web, they indeed intersected at many different places, but, sadly, always failed to meet at the very end. At their pre-determined locations. From 1973 to 2018.

…Oh, how we were so deluded. We were so young. But, we had not tasted the sweet calm of apathy and indifference – and that – was our sin.

"Without you, my friend… I don't know if I can continue to survive."

A small boy, barely the size of King sat next to his friend, placed his back on the wall behind him and in similar fashion to the small girl, tucked his thighs onto his chest and wrapped both arms over his knees and locked them close to him.

I once thought, that if I fought hard enough, that this PAIN would stop. Will this pain stop?

If I could become the STRONGEST, would they? Would they leave me in peace?

A single black drop of water fell into the pool of slightly glimmering sheen, a large room that was flooded with a dark quagmire, a liquid that rose up to their ankles but spanned an eternity in their own dark place. A ROOM where only you and I existed.

[THIS] ROOM, WAS SO VERY MUCH LARGER THAN OTHER ROOMS MUCH LIKE IT.

From that single drop, the ripple expanded outwards from its concentric origin – reaching out desperately into the darkness to anyone who would listen… but that would be futile too…

Let's fight. Together. My friend.

It is so wonderful to be alive.

"It is so wonderful to be alive." IT snarled. "But…" But here, in this room, it is just you and me. Alone. No one else can enter it. This world here, should be reserved just for YOU and ME. And we have to DESTROY anyone who dares disturb US.

"If I become the strongest… will they surrender?" King said silently. "Will everyone be happy?"

"Perhaps… Mayaps…" IT replied.

Have you ever considered the possibility… that you are wrong?

Silence.

King, from her sitting fetal position locked each vertebrae of her spine and stood up, rising from her curled ball and looked out longingly into the deep, dark horizon. What if.

"What if…"

Her friend mimicked her actions and posture, finally looking to its side and straight at King. Cocking its face, tilting it in sincere, open minded confusion.

What if HE is right? Can we end all war?

Faced with two ultimate TRUTHS, two equal and opposite reactions.

What does an imaginary being do?

An invisible knife, as we had seen time and time again until the end of time – so sick of it – cut a slivering smile across her friend's face, exposing IT. That grin. That fang toothed Cheshire grin.

[Unconditional reincarnation] – that – is what [I] want.

"Are we wrong?" After all this time, will THAT not end our war?

…

"Is this fighting so FUN to you?"

Food and shelter can completely sate a dog's hunger as it satisfies its desire to be subservient to a master – but there are things money and love cannot buy for MEN. It is a higher purpose that we hunger for. This is why we fight.

"Then show me… SHOW me – and perhaps the CHILDREN can give you purpose."

This was the exact time – IT was born.

…

What is happening – it is certain…

I AM GOING INSANE.

Clark's teeth chattered violently when he could not understand why his lips wrapped themselves around the muzzle of a pistol that he shoved backwards into his mouth. Both his hands gripped the handle, with his left thumb in the trigger guard. Clark's mind was gliding at the blade's edge and a split second decision made in haste and folly would send a .45" diameter lead slug through his brain.

…

Even though the Knight understood what he was about to do would tantamount to a clear and undeniable crime, he simply, absolutely, did not care…

Tell me, exactly, how does an [imaginary being] reproduce?

The Knight took one bottle from his cardboard caddy, popped open the cap and handed it to the boy. This is something only MEN could understand as they remained silent. Here.

…

Knight wheezed a labored breath when he walked out the garage of his small discreet home, a home so unlikely for a national hero. The clanking of bottles and cans in a large see through plastic garbage bag in his left hand were drowned out by the mechanical hum of his automated garage door.

It was December 24th, Christmas Eve, in Little England, in Neo Hong Kong NHK. The grumpy British man could hardly walk with his belly full. As the mechanical widgets creaked and cranked – soon the sectional door rolled up and at the end of its story Knight was greeted by the cool dark breeze of the deep evening nearing midnight.

HEY! The year was 1977.

"Hey, boy…" December 24, 1977. The 6th day. It was Saturday.

Clark, a small boy of 13 years old tilted his head up to his host. "Sir Knight."

Knight looked down at his guest, Clark, and even after 6 days of watching him be battered senseless by his own child, the Royal British Knight could not help but think – that this was something he had never seen before. Perhaps it was his fault. Perhaps he could no longer blame someone else. The look on Clark's face, was a different one – it was an emotion trapped between SADNESS, MORTIFICATION, DENIAL, DESPAIR and then, PEACE.

It had begun to rain. "We should go inside, son." Knight held a cardboard six-pack of assorted beers in his left hand while he looked at the boy. Saying nothing after.

In like fashion the small boy replied silently, curling his head into his knees as he pulled his legs into fetal position. Each individual drop seemed to hit him independently at first, then came down at a steadier pace, attacking his body all at once.

Clark.

"We should get inside – it's raining…" That black blimp floated above head.

The rain… it doesn't matter either way. Where I come from. Sunshine nor rain – neither held a significant difference to me… but… but… the rain does feel nicer here. As it…

"Knight…" Clark said…

"What, Clark?" Knight replied. The heaven's tears now ran down the old man's cheeks… and intermingled with his own sweat…

"I think…" I think… "I think I will need that beer after all… Pops."

The 6th day.

The rain, like hateful words, touches ALL, without PREJUDICE.

Came in from a rainy Saturday, on the avenue…

…

April 1st.

You could perhaps call them another 'lost generation'. A mass of people born into an existence lost of meaning and purpose. Only to be seduced by sweet notions of nationalism, freedom from oppression, regaining lost pride and a promise of equality of outcome for all.

…but however…

How foolish we were then. How many had to die. Or maybe it was not too foolish? Because back then we still fought bravely for conviction instead of searching for dragons to slay where there were none. Just like it is today.

…but however, another BOY defied him.

It had been so long ago but it was clear still in that old man's mind, because he had taken the time, and the effort to keep that memory close to his heart. In a country and a world lost in conflict two boys in a different place and a different time. Stared at each other, and believed that what would happen next would be the END of the WORLD.

"Heidern!" One German child soldier lay with his cheek on the ground desperately looking up at their last hope just as it had become so hard to breathe and his heartbeat began to slow. And in front of the slender dark haired 14 year old boy was a similarly aged, but chiseled, large muscled British teen who took a familiar stance of American kickboxing. We fought a war for adults, but it did not matter – because inside, we were fighting our own war.

We fought each other – we had every intention to combat each other to the DEATH – because… because it was better than wasting away in an existence of apathy and indifference.

[He] was his enemy.

In 1944, World War 2. A British monster came face to face with a German animal. From this instant, generations after would be subject to the burden brought about by their choices.

…and once again, from a temporary stand-still - the world turns anew.

A Bizarre Love Pentagon – rotating the world on its axis with the motion of a crippled leper.

Back then, two BOYS came face to face with each other. THEY thought 1944 would be the END of the world. However now, amidst apathy, in a generation DEVOID of MEANING. It would truly be a luxury if [we] could experience such a wonderful purpose in our lifetimes.

"Hey… com'mon!" The British teen grinned, curling the fingers of his right palm in.

The lack of PURPOSE was what caused idle boys to pursue ANYTHING… even evil.

…

I closed my eyes, and when they opened, the world was at peace. Did we fight hard – and did God reward us for our troubles? Or are we mistaken? Were we still covering our faces? Did our war simply not end? Old friend?

Chapter 119: the 6th Everyday.

There were only two volumes in my life. QUIET and LOUD!

If I'm not alive, how can I be dead?

…

"So, where are we going?" King asked.

".." He replied. "...To the zoo!"

"The what!?"

"The zoo... you know; with the animals."

"That's not what I meant." King said flatly.

…

Knight wheezed a labored breath when he walked out the garage of his small discreet home, a home so unlikely for a national hero. It was much too early for him to be up and about. The mechanical hum of his automated garage door served to loosen the cramps in his brain for the night of heavy drinking.

It was December 25th, Christmas Day, in Little England, in Neo Hong Kong NHK. The grumpy British man could hardly walk with his body cramped from being hung over. As the mechanical widgets creaked and cranked – soon the sectional door rolled up and at the end of its story Knight was greeted by the cool early breeze of the bright piercing day.

Knight opened his mailbox door with his left hand and as he instinctively reached in with his right hand, he grit down, realizing that there would be no mail on Christmas day. His frustration immediately broke into a cough and a small chuckle. A creature of habit. To think that once upon a time, he lived a life where he was not even sure if he would wake the next day, and now all that was presented to him was such a plain and boring existence – one he would experience a day and day of peace until the moment he would simply die of natural causes.

A coward's death. Knight's internal monologue, a joke where a grown man swallowed a series of light chuckles and laughs just as he made them so no one else would hear – it was all interrupted by a familiar feeling.

Knight's shoulders tensed SUDDENLY all the joints in his back curled and locked INSTANTLY. IMMEDIATELY – an inborn reflex, an animal instinct.

Knight had to force his diaphragm to relax – he blew out of his mouth without inhaling, desperately trying to slow the best of his heart. He gnashed his teeth and forced a grin. Finally Knight was able to convince his shoulders to unlock and relax enough to close his mailbox.

Crick – crack… Knight tilted his head left and right cracking his neck loudly in the quiet morning breeze. Finally he took a deep breath in. He loosened his grip and opened his fist. "Good morning."

"Good morning… old friend." With his back facing us, the camera of the world turned around – Knight had willed his body calm and over his shoulder Heidern stood 20 feet behind the old Knight. "…and Merry Christmas, Knight." Heidern greeted.

Decades ago, we wanted to KILL each other. Now, look at us.

I suppose some things don't change…

Knight turned around slowly, taking in the vision of the Earth over his right shoulder, the street then the horizon out by the far sides of the world.

In front of him – when his shoulder, like the windshield wipers of his old, yet impeccably kept car wiped away the despicable, peaceful world in front of him – it presented a black and white picture – clouded by static – like the snowy dirty tracking of old VHS tapes – and there, a small teenage German boy faced him. "Good day, mine frend." Knight said again with a warm smile.

"Guten morgen, Herr Ritter." Heidern replied.

From his back, over Heidern's small teenage shoulders – they were both transported back in time and in front of the small German boy was the British animal he once fought to the death in 1944. Two teenage boys were transported back in time – back then, the currency of the tomorrow the world promised was cheap, during simpler times, they relied on each other to serve as their only purpose of being.

And as if the clock of time stopped that one instant, two 14-year-old boys stared each other down with seething rancor, with deathly resolve, reckoning back to a time where, arguably, life was so much simpler.

December 25, 1977.

The END of La Bizarre Love Pentagon – part 33.