The Colour Purple Chapter 142: Deutsches Jungvolk, 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.

ORIGINALLY CHAPTER 42 - Orochi's Haze.

1970.

"Do you believe in the bible, Rugal Bernstein?" Ivan-Vladm'hr Von Krauser asked blandly. Krauser was a stocky, yet still tall, chiseled golem of a man. Perched on his shoulders were huge golden globes of armor that rested on an equally impressive precious metal chest plate. Underneath it was a draping purple robe befit of royalty. The entire regalia looked like it weighed 200 pounds. Yet, with his hands crossed Krauser seemed to carry it without effort.

In stark contrast, a young, androgynous man put his hands in his pockets and tilted his posture sloppily to the side. It was a totally different time, a totally different place, and how horrible it was that youth is wasted on the young. Without a wrinkle or crease on the young man, his visage was rounded, is skin smooth and sculpted, clean shaven face was indeed unbelievably beautiful.

"You mean, the book? That's an extremely asinine question, Ivan." The so very young Rugal smiled with his eyelids half shut lazily and one eyebrow cocked up on the sly. "I can walk to any bookstore and buy it for myself – and even more easily steal it from any hotel room. It would foolish to say that I do not believe it does not exist."

Krauser grunted, refusing to reply immediately. Only his pupils rolled to the side and looked Rugal up and down. A slim framed, well-built boy, Rugal was with a body of a Greek God. So it also seemed that his personality was equally as confident to match.

Krauser looked forward again without moving his torso. "A crass and practical wit as always, Rugal Bernstein." He finally said.

Finding slight amusement in it all and letting the rare bit of humour escape his lips, Rugal stood up straight and looked out to the evening horizon with his friend. "If you refer to the divinity of its words, then no, I do not. But. If it can help me become mentally and physically stronger, then I will gladly refer to it like any technical manual."

"Since this is a lazy evening, Rugal Bernstein," Krauser said, "Will you humour me with some idle talk?"

"Why not?" Rugal replied.

"Genesis chapter 1, verse 27," Krauser said. "God created man in his own image, in the image of God created he him… Do you know what this means?"

Rugal stood still, he looked outwards in a lazy dream, and it was uncertain why he did not reply immediately as he always did. Did he not know the answer, was he afraid to reply with a substandard reply, or was it something else? He said nothing and looked at Krauser, his expression almost saying 'If it's a trick question, then I won't fall for it.' Moments passed and Rugal could not stand the awkward standoff.

"It is the religious foundation for the dignity of people." Rugal replied.

"Certainly it is. But. What if it's something MORE? Even if you do not believe, would the possibility exist that it could be a [divine clue]?"

Rugal took attention to his friend's curious proposition. He arched his back and lifted his head up in curiosity. Now, Rugal crossed his arms mimicking Krauser.

"They say that the human body can only utilize approximately 30% of the brain – that is, only 30% of its processing and controlling power at one time. Also, that the human body is capable of superhuman feats but is limited by joints and bones that break, by design. However…" He mused. "Though selective breeding, and even by simple actions as breaking joints and bones, letting them rebuild repeatedly – the body naturally becomes stronger and more resilient."

THAT WAS THE FIRST TIME, I heard of the divine clue. Of the puzzle.

"What if…" Rugal's mouth gawked open without him knowing, perplexed, curious, and slightly excited at the proposal. "Ivan…" For the first time their roles had reversed, and Rugal had become speechless in front of Krauser who rarely talked in mixed company.

"Yes, you understand, Rugal Bernstein." Krauser said, and Ivan, even at the climax of his musings, still maintained a monotone cadence to his speech. "If this hypothesis is true, then man is truly made in God's image, but certainly just too ignorant to notice it."

It was a different time, it was a more peaceful time. Two towering men stood alone with the luxury to whisper sweet nothings into the air – in this time in history, they were the KINGS of the world. No one could touch them, and not even all the riches of the world could buy their spiritual fortitude – for they knew they were the greatest the world had ever known. It was 1970, and even if decades forward, even if I told you that the world will be a place where untold riches and luxury could befall even the poorest of people, that thousands of days in the future, people would be able to extend their lives and have access to conveniences undreamed of. If you took a man from 1970 and dropped him into 2020, he would think he died and went to heaven. Yet, Rugal and Krauser lingered in 1970, because we were young, and it, that soft, loving feeling, remained in a special crevice in their hearts they treasured warmly. Because they were young and they were happy. That sweet nostalgia made them want time to stop.

Krauser finally turned around to Rugal and cracked an awkward smile, certainly something he did not practice very often given its very peculiar expression. "Thank you so very much for your company, Rugal Bernstein." Krauser said warmly. "I appreciate your wit, humour and your friendship."

Rugal lurched to the side and took a step, a little unsettled. "No one talks like that Ivan. That's, that's really strange." Putting an open palm between him and the golem awkwardly as he skittered slowly away.

Krauser guffawed, laughing a single loud syllable. "Certainly a single conversation with you is more meaningful than a hundred with my brother, Wolfgang, and Saishyu Kusanagi, well, he is good in his way, but he is certainly at a different level… and certainly…"

Rugal couldn't help but crack a smile a bit in response, but only just when he was sure Krauser had turned away and could not see him.

"Certainly," Krauser said. "At our death bed, there will not be enough time to let our friends know, how much we appreciated them. There will not be enough time to thank them for their friendship; how sad and pitiful it would be, and you will be poorer for it."

Not even all the wealth in the world could buy back enough minutes to let them know… let them know that the love of your friend had made them richer, and made this horrendous world such a wonderful place to be.

Rugal tilted his head up to the starry sky. He could not help it, but… his body acted on its own, he breathed in deeply, the sweet nostalgia of the night air filled his lungs, and he sighed out.

"That is true."

Thank you, my friend.

…

Chapter 142: Deutsches Jungvolk

"Jack, I've had it with this lab rat business. It's giving me the creeps."

"I know Mike, I think I might resign too after this is done..." Desperate to shift the tone of the awkward air about them, the doctor put his hands in his pocket to shift the subject to anything else. "Hey, check it out… Have you seen Elaine's picture?"

"Who?"

"Elaine... You know her... We're going to get married in the spring. I'm going to get engaged this weekend when we get our leave."

"Hey. That's wonderful Mike!"

...

"Dr. Brahms, the communication link to command 1 and 3 are down." A lab coated technician called out to the upper platform where Brahms was seated.

"Think nothing of it. I'm sure it's only routine." Brahms smiled reassuringly.

...

"Sir, this is the last block..."

Clark and Ralf's bickering was abruptly cut off when a red hot laser whizzed past, vertically cleaving the space in between them. The troupe pressed their backs to the wall.

"Call control 6 and have them turn off this mess."

"I am radioing in now... No can do... We have to do this manually."

"Shiiiiiiit, how long?" Ralf spat.

"Too long..." Clark sighed. Clark just stepped back and sat down with his back to the wall.

"You're going to give up?"

"Those lasers line the walls hidden away by armour plate."

"I'll rush it... GEEK, give me a generator." Ralf commanded with an outstretched hand. The electro-mechanical backpack was a large bulky piece of machinery, approximately four feet tall, three feet wide, and a monstrous two feet thick, all that Ralf slowly put on his back.

"Your shields will last all of 6 seconds. You can PROBABLY make it to the end of the hall, to the safe zone in that amount of time IF you were running dry and buck naked. You've got a hulk of useless, 120 pound mass of metal on your back... Don't you ever think, Ralf?"

"You know won't make it." Clark sighed.

"FUCK YOU, Clark."

"You know it's true." Clark sighed.

"Don't make me rationalize, it's not good for my body." Ralf came back.

…

Save him, Ralf.

Yeah. I'm getting him back.

SHHHHRRRGHKKKK. A Paradigm Shift, happens.

...

How 20 years can change a man, when once upon a time children thought their way was right, their way was just and the adults were indeed ignorant of what the true world had to be. In the end, children become adults and when they look into mirror, they can't even remember the now petty things that once upon a time kept them awake at night.

SHHHHRRRGHKKKK… The story had changed once again.

The BEAST – part 2.

1990.

"I wonder…" Dr. Michael Cohen couldn't help but talk to himself during these long and boring evenings. "Often, I wonder what you dream of…?" With an aluminum clipboard in hand, he stared at the sleeping body in front of him – in that dark room illuminated with only the slight cool glow of computer monitors, speckled in random sparse patterns with coloured bulbs.

The multiple computer monitors, large, heavy and bulky by today's standards were braced on the wall exposing ultrasonic images of a human brain from different angles. The central mass was gray, and the numbers 47% in green labeled the bottom of it. Reflecting the data, the same percentage covered the picture in green, like a colouring book. Underneath the numbers 47% was 58%. 11% of the image was in yellow. Finally 61% was in red. The last sliver of 3% of the picture had a faint crimson tint.

Heartbeat was normal, as indicated by the monitors on the table. Brain activity was active and slightly above average.

"Everyday you dream, and what do you see?" Dr. Cohen scribbled the numbers on his clipboard, punctuating it with date and time. "Is it wonderful to dream everyday? How different is it from us? Are you dreaming of US?"

Are you dreaming of us, Herr Heidern? Are we, those who think we are alive, we who wake up every day and live an existence of boring routine, being dreamt by you?

…and if indeed you are the real one, the dreamer, and WE are instead the dreamed, when you wake up… will we just simply cease to exist at your demand?

"Agh." Dr. Cohen exclaimed as he tilted his wrist to his face, he almost forgot the schedule. Dr. Michael Cohen pressed the large yellow button on the control panel.

The old soldier laid still on the bed, numerous wires were attached to his forehead and chest. In a dark world, a cool and peaceful place to be alone to be afforded the luxury of thinking about the irony of the universe.

From atop his perch, on the second level surrounded by aluminum bannisters, Dr. Brahms looked on as Dr. Cohen took painstaking care – to nurture a wounded bird in his hands.

"When you finally wake up, wake up from the dreams we offered to you, Herr Heidern." Dr. Brahms muttered in an awkward and strange soliloquy. "When we make you GREAT, maybe you can spare a moment and tell me what you dreamed of when it was dark and you were free to dream alone."

…

Approximately 90 days prior.

"Do you know that Heidern is, by all available records, about to turn 60 years old, Mr. Bernstein?" Dr. Brahms inquired.

"60 years old? That is indeed impressive." Rugal replied whimsically. HE folded his arms and curved his lips. The trials of time had not been kind to the man, Rugal's once androgynous features had now become gruff, chiseled and old – a full peppered beard covered most of his face. "Can an old man deal with this? All this?" Rugal pointed with his chin snobbishly as multiple monitors kept track of every bit, multiple wires connected to hear every bionic signal in Heidern's paralyzed body as he floated in the salty tube filled with unknown liquid.

"Deutsches Jungvolk." Brahms said flatly.

Rugal twisted his head to the doctor biting the edges of his lips to express his slight boredom.

"Deutsches Jungvolk." Brahms repeated, "Do you know what that means, Mr. Bernstein?" Dr. Brahms asked, his inflection more a statement than a question. "In 1944, in Pforzheim, a town in Southwestern Germany, they knew the horror of its multilayered TRUE meaning…. 'Deutsches Jungvolk', the 'German child army'." Brahms said – with explanation. "Tekketsu Kinnotai – that was what the Japanese called theirs. I am sure you're wondering, how a man almost 60 years old can last this long – can dream this long – when even younger men have failed to withstand." Heidern was the 6th one for us. This dream, this NIGHTMARE.

It is because. Children, with such pliable minds, ignorant, yet fearless. That is why.

"As I am sure you know, in 1944," Dr. Brahms continued, "The Germans unleashed child soldiers to Pforzheim, a small German town during the end of World War 2… Many historians attribute this horrendous act due to their desperation… it was near the end of the war after all."

But, I think differently. I think that they waited that long simply because they needed TIME. So FREE and POWERFUL, unchained, unbridled by politics or ethics, THEY were able to flip pages from the book, and see IT though a lens the rest of the world could not. Through selective breeding, genetic research far ahead of our time, it was not out of desperation, the Germans just needed the time to create such a tremendous THING.

"It was serendipitous and you did well to find him, Mr. Bernstein."

A THING that could withstand immeasurable stress and pressure, yet could dream infinitely as he does now, and even as the torment of old age has been unable to chain him.

…and Heidern, the finest specimen of those dreamers.

…

I wonder, Mr. Bernstein. Are we able to propel Mr. Heidern further, to reach the destiny that was foreordained to him?

…

"You would hvae been the perfect soldier... Dno't you rilaeze..."

SHHHHRRRGHKKKK… The story had changed.

The paradigm shift! The rails that the original story had jumped and swerved off course.

"Sandra." He said. "Clara?" He asked? You're still with me? I am so happy.

…

1990.

"Agh." Dr. Cohen exclaimed as he tilted his wrist to his face, he almost forgot the schedule. Dr. Michael Cohen's finger floated over the large yellow button on the control panel. "E?"

Four FINGERS swerved up slashing long red claws across Cohen's face. A.

"A?"

The blood bubbled up slowly, small globular pulps seeped up from the four slashes that were now clear and plain on his face. Who is the dreamer and who is the dreamt?

Four vertical slashes erupted upwards, as with a garden hose ravaged by a spinning bear trap – red crimson blood plastered the walls in that laboratory. Cohen's face accordioned into five pieces like a short loaf of bread.