The Colour Purple Chapter 143: Dreaming, 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.

"A."

Brahms stood in disbelief. Could this be the sensation a small animal feels – when it FINALLY comes face to face… WITH A SUPERIOR BEING?

…

Look, it's a nice white house. With a neat fence and evenly cut green lawn. (25)

Who would have thought – that it was 118 chapters long ago?

You and I exist here… Because CONFLICT is what makes the world rotate on its axis.

…

194X.

"Let him go. Just let him go. I don't want to stay up all night." The soldier said, frustrated, in his native German.

"But the order was…" His comrade replied immediately.

"It does NOT matter." Was the terse reply. "Number #54602, or not, it does not matter. I want to get to bed at a decent time, my friend. We just need two bodies." That was the end of it. "Get up! We're going!"

Back then – when WE were young – we thought we were invincible, and we thought we were great – we thought – that we were in control. When we looked around us and when all that was about us were clear blue skies and crisp air, we thought we were flying…

"Johan." She knelt on one knee, paying no heed to the two German soldiers behind her even when the terrible shadow of long rifles loomed over her shoulders – for a distinct moment, even those THINGS seemed so irrelevant and inconsequential. She smiled, and even until this day I was sure she was crying, but I could not remember her face, because I was a fool. "Yoyo." She smiled a wide beaming expression, gently placing her hands on the sides of her son's head. Be sure to take a shower twice a day, brush your teeth FIRST thing in the morning… Yoyo." She said again and again affectionately, burning the sound in both their ears, running her fingers affectionately through the boy's hair – softly, gently... Yet not even once did her voice break, crack or stray from her speech. Maybe. Maybe that was why, I did not remember the little details of that night. By design maybe she did not want any other distractions to disturb from what she was saying. "Don't forget to sleep early everyday, don't sleep with your hair wet, and take care of yourself."

…instead. We did not realize how much those who came before us, sacrificed. For our vanity.

How old was I then? Even that, I did not remember. All I remember with vivid and distinct clarity was her voice, and myself saying "Yes, mama." Just when my mother wrapped both of her arms over my shoulders and clasped down tight with all her might. She held on peculiarly, clinging desperately not wanting to let go – as if her life relied on it.

And I was confused.

The soldier tucked his one free hand under her armpit and forced her up.

"Honey, where are we going?" An elderly old grandma asked.

Freeing herself from his grip and then steadying herself, my mother wrapped both her arms around the older woman and led her out of the large building we slept in. "Bubbe," my mother said in a soft tone. I do not even know how old my mother was, and I don't even remember how old I was. "Bubbe, we have to go. Don't be scared, I will keep you company."

She took great painstaking care to measure her words and calm her voice – and it had proven effective, because I could not recall the expression on her face – all I could remember was a dark haze and her sweet voice. Until this day, I still take at least two to three showers a day, and sleep early without fail.

It was an affront to terror – and the foundation of human dignity. That was what kept us alive back THEN. BUT. NOW. However, there was something ELSE that made me SURVIVE.

…

BEEWHHHEEEEEEEEE! A high pitched shrill digital sound of a kettle pot overcame the room. The low resolution monitors once green and black had now turned red, reflecting a crimson haze that enveloped the entire room.

A battered aluminum clipboard fell to the ground, papers cluttered across the floor, rattling and crashing as pens and glass beakers littered the ground. "Doctor! DR. BRAHMS!" The young lab coated man shrieked. He grasped Brahms' claw with his free hand and when it was clear that the iron vice grip would not let go, the young man grasped his bicep thinking it would somehow seethe the pain as he wailed. "DR. BRAHMS PLEASE STOP! IT HURTS!"

Multiple wires, as he laid asleep – multiple wires a dozen and two dozen sprouted from his forehead and chest, like living vines, tying him to cold machines – chaining him from his dream – with the real world.

Brahms, an older man, at mid 40s laid petrified on a rudimentary operating table, his left talons dug so deep that a full section of his fingers impaled itself into the poor boy's forearm like a bear trap unwilling to let go as it trembled in rage.

"HeeiigghhAHHH!" The young technician shrieked, just as his forearm was about to split in two.

Brahms.

What.

Dr. BRAHMS.

WHAT?

Up until this day, I still can't understand why I could not remember my mother's face. All I could recall... was her sweet and calming voice. And then. The DARKNESS.

She did well to measure her words… as if she knew… because IF I REMEMBERED HER FACE – for sure, I would destroy everything around me, without a shred of remorse.

WAKE UP…

The middle aged man, with multiple thick wires protruding from his head and chest opened his eyes, but all that was laid bare were cloudy irises in blank globular eyes.

"JOHAN!"

1984.

Rugal's four fingers individually wedged themselves between Brahms' claws and his victim. They twisted left and right, breaking them free from the deep roots from whence it once dug down, tearing the shrieking parasite from its host. Down those fingers, down the wrists, and on the forearm were the now weathered tattooed numbers #54602 on weathered skin.

"WAKE UP, JOHAN!" Rugal roared. He pushed up on Brahms' left hand and slammed it into the aluminum table, forcing it deep to bury it deep into the metal. WHAM! With Rugal's left hand, he splayed it wide open and wrapped it over the doctor's face.

Then one. Then two… Three four and five – Wham. WHAM. WHAMWHAMWHAM! – Rugal lifted up Johan Brahm's head and drove it forcefully back into the operating table, each time more violently than the past, so much that the aluminum had begun to bend concavely and it's metallic wedges of the table now held the man's skull in a cratered prison.

"A!" Brahms started to convulse, his blood painted the aluminum in beautiful colours.

"That was just a dream..." Rugal whispered, "Wake up, my friend..." He said slowly.

When his rapid heartbeat slowed to a cold pace, Johan Brahms withdrew his fingertips from Rugal's forearm, just barely an inch and a half above his wrist, barely missing any majour arteries. With four distinct pops, his digits withdrew just as he felt his consciousness come back. Just as a wild beast withdraws its fangs just as it was about to tear into its prey, it pulled back apprehensively as its strength slowly seeped away. The colour filled the spaces in between when the dreams were once completely in monochrome gray. As the colour warmed his heart, he felt the once sudden monstrous strength escape him like the blood gushing from a slashed jugular.

Johan Brahms took a deep breath, which proved difficult as his lips trembled uncontrollably. "Rugal. Rugal Bernstein?" The disgusting white foam slowly liquefied from the edges of his lips as he spoke.

{Don't. Don't let me… I am LOSING my SANITY.} This was what the old man thought, as his conscious mind slowly came to the forefront.

Wait. I have to… I have to…

Don't let me see THAT again.

It's all a dream.

What was a dream, and what was reality?

Rugal eased his grip and pulled away, apprehensively at first, but, as the violence fell slowly to silence reassuringly, Rugal took a step back and stood still. Letting the red blood flow outwards, a flowery miasma stretched outwards and dripped down the edges of that table.

"This is not real, this world is not real." Johan Brahms stuttered, gurgling in a sludge comprised of blood, foam and saliva. You are simply dreaming, a wonderful dreamer's dream.

"You are alive, my friend." Rugal Bernstein reassured his friend, calmly wrapping a tourniquet around the middle of his forearm, just below to his elbow, separating his heart from his wrist. IF WE CANNOT TAKE [REVENGE] FOR THE PAST… "THEN, let us make YESTERDAY and TODAY – one and the SAME."

…

I saw the END of the WORLD, once. And. It was horrible.

HEIDERN, I'VE BROUGHT YOU HERE. BECAUSE. For me, YOU, are, YOU ARE WHAT SEPARATES, TODAY and… YESTERDAY.

…and if we meet again, in this haze of paralyzing madness, I can make amends for everything that was WRONGED in the world.

…

1985.

"Did you find the secret Brahms? The secret in the book?" Another piece in the divine clue?

"Yes, Rugal Bernstein." Dr. Brahms replied. "We will be able to break open the mental and spiritual lock, this way."

In the last days, God says, I will pour out my Spirit on all people. Your sons and daughters will prophesy, your young men will see visions, your old men will dream dreams.

-Acts 2:17.

WHAT KIND OF GOD WOULD HAVE ALLOWED THIS? HOW COULD HE HAVE ALLOWED CHILDREN TO EXPERIENCE THIS AMOUNT OF PAIN AND HORROR?

A question old as time. How can a loving God allow people to suffer? How can an omniscient creator allow bad things to happen to good people? Maybe, THIS is his reparation.

I think I was only 3 years old then, Rugal Bernstein. IN that place, IN that HELL.

…and I did not even know it.

…

1970.

Genesis chapter 1, verse 27: God created man in his own image, in the image of God created he him…

"When we dream." Ivan-Vladm'hr Von Krauser stated. We can imagine that we can be anything we want to be. Make our wishes come true, we can fly in the darkness, and even walk on water if our subconscious mind demanded it.

If it is indeed true that humans can only fully utilize 30% of their brainpower to control their bodies… WHY? Is there is a LOCK? And, to release this lock – can we do it by [dreaming]? This is something so simple, so plain.

"So, so, so very simple," Krauser mused on and on… "So simple that children understand it clearly… accomplish it easily, yet…" We forgot all about it, when we woke up and now, without our knowing, we are bitter 30 year old men.

Rugal beamed a wide and gleaming smile.

"Speak for yourself. You're the only old man here, my friend." Rugal smiled innocently.

…

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 the extreme force of a shutting bear trap – red crimson blood plastered the walls in that laboratory. Cohen's face accordioned into five pieces like a short loaf of bread.

"In 1988, mother and daughter – Sandra and Clara Heidern were found brutally mutilated in their home…" He said in a monotone as he, from his perch on the second level walked down slowly down the short flight of stairs. "Heidern," Dr. Brahms said, "The dreams you dream, old man… this is the LOCK we have to break."

Five pieces of Dr. Michael Cohen's face fell on the floor, bloody, pulsating slabs of flesh splattering into large flower pictures.

"Heidern…" Brahms voice was so calm and clear now. NOW, you know the same TERROR I feel when I SEE that thing that must not be seen again, again and again.

"Dr… Dr. Brahms," Dr. Owen turned to his superior unsure and uncertain as to what was happening, when his entire world was falling, the floor crumbling when the strands of sanity were disintegrating into nothingness.

Dr. Johan Brahms, with his middle finger and thumb straddled the far sides of his spectacles and with a slight wobble, placed them firmly over the bridge of his nose in order to get a clear view.

I'VE BROUGHT YOU HERE, Heidern.

Brahms placed his clipboard on the table next to him and took one, two then three steps ahead. His colleague stammered and was unsure as to what to do. I'VE BROUGHT YOU HERE. BECAUSE. For me, YOU, are, YOU ARE WHAT SEPARATES, TODAY and… YESTERDAY.

The BEAST

"HAAGGHHH…" Heidern's joints twisted and bent in peculiar ways, an old and decrepit tree with its limbs swaying in the wind. Outwards from his chest and face were multiple wires sprouting like vines – electronic signals tying his consciousness between dream and reality. So much, that t was hard to distinguish between reality and fantasy.

"Do you want to hear the voice of your wife as she died? Heidern?" Brahms asked. THEN, sudden flashes, flashes of blood once again. Disappearing and appearing erratically once again as if his world was illuminated with disco lights. Then the blank looks on Sandra's and Clara's faces. The two women's bodies hunched on the wall with their mutilated bodies.

"He is your enemy..." Another voice boomed in his mind as the crimson tinted Heidern's vision. "and I... I shall be your sword."

"HAAGGHHH…" Heidern's knuckles now scraped the ground when he took a step forward. His spine was curled forward like the prehistoric monster he was. Unchained – a relentless being unafraid and uncaring, absolutely oblivious except for one sole thing… The monster Heidern looked to the left and right, watching as ants scurried frantically while the entire world was engulfed in flames. Then his teetering head looked forward – straight at the ONE thing truly worthy of his undivided RAGE.

"Look at me." Brahms whispered… "You will never be alone."

Strings of viscous saliva connecting his wide splayed mouth, Heidern roared loudly with a silent wail only HE could hear. Like a monster.

Gilbert Keith Chesterson. Do YOU KNOW who he is, you BEAST?

"G. K. Chsterson…" Dr. Brahms said mumbling to himself, shuffling his shoulders – the once 3 year old boy, but he was an old man now, laid his white coat on the floor as the faced a wild beast. "Do you know what he said?"

IF you come upon a fence on a wide open field, a foolish man would say – I will tear this fence down. HOWEVER, a wise man would instead say – tear not this fence, until you completely understand what this FENCE was designed to do.

Chesterton's fence is the principle that reforms should not be made until the reasoning behind the existing state of affairs is understood. –The Thing.

WAS THIS FENCE PLACED HERE, TO KEEP MORTALS AWAY FROM YOUR SECRETS, …GOD? OR…?

…

"Yoyo." She smiled a wide beaming expression. Be sure to take a shower twice a day, brush your teeth FIRST thing in the morning… Yoyo." She said again and again affectionately

…

[THAT.]

…

TO MAKE. 1944 and 1990. ONE. And. THE SAME! Heidern!?

…

"RRAUUGH!" Heidern erupted from his slumber and flung his right claw back as far as it would go.

"HEIDERN!" Brahms punched forward with his left fist and in the same exact motion put five talons floating on the right side of his temple. "I could have killed you anytime as you slept… Heidern." BUT I did not… Instead now, an insignificant man, can become immortal, because he is ABLE to OPEN the good book. AND. I face you with all my might.

MY name is Johan Brahms. Your people had taken EVERYTHING away from me.

EEEEVERYTHINGGGG!

…and as you lose.

"Deutsches Jungvolk. And, as you lose to me… You BEAST." Brahms snarled. "Know that you DIE, because you are WRONG!" …and not because I killed you while you were WEAK.

The BEAST – part 3.

…

Panic spread like wildfire across the room. Printouts, pens and clipboards flew across the room, all the panicked men, each stampeded looking for another avenue of escape. Each of them now had Brahms' face. Heidern couldn't hear their cries. He only understood that he must kill. Kill Brahms... Every, each and every last one of them.

Primal red splattered across the room. Like a rabid painter, dancing his deadly ballet, Hiedern cleaved through the crowd. Within a matter of minutes, there was noone left standing in the lower area. Soiled as well was the picture of Elaine – the photo laid on the ground only to have a sheet of red blood a millimeter thick cover the entire floor. As the bodies feel, so did the masks that had Brahms's face. Leaving only one figure standing above the mess like a god.

…

For as long as at least one of your victims lay awake at night, YOU do not deserve even a moment of solace. "YOU do not deserve to be happy."

1987.

Heidern held his daughter's now lifeless body in his arms, holding it close, somehow believing that this was all simply a dream – a cruel dream that would not end as the credits rolled from that infantile fighting video game.

…and he cried, Heidern wailed so much that his voice left him and now with his mouth wide open as far as it would go, no sound came out.

AND THAT [THING]. 38 years later – a forgotten BEAST, came back to visit him.

…

"Your wife, and your CHILD, are now DEAD, Heidern." Dr. Brahms said flatly. How does that make you feel? "And now, I am going to KILL you." Matching Heidern's stance, Johan Brahms lifted his right claw up by his temple. It's not enough for everything your people did to me.

{Heidern is fast, Heidern is strong.} That much Brahms knew instinctively. BUT. Johan Brahms was right. Brahms was JUST. He had seen the same horrendous dreams as Heidern, forcefully pumped into their brains even as their sleeping bodies resisted. As Heidern slept, so did he, himself, Brahms – reliving each and every torment in vivid detail. Every moment he dreamt, he felt a plank from that FENCE come down.

Was it from vanity – or was it borne from vengeance? A virus – and a vaccine created in tandem, the old doctor in a moment did not know if… He did not know which came first and why he had brought the world closer to irridle the DIVINE CLUE. [THE RIOT].

[THE RIOT OF THE BLOOD – that GOD hid from us.]

Certainly the Goddess of fortune would smile upon me instead. For they say - Fortune favours the just, and the brave, and therefore, HEIDERN must lose, TO ME! BECAUSE I HAVE SUFFERED MORE THAN HIM!

{HE will attack from the left!}

…

WAS THIS FENCE PLACED [HERE], TO KEEP MORTALS AWAY FROM YOUR SECRETS, GOD OF MAN? OR…?

…OR WAS THIS FENCE PLACED [HERE] – IN ORDER TO IMPRISON A BEAST AWAY FROM MANKIND?

MR. CHESTERSON?

…

"Only you and I!" Only YOU and I exist HERE, here, HEIDERN!

Chapter 143: Dreaming

ALL the hatred of the entire world. ALL my hatred for the loving God that allows innocent children to suffer – please, LET ME, give it unto to YOU instead!

On the old computer monitor, it flashed the year, 1990.

…

"A."

Brahms stood in disbelief, as Heidern had suddenly appeared and was not but a few inches from his face. Heidern's right arm penetrated Brahms' chest, Heidern, a whole decade older a man, his entire forearm had impaled Brahms' midsection elbow deep. Emerging from Brahms' back, Heidern's hand grasped a knotted mass of the good doctor's intestines in his grip.

VIOLENT FIGHTING IS HERE TO STAY.