The Colour Purple Chapter 154: Lies and Politics, 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

As long as parents care to remember, [childrens] spend a long and arduous time, to stack blocks carefully into a tall tower, but it is so confusing and perplexing, why they suddenly wail and reflexively TEAR it all down in an instant, all with an abundance of glee. Is this all ridiculous? Or is this something we simply forgot as we became adults? Did we forget that, THIS, was once, and truly IS our natural state?

1987. 7:02 am, New Hong Kong.

"The King of Fighters 1980." Knight said into the telephone. "I refused the 4th syndicate's invitation. I wanted NO part in it." And because I KNEW, that if I said 'no', they would implicate my child.

No matter how much I dig deep inside, I can't find a reason to justify [it].

I am so sorry… "For all that HE and I did to you…" Will you ever forgive us, son?

…

The Oktoberfest bombing (German: Oktoberfest-Attentat) was reported as a far-right terrorist attack, that occurred on September 26, 1980.

"That was FAKE. Just like everything we see now is absolutely, FAKE!"

…

Where did you come from, Clark Steel? What brought you to THIS place, in front of me? I cannot understand why you insist on acting this way – though – I often wonder, and that, if I allowed it, and left you alone to your own devices – what will you show us… in the end? Will you remind me? Of a place I made myself forget, many years ago?

"My opinion is irrelevant." Clark replied. "I just, don't care."

…

Does GOD make a creation, yet reflexively want to destroy it? Is it because he is displeased? Or is It because this is the natural order of things? One will never know, just as it is impossible to ask a 2 year old [childrens] why he topples that block tower he once painstakingly created, to destroy it with such an abundance of glee.

…

1987, in South Africa. 12:56 am.

In a dark room, only illuminated by the glow of the empty television screen, the static filling the air with a droning hum now that broadcasting ended – Clark sat on the edge of his bed staring blankly outwards into a single point on the wall.

He breathed out. In his hand was a blued steel colt 1911 pistol.

Pointing directly the gun to his temple, nuzzling the cold steel on his flesh. Clark's heartbeat was calm and flat, his expression stoic without anything indicating that something was amiss. Simply said, he just pointed the muzzle of a gun into his head and there was nothing wrong with it. He just stared blankly into the darkness – a room he was deeply familiar with.

The static filling the air, louder and louder, filling the cup with water as it was about to overflow. Clark gnashed his teeth and exhaled in frustration.

{Boring.} "Boring."

Clark pulled the gun off his head, pressed the magazine catch with his right hand, dropping the magazine and with one sudden fluid motion, gripped the rear of the metal slide and pushed forward with his dominant hand, launching the bullet in mid air. Clark swiped his left hand when the .45 caliber round was at eye level. He racked the slide repeatedly with both hands, reassuring himself that the chamber was empty and pointed into the wall in front of him, directly at Ralf's room.

Clark pulled the trigger and a dead click resonated as the hammer dropped safely on an empty chamber without fanfare.

"12:58 already?" Clark mused, hunched over lethargically. "It should be 7 am back home… I should call him."

…

South Africa, in December, 1984. The Director's Chambers.

"To the matter on agenda item 7a, Board of Director's inquiry into the dissolution of the Company." The formally dressed old Irish man said as he faced video images transmitted on the television screens. On a long wooden table, 5 ominous screens faced each other, arranged semi-circularly in a makeshift dystopian council meeting. "Ralf Jones." He asked. "So what happened in Rhodesia 10 months ago?" One monitor asked.

Ralf took a step to the rear and put his hands behind his back. "Commander Heidern was captured by enemy forces in the Rhodesia skirmish on Wednesday, February 29, 1984."

"29th? A leap year no doubt," the man behind the 3rd monitor said with a slight peculiar grin. How auspicious."

…

Clark placed his hands in his pockets and only sighed while leaning back callously.

{They no longer align with our interests. When this happens, then their strength becomes irrelevant. And, we should no longer allow them to hold any power over us.}

This much, I believe, Chairman.

…

"Director M, let's stay on subject," The 2nd monitor said. "Mr. Jones." Director O continued her inquisition. "I find it hard to believe that Commander Heidern was so easily apprehended? Was he shot?"

"O… Heidern was." Ralf began to speak, though apprehensively.

"Excuse me, that is DIRECTOR O, Mr. Jones." The 4th monitor was quick to say.

Ralf bit his curled lip and sucked in a slight gasp of air through the narrow space of his seething lips. "Director O. Heidern, We believe director Heidern is being held here in South Africa. If given the order, we think we can…"

"Mr. Jones." The voice behind the 2nd monitor cut him mid speech and firmly reasserted the question. "Was Commander Heidern shot? How exactly was he neutralized? IS HEIDERN ALIVE?"

"Heidern… he…" Ralf…

"Heidern was shot in the neck." Clark Steel immediately cut in, rendering the world around into a complete silence. "Immediately following, were approximately 9 volleys of 3-round bursts of fire. With likely a 50% hit rate from 7.62x39mm caliber bullets."

Aghk! Ralf turned around and stared gawking at Clark behind him. The familiar sensation overcame him, just like the moment when we realized that our idiot sibling was so ignorant they callously uttered words – said the silent part out loud.

"Do you believe he is still alive, Mr. Steel?" Director O asked. "Given the circumstances, a normal person's chance of survival is unlikely."

"Unlikely." Clark said flatly.

"CLARK!" Ralf shouted, "What are…"

"Please!" Director President from the 1st monitor cut in immediately. "With all due respect, we no longer want to hear from you, but from Mr. Steel instead.

"I saw it." Clark said without skipping a beat.

"Eh?" Ralf uttered with a slight sharp confused tone, looking at his teammate with furrowed brow.

The silhouette behind the 5th monitor visibly shifted about in place, but said nothing.

"I see, seems reasonable." Director M mused, his soft whisper was muffled by the static.

"The question remains," Director O from the 2nd monitor cut in. "What happened that allowed this, and is there still any meaning in trying to retrieve Commander Heidern?"

"Director, Heidern is still…" Ralf…

"Any normal human would be dead." Clark said. "But something…" Something happened. "Two UH-60 Blackhawk helicopters appeared then, and just before Heidern took the blow to the neck, something happened…"

"Clark."

Clark stopped mid way and turned his face to the right. Behind the 5th monitor a stoic female voice asked, "What did you say?" she asked.

"Director W?" The 4th monitor…

Clark turned to the 5th monitor, "Two UH-60 Blackhawk helicopters..." Clark began to answer.

"Clark, why is this even…"

"Director G," W interrupted, a slight annoyance seething in her voice said, "Clark Steel, that's not what I asked. I asked if you saw it."

"Yes, Director W." Clark said flatly, without any fanfare.

"You say you SAW him get shot in the neck and think Heidern is unlikely still alive?"

"Yes. Yes, Director W." Clark replied again and again, his voice not changing at even the slightest bit.

An uncomfortable harsh static filled the air as it filled the gaps left in place by an agonizing silence.

"You say he is likely dead, so why are we still continuing this conversation?"

"..." Clark did not respond.

"Mr. Steel," Director M. interjected. "Why do you and Mr. Jones still insist on continuing? Can you speak with the dead?"

Clark turned his face to the first monitor, then, turned his head to the right at the 5th monitor.

"I have one last question, Clark Steel." W asked with a sigh. "You must realize, that, if the Council dissolves this company, then," She weaved all ten fingers into a ball and put it over her mouth as she leaned forward. As with the other directors, her face was completely blacked out to protect her identity. "If the Company is dissolved, then it will be impossible to retrieve Wilhelm's dead body." She said. "How do you feel about that?"

"My opinion is irrelevant." Clark replied, smiling a bright grin under his dark shades. "I just, don't care."

She let out a bland sigh, letting the darkness overcome the world once again.

"I have no further questions, honourable Board members." She closed her thoughts.

"Do you have anything else you want to say before we make our decision, Mr. Steel?" Director G asked one last time from behind the 4th monitor.

"I can't, but I've spent a long time listening." Clark responded.

"What?!"

Clark grinned boorishly, ever so slightly shrugging, "I was asked if I could speak with the dead."

…maybe they just have nothing they care to say to me.

A sharp clap came out of the low fidelity speakers on the screen, ending the discussion. "Given the current information," Director O, her face mosaicked out behind a shadow raised her hand from behind the monitor, "I'd like to make a motion regarding the inquiry into the dissolution of the Company."

"I second the motion." Director G said, tersely, quickly, perhaps out of spite.

"All in favour of dissolution, say 'aye'." Director O invited a vote…

…

1990.

"…!" Mature gasped from down below. Then. The camera launched up to the ceiling twisting rapidly upwards and outwards until the clear picture became plain – a wild woman fearlessly faced the beast in mid air. "Wait. WAIT! STOP!" Mature pleaded in vain.

…

"Mr. Bernstein…" Brahms wondered.

198X. Dark underground laboratory.

Why are there so many religions, Mr. Bernstein? Eventhough it seems like all of them, seemingly identical, all equally zealous, want to look in the same direction… Is there some sort of insidious design that, just by a slight technicality, throughout the centuries, wanted to pit them against each other, in order to stall fate for a moment?

Fighting against each other, as if only by sheer amusement.

The prisoner's dilemma.

MAN, ABSOLUTELY fears the thought – if when one day, all of them stopped looking at each other and instead, looked up to the sky in unison... What would happen?

[TRUE communication.]

If you notice, all these religions are competing with each other to achieve the same thing. Clairvoyance – to predict the future. Just Communication – to receive God's words while at the same time excluding others. Synchronicity – or miracles, the thought that God's hand moves in your favour, and yours alone…. But, let's not fool ourselves, the most desirable of all the gifts… is… [The Reincarnation.] To defy all the established laws. To [CONTINUE] a failed game.

[Of the four heavenly gifts.]

The first to attain IT, the first to achieve THIS gift, renders the others totally irrelevant.

Unlike the other gifts, THIS ONE, is irrefutable and plain to see. "We can do it."

"Das ist Juden." THE PEOPLE referred to US in this way, HATED us, because they FEARED us. "Because I believe WE came the closest. And THEY could not allow that."

Brahms, like you, Rugal wanted to prove that they persecuted us by mistake, to be the one to wear this BRAND our grandmothers wore, to one day wear it proudly by proving THEM wrong. I pleaded that WE were not EVIL people; But I know now, that, THAT dream was merely in vain, Dr. Brahms. [THAT], you cannot deny, and have you forgotten? Even now, when we no longer wear it – nothing had changed. Despite 'their' promises of diversity, justice, and equity, deep inside, they still invisibly harbour ever such great HATRED towards US! Because, from the very beginning, it was not simply US they hated…

…THEY, simply, wanted to rally the world… towards a very convenient enemy.

As we forsake those we thought INFERIOR, and those we DESPISED.

"Rugal wonders," Rugal mused to himself, "Dr. Brahms, Did you entertain the thought that maybe these [Hakkesshu] thought the same thing?"

When we persecuted them also? And allowed them to be branded before us Juden, and soon after – because they seemed weak and irrelevant – but only moments thereafter - our grandmothers were marked too; And when no one would care to stand up to object on our behalf, what did we say – was it the same as we did to them? Rugal asks you this.

…

Mature leaned back onto the cold steel gate, put the back of her head on the steel plate, rolling her ear into the cold surface. Mature's left hand gripped down at the phantom sensation on her right bicep, but – nothing was there anymore… to be set FREE.

From the PRISON we imposed onto ourselves, willingly, and unbeknownst to us.

"In 1944," Dr. Brahms said. "The Germans unleashed the conclusion of the project, [Deutsches Jungvolk]." Most historians mused that the Germans employed child soldiers at the end of the war merely as of an act desperation… but I personally do think otherwise. They waited that long, because, they needed TIME. They had already discovered this science and simply needed time to genetically cultivate them, from zygote, to utmost perfection.

A 'science', as they defined it freely, on to their own, to callously defy 'religion'.

…

The BEAST – part 14.

"YES, I was in the war." Heidern answered.

"Ah... the war. Yes…" Brahms begun to scribble some notes in a quick pace, but after a deluge of words abruptly stopped. The doctor twisted his brow in confusion and looked back up from the paper. "Whi… which war are we talking about again, Mr. Heidern?"

"The second world war." Heidern said bluntly and without fanfare.

This year was [1985].

…

"The British, and to some lesser degree the Rhodesians who foolishly, blindly, copied the plan so many decades later did NOT reasonably understand the fundamental basis of the genius, and simply thrust normal, ordinary, defenseless children to WAR. So the British Allied Forces deployed their own troupe of 50 stupid, petty boys. ALL of them were devoured whole by the Deutsches Jungvolk. Except ONE of them…"

Except one.

What GOD did not predict – no – mayhaps he predicted IT but ignored it, because he was unable to STOP it. Stop it from happening. He only remained silent, so, just so no one else in this very small universe would notice.

"The Britannians took another, more natural, arguably inefficient path." And out of 50 only 1 proved suitable. However, this 1 boy was able to DEFEAT in heated combat, 49 of the Deutsches Jungvolk. Almost INSTANTANEOUSLY.

…

…However, as this 1 boy was able to DEFEAT 49 of the Deutsches Jungvolk. Almost INSTANTANEOUSLY. Arguably, this one event, a show of ULTIMATE DETERMINATION, the show of ultimate disregard… was the precursor to the end of the second world war.

Despite what you may want to believe, some scholars thought it was not the atomic bomb that ended the war… The END was simply brought about by how we were so easily able to convince fathers and mothers to willingly and proudly send their childrens into harms way.

HOWEVER. As history would have it… This Britannian did something no one could ever predict.

A blonde haired, teenaged boy hobbled over, dragging his limp right leg along the way – all the same while a wooden chair skidded across the earth behind him also, down the cobblestone road; its wooden legs rattling as it raked over the bumps and crevices with a steady beat. At the end of his own tune that complemented the symphony, the Boy… (136). In 1944.

Even as the ENTIRE world recoiled in defiance, even as the ENTIRE WORLD BELOW GOD wanted, clamoured, raged and pleaded to defy [IT].

A blonde haired boy turned his ENEMY, into his FRIEND…

And, [THAT] is why, [THEY] truly, truly fear the Knight.

…

1987. 12:58 am, South Africa.

"Hello?"

"Good morning." Clark greeted on the other side of the telephone. "Hey," Clark said. "HEY…"

"Hey!" Knight replied immediately.

"Com'mon…." the man chuckled.

"Clark!" Knight beamed into the hand piece, leaning back into his seat and sighed a warm breath. "How are you, son?!"

"Hello, Pops." Clark leaned forward with a slight grin. In a dark room so far away, the reflection from the television screen silhouetting the edges of his Ray-Ban shades.

The BEAST – The Monster.

"How are you doing, Boy?!" Knight exclaimed waving away his wife with a bright beaming smile. 'It's Clark.' He slowly mouthed ever so silently silently to the far side while his wife jumped in glee from the opposite side of the kitchen.

"Sorry I haven't called, Pops."

"Sod off!" Knight guffawed. "It's been FIVE YEARS! Where are you son?"

"I'm in South Africa, Pops."

"South? South Africa?" The old man replied. "Isn't this long distance call expensive?"

"It's okay, Pops. The Company will pay for it."

Knight laughed heartily. Thank you. "Thank you for calling, boy."

"It's good to hear your voice, sir." Clark wrapped his hand on the telephone handset in his hand.

"It's good to hear from you too, Clark."

His wife turned around and put her hands under the faucet of the kitchen sink to wash her hands.

…

"Are you with Wilhelm? How is he!?"

"Pops… The commander… he…"

Knight suddenly fell into silence, a peculiar trait that even his wife noticed almost immediately as her husband nodded quietly in front of the telephone.

She twisted the cross shaped knob on the kitchen sink faucet, and while she tried to keep it to herself, she could not help but revert to a state of quiet when she devoted all her might to listen to the breaks of silence.

SHE, she put her left hand over right bicep, almost unconsciously – feeling for something, something that was no longer there. A phantom remnant from 44 years ago.

"Rugal?" Knight repeated unconsciously into the mouthpiece of the beige telephone handset.

"Yes," Clark said, "I thought, if anyone would know, YOU would. This man, Rugal has Commander Heidern's body."

"Rugal BERNSTEIN?" Knight replied immediately.

Clark was speechless from across the globe, though part of Clark already had faith that Knight would hold some clue to what the hell was happening. "Do you know Rugal Bernstein, Pops?"

IN 1987, SOMETHING HORRIBLE HAPPENED.

"Pops, who is he?! Who is Rugal…" Clark…

Rugal?

"Rugal Bernstein… I know him." Knight interrupted Clark's thoughts. "In 1980…"

"Pops?"

"Rugal Bernstein. 7 years ago – he won the King of Fighters 1980."

"Do you know Rugal?"

"Son, don't get involved with that man."

Chapter 154: Lies and Politics.

"I remember, CHILDRENS played this game." W said to Clark.