Juryrigged > Works > Writings > Avari Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Another usual evening in the City saw the populace adhering to the usual structure of modern life. After the trials of a backbreaking day, it was only natural to seek sanctuary in that worldly haven of bliss and refuge: the pub. What better place for the masses to congregate, bowing their heads over glass after glass of hard liquor? Devotion to alcohol is not so different than worship.

And what a crowd tonight's service had drawn! Here a Tzarbot, there an Insectoid, and huddling inconspicuously in yonder corner, three Cerulean nationals. Every race, every class, every culture represented in this, mankind's first amalgamated church. All elements of cosmopolitan society could be identified here... including some of the darker ones.

Mister Smite was out of place amidst the slurred words and clinking glasses of his fellow patrons. With hook wrapped around a near-bottomless flagon, he sat brooding in silence, staring blankly off into space.

The bartender was Rocco, a piggish man with enough metal in his face to qualify him as a mine. As tavern keeps went, this one was pretty rough: brusque, obnoxious, and obese to a fault. The countertops put a squeeze on his weighty frame as he waddled back and forth caddying the drinks, and he had a revolting habit of oinking throatily to himself whenever some wisp of a thought penetrated his massive cranium. As he wiped down a glass on the sweaty black fabric of his tank top, Smite caught his eye, and he made the mistake of confronting the melancholy captain.

"Hey, Captain Hook, you been nursing that damn bottle all night long!" (oink, oink, oink). "You gonna buy anything else-" (oink, oink) "-or not?"

"He snapped, seizing the bartender by his oversized nose ring and slamming his face into the bar. His cries of alarm quickly turned into screams of agony when Smite put his cigarette out on Rocco's shiny scalp.

"Far be it from me ta' anger th' establishment!" he roared.

Rocco collapsed in a fetal position behind the counter, writhing and clutching his forehead. Smite cackled sadistically at the sight, and the bar goers sitting on either side of him all scooted one stool down.

It was nearing eleven and the bar was filling up. Voluptuous young women with skimpy clothing and skimpier morals hovered from table to table as if walking on air. Some of them had boyfriends - burly, chain-smoking men who circled around them like secret service agents. Others came to the pub on the prowl, hunting for a warm body and a wad of cash.

The constant buzz of the plasma set behind the counter did little to numb Smite's mind. He took a long draught from his flagon, appreciating the sudden warmth that came over him, and tried to ignore the evening news being broadcast on the monitor. As the anchor's voice droned on, his clench on the bottle tightened:

"Terror and cataclysm struck the City's port district early this morning when shipboard combat sparked a massive boiler explosion, which spread fire to over thirty buildings and warehouses throughout the harbor. Destruction of property and damage to the shipyard is expected to total in the millions of credits, but no loss of life has been reported. The details of the conflict are still coming out, though video recordings and eyewitness accounts have placed Mecha Sonic on the scene in his first rampage in more than five years.

"The conflict was localized to this medium-sized slave ship, revealed by a police spokesman this afternoon to have been actively involved in the trade of human children. The children were rescued by authorities and are currently receiving treatment at Mercy Hospital. Twelve of the slave ship's crew were also taken into custody. Mecha Sonic and the purported ringleader of the operation, Zebulon Smite, remain at large.

"This disaster comes at a questionable time for the Prime Minister, who is facing an uncertain reelection campaign this November. As protesters crowded the streets today demanding to know why any slave ring was able to operate in the City unbeknownst to authorities, administration officials were quick to condemn the operation as 'barbaric and reprehensible.' Janus Pyrite emerged from a lengthy conference with his aides this morning and reinforced calls for Mecha Sonic's arrest, stating, 'Random Insanity had long fallen prey to Mecha Sonic's penchant for chaos. With proper direction and a new focus, the nation will do everything in its power to see that he is brought to just-"

"Turn i' off," Smite muttered.

"Wha - wha's that?" the bartender squealed.

"Ye heard me well enough, ye horn swogglin' bilge rat! Now will ye do what I told ye, or be I needin' ta' rip that ring clear out o' yer prow this time?"

He flashed his hook and Rocco was off and away, scrambling for the power switch as fast as his fat ass would carry him. Smite grunted and took another long swig. It was a pity, he decided, that so much flesh was wasted on one flabby bartender, especially when he was so desperate for manpower. His ship, his crew, his cargo - all of it gone in the blink of an eye, and he had none other than that goddamned robot to thank for it. He muttered a chorus of unpleasantries under his breath.

"Me whole life's sunk to the bottom o' the deep," he sighed.

The media had lavished the last eighteen hours tearing him to shreds. To his utmost chagrin, he found he couldn't go thirty minutes without seeing another composite sketch of himself, though thankfully none of the artists had managed to capture his deep sunken eyes or the hefty chunk of cartilage missing from his nose. The captain snarled and bared his teeth, itching to know who among his men had betrayed his description to those mongrels. Probably Barcudi, the cur - a candidate for the black spot if there ever was one! He was new to the crew, and Smite never did trust a minnow.

He didn't really give a damn what anybody said about him. These stupid land-dwellers led such a microcosm of an existence, they lacked any horizons at all beyond their Monday Night Football and Saturday matinees, fast food chains and left turn lanes, Oscar winners and TV dinners. Their greatest burden in life was the price of gas; they couldn't fathom not being able to put food on the table. Poverty was fertile as the waves elsewhere in the world, where husbands and wives depended on a son to carry the family. If the dice came up three daughters in a row, something had to give - and that something usually meant one of those daughters would be sold off.

Why should he care if a few urchins were bound to suffer? It's not like he could end the slave trade - and even if he could, why should he? He earned his lot selling souls on the black market. There was no lodging for humanity in his business. Slavery would always exist in some form or another as long as there was inequality in the world, and that suited him just fine.

"Tha's jus' the way things work."

He needed to lie low for awhile, let the tides die down and the waters calm. Once his name was long forgotten, it wouldn't take long to rustle up a new ship and crew. Smite would be bound for foreign ports and foreign markets within a month, with the wind at his back and his slaves at his mercy. He would be back.

And time went on.

"No matter where I go, no matter what I do, I just can't win. I think somebody upstairs just doesn't like me. Life's hurled too many spitballs in m direction for all of this to be a coincidence," Mecha muttered.

The red neon light on the wall behind him was on its death bed, casting flickering, uneven shadows in the gloom, causing the vicinity to appear warped and distorted. Crumpled wrappers and flattened cigarette cartons stole across the street like tumbleweeds in the stiff wind, the rustling of trash merging with the patter of rain in a chorus of soft, unsettling whispers. Mecha's eyes were on the shady bar across the way. For the better part of ten or fifteen minutes, he had watched over the top fold of his newspaper with no small measure of disgust as people entered in ones and left in twos, usually bound for the cheap pay-by-the-hour motel located conveniently next door. The stench of humanity's shortcomings radiated from every brick and slab of pavement, poisoning him with each breath.

He'd just visited the City the night before, damn it. And it hadn't ended very well; Mecha's face fostered a grimace as the memory of that fire drenched ship and its horrific cargo molested his mind. After yesterday's escapade, the City was the last place in the world he wanted to be - especially here, in this lowlife neighborhood.

Who could he blame for having to be here? God was too remote, he made his own fate, and he didn't believe in luck...

"Oh yeah. It was my brother."

The neon light flickered.

It was dangerous for him to be here and he knew it. In the Forest of Neutrality, he had asylum, but within the walls of the City he was a wanted man. The authorities sure as hell hadn't forgotten about that little stunt with the Gundam he'd pulled five years ago, and it was a sure bet his face was still plastered floor to ceiling in every post office and police department from here to Jatteran.

What's more, he was relatively sure he'd just been caught on video camera yesterday - fleeing the wreck of that shipboard inferno, no less! Ten to one that footage had been played on the opening segment of every major news program in the last twenty-four hours. He was no fool: there were politicians who'd staked their futures on his capture, and with the electoral blitz fast approaching, it was a sure bet they would put tremendous pressure law enforcement to facilitate his capture, seizing upon this incident to bring his past crimes to the forefront of the public mind. And the public wasn't likely to forget: the smoke ushered inland by the easterly breeze was still far too thick in the air for that.

The dying light gave a pathetic little buzz as it blinked on and off again. Mecha cringed, his ears flattened in annoyance, and as his patience deserted him he decided then and there to put the damn thing out of its misery with one fell punch. His fist smashed the glass easily, the hot neon gas hissing its dying breath as it escaped its shattered confines.

He needed to tread lightly. He really didn't believe his brother capable of selling him out, but even so there was no sense walking blindly into that bar and finding himself on the receiving end of an ambush. If he kept his eye on the building, kept his wits about him for just a little while longer-

"'Evening, Mecha Sonic," came Sonic Boom's voice.

Mecha jumped a mile. Clamping down hard on his tongue, he mouthed a silent curse, struggling to compose himself as his heart beat a mile a minute down the fast lane. His aggravation at being startled mingled explosively with his annoyance at being called to such a wretched locale, and his fury coagulated into a glare lethal enough to turn Medusa to stone.

Before him stood his smirking brother, Sonic Boom. Looking at Sonic was like peering into a mirror and beholding a great kaleidoscope of similarities. Physically, the two were identical in all ways except color: whereas Mecha's metallic frame was a deep murky blue, Sonic's shone a spectacular silver that pierced the shadows and almost seemed to radiate light. But every mirror has its imperfections, and as far as Mecha was concerned, Sonic's were more transparent than most. For all his rhetoric, he was as two-faced as anyone else, and his intentions were always cloudy.

"Wipe that grin off your face, Sonic. You should know better than to sneak up on me like that," Mecha snarled.

"Trying to case the joint, Mecha?" Sonic chuckled. "Good idea, lousy form. You stick out like a sore thumb. Anybody who takes a glance at you can tell you're trying to see something."

"How do you figure?" Mecha wondered.

"You're standing there watching, for one thing. Hiding behind that paper wouldn't be a bad idea if it weren't the dead of night - and if you hadn't just punched out the nearest light source."

Mecha's clench on the newspaper tightened as Sonic rattled off a litany of other mistakes he was guilty of. He wasn't sure why he'd agreed come here, but he was certain it hadn't been for the sake of being lectured to.

"And when did you become such an expert at surveillance?" he growled.

"Two words: firsthand experience. When entering a potentially dangerous situation, the more intelligence you have at your disposal, the better the odds that you'll come out of it alive. And that isn't limited to people, either. You've got to know the lay of the land. What are the best entry points, exit points, possible escape routes? Where's the attack most likely to come from? How's the floor plan, the occupancy, the ventilation system? All critical pieces of intelligence. These are the nuts and bolts of casing, really, but it only takes one missing bolt for everything to fall apart."

Sonic proceeded intrepidly across the street. Mecha watched him go incredulously, feet rooted firmly to the pavement. What would happen if someone in that crowded bar recognized him? His mind swam with forsaken possibilities.

"Don't worry, there's no danger," Sonic said. "In this part of town, getting caught on video is bad for business. No cameras, no cops, and if anybody sees you, odds are they're not the type to go file a report at the station house."

"Oh, I'm just swelling with confidence now."

"You're not going to get arrested, Mecha. I've taken every precaution. Trust me. I picked out this meeting place specifically with you in mind."

"You must think so highly of me," Mecha sneered.

His lip curled as the door swung open and a sixty-something prostitute shuffled onto the street, her face plastered with layer upon layer of smudged makeup beneath her matted gray hair. She caught the robot's eye as she reached for a cigarette, smiled, and began to lick herself seductively. Mecha cringed.

"First rule of surveillance is to remain inconspicuous. That means, when reason dictates, to avoid using the main entrance. There's a steady stream of traffic moving in and out of the front door, which is a plus if you're adept at blending in. But you wouldn't know subtlety if in came up and bit you in the face, which is why I've got a lovely little side entrance picked out for us."

Mecha's pace quickened consciously as he stalked past the streetwalker, now rubbing herself and moaning toothlessly in a vain attempt to solicit a customer. Between the bar and the motel he had spied earlier was an alleyway, dim and secluded, sheltered from the marauding streetlight by an impenetrable veil of blackness. Mecha felt his feet slap against puddles of rank water, choked back the rancid odor of garbage piled high against the walls - but these things were imperceptible as the wind as he submerged himself in the dark.

The dark...

In the wake of his paranoia, something snapped. There was an unbearable rush of guilt; a sorrowing chagrin; a terrifying fear.

A fear of being a soulless demon with the blood of millions on his hands, without compassion, without companions.

A fear of the dark; a fear of being cold; a fear of being alone...

The sharp, vindictive eyes of a murderer, like the feral snarl of a predator prowling down the innocent; the sadistic glee pumping through him, more intoxicating than wine; the fear in their souls as the Dark Star descended in the East; the cold dread; the grim resignation; the weight of a barren, suffocating existence, chained down by the rapture of death with no hope of arrest by head or by heart; and the fire... the fire... the fire...

Nothing but a husk. Nothing but a ruthless, mindless, hopeless husk. The darkness pressed in all around him, enveloped him, enthralled him, devoured him; and with it came the tortures he'd endured, the loss of sanity and the loss of self-

I don't want to do it. Please, anything but that! Please, DON'T MAKE ME DO IT!

He could see the marionette strings twining all around him.

Cetra's defense forces plied the thick, black smoke, a shimmering field of stars against the smoldering sky. They descended rapidly as yet another of the city's majestic ivory spires ruptured in the fire of his onslaught, battleships bathed in a pale orange light while the star dragons spiraled ever downward, talons glinting like knives, jaws parted in a terrifying roar - and he threw back his head and laughed at the futility of it all.

Sepulchre flushed with dark energy and jolted the air with red bolts of lightning; the dragons jerked, their bloodied riders were tossed from their war saddles a thousand feet to the earth below; a ribbon of explosions rocked the ships and sent them plunging down, down, down, to where the frightened people could only huddle close and watch the shadow descend over them all...

His heart thumping painfully against his chest, his organs coiled in fear, his hands shaking violently as they massaged the darkness, yearning to find the way-

It wasn't my fault. It wasn't my fault. It wasn't my fault.

You ENJOYED it! Mighty Cetra in all its arrogance, laid low at last!

Why was he reliving this now? All of it happened years ago! He'd put it behind him!

On his knees in this darkness, the frigid cold stabbing at him like a thousand daggers, all alone but for his fevered thoughts and that terrible, domineering voice shrieking at him, crowing at him, mocking him - clawing at his skull fanatically, blunting his fingertips upon his head - THE PAIN! THE PAIN! THE PAIN!

A SLAVE. A SLAVE to that tyrant's will. But God help him if he didn't take sick joy in the slaughter, the devastation, the cold-hearted murder; in the sticky red runnels that leaked from so many bodies.

People screaming, running, weeping over the broken bodies of their loved ones; the tattered flag of Cetra hanging limp in defeat; the ancient monuments crumbling, scorched and blackened; and everywhere fire cremated the bonds of innocence, burning, blazing, melting...

Melting...

A little girl's plea for mercy as she gazed up at him with pleading emerald eyes; the warm tears against his palm as he soothingly caressed her face; and that single, awful question slicing into his heart with pointed revulsion - the one question in the universe he couldn't answer...

No, not again!

He reeled, his legs buckled and gave way beneath him, and in that instant he found himself plunging faster and faster into the forlorn depths, the icy currents slapping him senseless all the way down. Dante was right: hell was cold.

His knees thudded against the ground, his hands slapped cool water. Gasping in desperation, he looked up in a wasted effort to catch some glimpse of salvation; looked down to see a child's blood pooled around a disfigured body...

Then the darkness was banished, held at bay by a pale rectangle of light glaring at him from over yonder. Draped in shadow, silhouetted against the glow, an ominous figure lorded over him with an aura of sanctimonious retribution. The steady drumbeat in his chest resumed its stormy allegro, his eyes waxing in dread. Judgement?

No, not Judgement, but rather his brother, Sonic Boom. The pandemonium of that war-torn world was dissolving now, the fragments of his mind slowly piecing themselves back together to form a coherent picture of reality. The soft patter of rain against the pavement. The fetid stench of garbage. A stark, claustrophobic alleyway between a seedy bar and lowlife motel in the City of Random Insanity.

Mecha's breathing grew less hoarse as the vision of the burning capital faded. There were years and lightyears separating him from that nightmare. He'd vowed to put it behind him! He'd vowed to make amends!

He was a scientist. It simply wasn't reasonable for him to be so traumatized by the dark, nor so haunted by the phantoms of his past. Brilliant Mecha Sonic, ever fascinated by the progress of invention and the persistence of ingenuity, who faced his problems head-on within sound, logical parameters. He'd vowed to live his life looking forward and never back, so why the hell was he being plagued by these horrific hallucinations? Why was he still suffering so?

It was times like this that he marveled at the ironies in life. For all he knew about the universe, he understood so very little about himself.

He shut his eyes and swallowed a lump, searching for the faintest oasis of inner-peace to master himself. It's all in the past and it wasn't your fault, he reassured himself. Then, just as fervently, I'll never kill again. I'll never kill again.

"Lose your footing?" Sonic asked sarcastically. He sighed at his bewildered brother, who was still a fixture of the ground, knees anchored to the wet pavement. "You see, this is exactly why we avoided the front door. Absolutely no grace, no finesse, no subtlety."

"I-" Mecha's voice quivered and died on him. Summoning all the composure his shaken soul commanded, he answered steadily, "I'm coming, already. Just... just hold your horses a minute. Thought you had more patience than that."

The side door hung open before them, granting them passage to the aft of the building. It wasn't a heck of a lot brighter inside: dim, gray lights cast their glow on drab, gray walls and dull, gray people. This was a relatively secluded part of the establishment, quiet and sparsely populated, probably designed with roguish patrons like himself in mind. The lion's share of the noise emanated from the bar up front; from hence, the sounds of talk and laughter seeped back into this reticent area.

Mecha followed his brother quietly to a booth, still shivering from his episode outside, but doing everything in his power to keep a low profile. The aroma of cheap wood and sawdust pricked his nose as he took a seat at the table, and dirty metal plates and eating utensils seemed to lie wherever they were tossed. As they took their seats, Mecha couldn't help but notice how Sonic absently began to put every piece of silverware in its place, bringing order to the table setting.

"This is a bar, Mecha, and that means the patrons are likely to stick around for awhile," Sonic explained. "Anywhere else you go, you see people nursing drinks, it's a danger sign - but not here. Watch for people who can't sit still, who can't stop sweating, coughing, fidgeting. Watch the workers - they're here all the time, they know the regular crowd, and they can tell if it's been added to or subtracted from. Watch for people with cell phones-"

He stopped mid-sentence to savor a chuckle. Mecha frowned and stared at him. "Did I miss the joke?" he wondered.

"It's nothing. Just mulling over how much that little criterion has changed. A few years ago, a cell phone was enough to label you a crook, a cop, or a movie star. Nowadays, everybody's got one - especially now that virtually all telecommunications are being routed through the RISS."

"I didn't think the space station was functioning yet. From what I heard, Mirai Otaku made one hell of a mess up there."

"Trust me, the RISS is more than operational. They've got more generals, agents, and engineers on board than you can take a stick at. And the government's always thinking up imaginative new ways to put it to work, too, be it for communications, surveillance, or defense."

"Knowing Mirai, I'm surprised the lot of them haven't been ejected into space yet," Mecha muttered.

"I think they've neutralized most of the booby traps by now."

"The more's the pity."

Their conversation lapsed, and a steely silence fell over the table. Sonic appeared to be deep in thought about something, though as to what, Mecha couldn't venture a guess. Ever vigilant, he turned his attention to the navy blue curtain that draped off the crowded part of the bar from this sitting area; to the long line of boarded-up windows occupying the opposite wall; to the side door they had entered through, still purposely ajar. As he sized up the escape routes, he felt a pair of eyes on him, and he turned his head just in time to catch an Insectoid regarding him curiously from a booth across the room.

Fantastic. He'd already been spotted.

The nearest other patron was a fat, graying man in his mid-fifties, who was preoccupied nibbling on the ear of a bombshell half his age at a nearby table. Judging by his necktie and pressed black suit, he was probably a businessman, a politician, or some other maggot who'd managed to worm his way into society's good graces. The gentleman and his courtesan were seated a good eight feet of way and well out of earshot, but no distance was enough to protect Mecha from the whimsical blue smoke curling here and there from their ashtrays, throwing petrol on the burning fire of his annoyance.

He leaned across the table and addressed his brother, "Mind telling me what this is about, Sonic?"

"Of course. Forgive me, my mind is elsewhere," Sonic sighed. "Don't let the other patrons bother you too much. You and I will be gone long before the police ever get wind that you were here."

"You were saying?"

Sonic frowned. "I wanted a word with you about what went on last night with... Well, you know. It's become the media spectacle of the year; they've got reporters and photographers perched on every dock and pier down the Verde Coast. The people are really riled up about this."

"Then let them be riled," Mecha replied stiffly.

"You always were adept at causing chaos," Sonic murmured.

Mecha was busying himself fiddling with the silverware and carefully avoiding Sonic's gaze, but the moment these words crossed the table he fixed his brother with a stare so stony it could've made a statue out of Medusa.

"Is this some kind of sick joke?" Mecha snapped. "My face is on the front page of every newspaper for the first time in five years, and you drag me here, straight into the lion's den, so you can criticize me?"

"I'm not the one you should be angry at!" Sonic said. "You let yourself be seen by eleven different news and police cameras fleeing from the burning wreck of that cargo freighter. There were better ways that situation could've been handled than taking the damn ship by firestorm! If you're upset because law enforcement's made apprehending you priority one again after all this time, you've got nobody to blame but yourself."

"So the government's having an orgasm over their latest opportunity to capture me and stick me in front of a firing squad. Big deal! Considering the popular support they'll drum up for bringing a 'dangerous fugitive' like me to justice, I wouldn't expect anything less of them. Those monkeys in the Senate are so hard up, it doesn't surprise me to find they're off masturbating to the thought of raising their own poll numbers," Mecha spat.

"Then what-"

"No, I'm ANGRY because my brother invited me to this goddamned hole-in-the-wall under a white flag, and here you are sitting across from me, proving yourself to be the same self-righteous little shit I always knew you were! Jesus Christ, Sonic!"

"Half the harbor's burned to the ground because of that little stunt you pulled last night. Some of the warehouse fires are still going strong, and they're going to keep burning for days and days to come what with all the toxics and flammables that were stashed away," Sonic said flatly.

"You think I started that fire?" Mecha sneered. "You think I had arson on my mind when I attacked that slave ship? THEY were the ones shooting the guns, Sonic. THEY were the ones throwing the bombs. If they blew something up, then that's on their shoulders, and I'll be damned if I'm going to apologize for them."

"Don't you see? None of that matters because you were the catalyst! If you hadn't lost your mind and gone on a rampage, all of last night's destruction could've been avoided. Now the media's made a festival out of it, the administration's caught like a deer in the headlights, and the people are riled beyond measure, out on the streets demanding action-"

"THEN LET THEM BE RILED!"

He was on his feet so fast he almost tipped over the table. Sonic jumped in surprise and fought to steady it, snatching up the silverware before it could clatter on the floor. Mecha knew the eyes of everyone in the room were on him now, but being seen didn't matter anymore. His mind was in a place far removed from common sense.

"So WHAT if the people are riled? Of all the possible ends that could've come of this, that's the BEST I could've hoped for. So the little people are up in arms because they're realized an OUNCE of the wickedness that thrives in this world, that reared its ugly head in their own backyard just yesterday - HALLELUJAH, the day of enlightenment has come at last! Maybe now they'll wake up to the bleaker side of life, make their beds and never lie in them again, sink their teeth into the sick and repulsive CORE of humanity and actually take a stand against the EVIL I witnessed last night!

"All my life I've been fighting for this, fighting for people to oppose the corruption they allow into their everyday lives instead of just coping with it. BUT YOU-" Mecha was speaking faster now than Sonic had ever heard him, visibly struggling against his temper as he raised an accusatory finger at his brother- "YOU are the counteractor. YOU are the gremlin who throws a wrench in the gears and tears the wings off the goddamned plane!

"You sit there twiddling your thumbs in your perfect, idyllic little world, too obsessed with blacks and whites to realize the infinite gray. And you convince people to remain COMPLACENT, filling their heads with ridiculous notions of right and wrong and good and evil until everything I've hoped for - everything I've FOUGHT for - is made MEANINGLESS by your moralistic drivel!

"This is what Gaw couldn't understand, and what Sweendog couldn't understand, although Leon seemed to have a pretty good grasp on it - I went through this same speech with each of them, but no matter how many times I repeat myself nobody seems to be willing to OPEN THEIR EYES to reality, and you're all too quick to condemn me for it!

"LET the people be riled. LET them have a voice. By the grace of God they might even find it in themselves to resist that kind of depravity; and not just on a nondescript freighter docked offshore, but in their judiciary, their legislature, their executive, and everywhere else that kind of corruption has taken lease! If you weren't so obsessed with making everybody fall in line-"

"Stop." Sonic's voice commanded such a will that Mecha gave pause in his rampage, though his anger blazed on in the pits of his eyes as he unflinchingly met his brother's gaze.

"Sit down," Sonic said sternly.

Mecha's eyes flickered to the booth he'd abdicated and the table still slightly wobbling from his lapse of self-restraint. Impudence flashed across his features.

Calmly, Sonic returned the scattered silverware to the table, placing every fork, knife, and spoon with meticulous precision, ensuring the plates was perfectly turned and centered. "I know how your mind works, Mecha. I know the games you play," he said. "You know, as much as you claim to be a scientist, you really don't place a heck of a lot of weight on the pillars of logic and reasoning. You betray yourself. You really do."

"Please, don't patronize me. You live in a dream world where the only evil comes from the boogeymen who lurk in dark alleys. I'm more pragmatic than you'll ever be!"

"You've cornered the market on pathos alright, but boy, do you ever come up short in the logos department," Sonic mused. "Look at yourself! You're raising your voice to me, trying to bait me into a fight. What's it gained you? You haven't provoked me. I'm not any closer to attacking you. All you've managed to do is capture the attention of everybody in this room. Where's the logic in that, Mecha? Where's the reasoning?"

He was right. The chattering Insectoid, the suit and his mistress - everywhere Mecha looked, the patrons stared back at him in alarm. He grimaced.

"And so I say to you: sit down."

Mecha sat down. And slowly but surely, the Insectoid resumed clicking his mandibles and the man in the suit went right on back to eating his concubine's face, though he still caught them sneaking glances at him from time to time when they thought he wasn't looking.

His insides coiled. Sonic was right; he'd been boisterous, brash, and all too blatant. Two booths down and three tables over, a shadowy individual who inhabited an equally shadowy corner of the room put out his cigarette and made for the door, paying Mecha more than a passing glance as he left. He could feel those eyes on him like needles, studying every aspect of his body and contour of his face, committing him to memory for all time. All that man had to do was place a phone call and the police would be here in no time to put him away in some cold, dark cell. He suppressed a shudder as the paranoia that had infected him outside pricked its chill upon him once again...

"I should go." He made to stand up, but Sonic stopped him.

"Relax. That's Rudy, the bouncer. He goes back on shift right about now. There's nothing to worry about," Sonic said, but Mecha still looked troubled.

"Come on, Sonic, what do you want from me? An apology? Because if that's the case, you're barking up the wrong tree. You weren't there aboard that ship. You can't even begin to imagine the conditions those kids lived under - locked up in lightless containers, beaten and tortured into submission..."

Mecha shuddered. Out of all the parties involved, he alone could best appreciate what the children had gone through, and he felt more than a pang of empathy at their painful ordeal.

"I visited Mercy Hospital this morning," Sonic said, "first thing after I was briefed on the situation down at the docks. The ambulances were still pouring in when I got there. Believe me, I saw how sick and emaciated those children were. I was even blessed enough to talk to one or two of them. No, Mecha, I think I've got a pretty good inkling what they went through."

"To grow up in that kind of an environment, and at that age... What kind of parent sells their son or daughter into slavery?" Mecha muttered.

"It's more complicated than that and you know it," Sonic said softly. "If you've got five children and only enough money to feed four, then at least you can stand to wake up each morning knowing the fifth one is still alive somewhere."

"Don't tell me you really believe that!" Mecha scowled. "Slavery is no life! Existing day to day in a shipping container is no life! Those children deserved to be free. They deserve a future!"

"I'm not arguing that. What those children went through is reprehensible. Slavery is an evil practice bathed in the blood and sweat of tyranny, and the sheer fact that it still exists in these modern times is testament to the failings of mankind. We pride ourselves on being civilized this day in age, exempt from the vice and ignorance of the past..." Sonic made a face. "Of course, you and I both know that's a crock."

"Then where do you get off criticizing me for taking those bastards on?" Mecha demanded.

"Whether or not you care to admit it, we live in a society predicated on rule of law, an overarching, all-encompassing system of justice which all people are subject to. It's the bedrock that all civilization is founded upon: a covenant between the government and the governed to keep human propensities in check so that the strong should not harm the weak."

"Piss off, Sonic! Where was your system of justice when those kids were being ripped away from their families?! Where was your rule of law for them then?!"

"Rule of law wasn't invited onto that ship last night because you took the matter into your own hands," Sonic said quietly. "You were the catalyst. You were the vigilante. It wasn't your fight, Mecha, and it wasn't your right to attack that slave ship; no more than it is your right to decide who lives and who dies."

People running, screaming, falling, mourning over the forsaken corpses of their loved ones... monuments blown off their foundations, buildings caving in, the ruptured citadel burning on the horizon... the fire... the fire... the fire...

Mecha's lip quivered. "Nobody was killed last night. I - I took every precaution."

"You're right. By the grace of God, nobody was killed," Sonic affirmed. "Thirteen slavers were pulled from the wreckage with broken bones and severe smoke inhalation, but still no deaths on your conscience. I'll even give you credit for saving the children in that shipping container from going to the bottom of the sea. But all of that aside, how many millions of credits are going to have to be pumped into the port district just to repair the damage that you instigated? How many dock workers woke up to find themselves out of a job this morning because you didn't go to the police?"

"Go to the police?! I'm a wanted man, Sonic!"

"Mecha, the hotline is a dial tone and three digits away! Why didn't you place an anonymous call? More to the point, why didn't you call me?"

The question was barbed as a spear. Sonic's face was a churning storm of bitterness, his eyes taxed by emotion, yet unrelenting in their siege. Now they were getting down to the squirming yellow heart of the matter, Mecha realized. Here was the real reason Sonic had summoned him to this seedy little bar on the corner of Hades and Main: not to berate him for his arrogance or vilify him for his actions, but to sit down, brother-to-brother, and simply ask... Why?

Why had things turned out this way? It never used to be like this. Once upon a time, he and his brother boasted a healthy, stable relationship. Granted, Sonic never fully appreciated Mecha's enthusiasm for science, and Mecha never shared Sonic's admiration for the human race, but the two still kept up a good rapport. Hadn't he stood proudly in support of Sonic during the cataclysm of the first Cerulean War? And when Archie's fate was dangling by a thread and the Flying Mice were facing extinction, hadn't Sonic's intervention spelled all the difference between life and death?

From time to time, Mecha still found his mind wandering down that jagged path in Dirge Canyon, flanked on either side by those stark, blood-tinged cliffs. The somber desperation of that long night would never escape him: holed up in the gorge by Gaw's obedient drones, their jeers wailing down the rocky crags like a thousand sirens, condemning them to death. And as Chimera cast its horrific shadow upon the Flying Mice, ravaging their mind and bodies before his very eyes, then did Guardian cast off his guise and show his true colors...

When Sonic arrived at long last in the Shooting Star with the antidote in hand, it wasn't gratitude that Mecha regarded his brother with; it was abject salvation.

Then Sonic went and founded the Justice League, which was the preamble to their feud if not the body of it. Mecha's disastrous Attack on Random Insanity was the response, and what a catastrophe that had been! Of course, his intent had never been to conquer the land, nor to bring about any wanton destruction - he had abandoned such evil desires in the rubble heaps on Cetra long ago. He'd only wanted to make a point... and what a costly point it was.

Mecha had more than enough time to reflect as he limped from Wing Zero's smoldering hull and collapsed in the shade of the sakura tree. A lot of things were broken that day: not just a Gundam or the walls of the City, but the bond of trust between brother and brother. Another wedge was driven between them.

To be fair, it wasn't Sonic's character that Mecha took issue with. It was the ridiculous moral philosophy he delighted in spouting at every opportunity, the way he exalted lawfulness above all else and took his orders from the government like a goddamned dog. Mecha had hoped the trials of the Depression might induce Sonic to revise his sick ideology, but the chaos MasterHIM wrought only served to solidify his nauseating devotion to the order of the state. From that point onward they grew apart, Sonic entrenching himself ever further in his flawed world of patriotism and compliance while Mecha scorned every part of it, and their strained relationship was quickly buried beneath an avalanche of antagonism.

Mecha's newspaper was sticking out of the gap between the booth and wall. In one swift movement, he swept the plates and silverware out of the way and slammed it down furiously upon the table, smoothing out the wrinkles so the font was crisp.

"Look at this," he growled.

Sonic complied. The morning edition of the Winchell glared up at him, assailing him with stock photos of Mecha from years and years ago, not to mention a veritable art gallery of images depicting the aftermath of the fire. Screaming headlines dominated the paper, encompassing the vast spectrum of events that had transpired last night; here was an article on the dealings of the slave ring, there a good bit of material on the health of the children, and set forth in loud, important lettering at the top of the page, "Public enemy Mecha Sonic returns to prominence amid fire and chaos."

"Tell me what you see," Mecha fumed.

Sonic blinked. "The news of the day."

"Very good. Now tell me what you don't see."

Sonic blinked again. "I don't follow."

"What you don't see is a true blue account of what was going on aboard that ship before I crashed the party, who was there and what they were doing. Damn it, Sonic, open your eyes! A pack of slavers like that wouldn't have risked pulling into port unless they had full assurances the authorities would be busy looking the other way. As it turns out, they were rubbing elbows with some of the top politicians in this country, making some illegal campaign contributions, and they were just about to break out the keg when I came busting through the window." Mecha scowled. "Funny how the press conveniently managed to forget all those little details."

"What are you suggesting, Mecha? That the Pyrite Administration had an oar in all this? Because that's absolutely ridiculous," Sonic laughed.

"Tell me, Sonic, do the names Scylla and Charybdis mean anything to you?"

A pensive expression crossed Sonic's face. "Michael Charybdis and Scylla Howard? Aren't they... Aren't they undersecretaries to Arnold Metternich?" Sonic frowned. "But what have they got to do with anything?"

"Let's see. Michael Charybdis, short man with broad shoulders and a pudgy face, matted black hair, slightly balding? And Scylla Howard, mid-fifties with at least three or four chins and a complexion like mashed potatoes. They were there, Sonic, and all dressed up for the occasion - accepting a briefcase full of money from the slavers. All on behalf of the Pyrite Administration."

"I can't believe it. I won't believe it," Sonic said hotly. "It's-"

"THE TRUTH!" Mecha punched the table in a rage, the plates went flying, the silverware jettisoned by the wayside. The eyes of the room were on him again, but there was no talking him down this time.

"You want to know why we're at each other's throats, Sonic? It's because you can't understand - because you've never understood - because as much as you preach about living an honest life, you can't stare down the truth for five seconds without turning face! You worship the state as some pillar of righteousness and throw around meaningless words like rule of law. Get a clue! Government ethics are about as foggy and insubstantial as the smoke billowing out of harbor right now!

"I swear, you 'good guys' with your bullshit principles and convictions - it's all veneer! The only thing that makes you people civilized is that you eat with a knife and fork. Deep down, you're just as dirty and rotten as anybody else. At least I make no pretenses about what I am: what you see is what you get."

Sonic glared. "You really believe that, don't you? After all this time, after everything that's happened, you still scorn law and order, even when the alternative is anarchy."

"You think you take your orders from saints, Sonic? Think the feds in the Justice Department have never handed you an assignment for their own personal gain? Think nothing underhanded ever goes on in government? How about that war against the Cerulean Empire a few years back? I'm sure that was justified, right?"

"And you think the alternatives are any better?" Sonic shot back. "Come off it, Mecha. You've been around long enough to see what happens when the state buckles. You saw what the TCA did to this country! People need laws to repress their inhibitions in order to keep the darkness of humanity at bay. Even God told Adam not to eat the apple."

"Your philosophy isn't worth a damn!" Mecha sneered. "Don't you see? All your precious rules and regulations are founded upon human institutions, and that makes them inherently FLAWED. If you weren't so blinded by your own pathetic mantra, you would realize that the people who create and enforce the laws are just as corrupt as the people who defy them!"

"I'll repeat myself once and never again," Sonic intoned, leaning far over the table until he could smell the heat coming off Mecha's breath. "I never suggested the system was perfect. I never suggested it wasn't vulnerable to corruption. But being the pragmatic individual that you claim to be, it should be evident that any government is preferable to the chaos that would rule the day if there were no system at all. We've both witnessed the kind of evil that can take root when there aren't any good people to keep the bad people in check. Call me whatever names you want, but I'm going to keep on living my life doing what I know is right. I'll stand up for the law. I'll stand up for democracy."

Mecha snorted. "Democracy. Great system. You can say whatever the hell you want as long as you do what you're told, right? Just give the people their pizza, beer, and television. Heck, as long as you keep them content, you can get away with anything - even slavery!"

Sonic rolled his eyes. "I'm done trying to explain this to you, Mecha."

Mecha slammed the table furiously, his arms brandished in anger. "If the state is such a force of good, then WHERE WAS IT for those kids last night?! The law wasn't there to protect them! Human decency wasn't even there to protect them! You champion the government because the government guards the peace?! Real peace isn't the absence of conflict, Sonic, it's the presence of justice. And justice sure as hell wasn't aboard that ship last night either!"

"Civil disobedience is still disobedience," Sonic said. He sighed heavily, clasping his hands on the table. "I'm begging you, Mecha. Don't go looking for trouble."

"I didn't go looking for trouble. Trouble came prowling around my home and got its leg trapped in the tachyon field the other day. No, Sonic, trouble found me."

Mecha snapped his fingers. On cue, a fist-sized vortex materialized above the table, a toothy black gash in the canvas of reality churning like a whirlpool 'twixt the tides of space and time. Out of it tumbled the medallion, a beacon of gold in the smoky gloom. Mecha snatched it out of the air and threw it to his brother. The letters IF were prominent upon its gilded face as Sonic held it up for inspection.

"Keep it. A memento of the quality time we've spent together tonight," Mecha scowled. He sealed shut the subspace portal with a flick of the wrist and stood to go.

"Mecha?" Sonic said hesitantly.

He shot Sonic a bitter look. "What?"

"Ublf dbsf pg zpvstfng, cspuifs."

Mecha snorted and made for the exit.

It was after midnight when Smite came staggering out of the bar and the booze was hot on his breath. He'd made up his mind: he would have ships-

"A fleet o' ships!"

And a crew-

"A fleet o' crew!"

And he would run the meanest, portliest, most shipshape operation ever, and he would be the meanest, portliest, most shipshape captain doing it! What happened the night before wasn't a disaster - just another rocky reef to overcome! He needed only to take the wheel of the future and steer his life in a new direction. It was a mighty swell to overcome, but the triumph of his spirit would be well worth it.

The streets were deserted and eerily silent. Smite's rasping breath and shuffling gait were the only audible sounds, piercing the night as he muddled his way through the darkness. His knees wobbled and threatened to cave in on him, and he had to cling to the brick wall to stay standing as he forged his way through the ubiquitous black.

That's when he spotted those cruel red eyes glaring at him from the darkness of the alley. Like a demon out of a nightmare, it advanced on him, and he hoped against hope what he was seeing was simply a delusion clouding his foggy, alcohol-choked brain - but he was wrong.

"Mister Smite, I presume?" Mecha whispered menacingly.

Smite took one step back and then another, but his terror merely mimicked his motions in forward direction. He was dark, darker than the shadows around him, and his eyes thirsted for blood.

"What a small world we live in after all," Mecha leered.

"Yer... Yer... Yer not real," Smite gasped.

"Say, Smite, did you ever hear this one? A robot and a pirate walk out of a bar..."

He wrapped an arm around Smite's shoulders and led him back into the alley. Despite the warmth of the night, nothing could keep Smite from shuddering.

The alley was in a bad part of town. Of the few people in the neighboring motel who were within earshot, none were the type to go investigate screams, no matter no how loud or how desperate.

Not even when the screams became very shrill...