Equilibrium Fan Fiction by Coolhand This Lonely Tumult (part 2) Part One | Part Two  | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7    Part Two. The Absolution. The third hall of the Grammaton Monastery was silent, save for the rustle of fabric and the soft sound of feet against the rubber mat. Dressed in the simple black robes of the Kata training sequence, Partridge allowed his body to melt into the positions that he’d practiced every day of his life. They were familiar to him, almost comforting, in this quiet hall somehow separate from the chaos and misery that they inflicted in combat. Here, the kata was pure, unsullied by blood. The Gun-Kata was more than just a combat art. For the Cleric, it was an expression of faith in Father, in the TetraGrammaton. For every time a Cleric used the system, he put faith in the fact that the Kata would shield him, protect him. That as long as he used the movements in the correct way in the correct situations, no bullets would find him, nor his blood be shed. To have total trust in the Gun-Kata was to have total trust in those who had taught it to you. In the system that had taught you. The TetraGrammaton. The Father. Even for a Cleric who had lost his faith, the Gun-Kata still brought solace. Partridge found the Kata trance to be the only time that the voices, the faces, the eyes of all those he’d killed didn’t scratch at the back of his mind, letting him know in perfect clarity how each had died by his hand. The Kata freed him of that guilt, that pain, if only for a short time. Whilst he knew that he would never found absolution for his deeds, here in the training hall, in the Gun-Kata, he had fleeting moments of peace. He felt his body moving, responding, flowing through the air, slipping easily into positions long ago taught. And the presence of another wormed it’s way into his mind, burrowing like an insect. He stopped, looked across at one of the arches and saw the jade green eyes of Tate looking back at him. She wore the same black outfit as him, blond hair pulled back with brutal force into a short pony tail. "Good Morning Cleric." she said, her tone perfectly modulated to that of a faithful Prozium addict. "Good Morning." he replied, not looking at her, returning to his kata. She came from the shadows, footsteps almost silent on the matt, and took her position next to him, shifting with the grace of oil into an identical kata sequence. For a few moments, they moved in perfect harmony, both two Heretics expressing their faith. Then Tate said; "Most of the Cleric do not perform their regulation kata drill this early. I am surprised to find you here." "I find that the morning exercise clears my head." replied Partridge. "Helps me to think with greater ease." "I see." she asked, spinning with him, dropping down low, one arm thrust out front, the other crooked above her head. The continued for a few minuets more before Tate broke the silence again: "I don’t usually perform my own drill until an hour before I sleep. But today, my partner and I will be on a stakeout, so I may not get the chance. Cleric Brandt will be joining me soon, performing his own kata." The thought of Brandt made Partridge’s eyes narrow. The man radiated arrogance. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear the man was feeling. "Do you really think they trust you?" The voice was so soft, so gentle that he almost thought it his imagination. "What?" he replied with an equally quiet tone. "Do you think that you are anything but a resource to them?" They spun, arm’s out in front, crossing at the wrists. "What does that matter?" he replied. "I’ve seen the way you look at her." said Tate, her face calm and impassive. "The desire. The hope. The veneration. You’ve become a little too attached, I feel." Though his mind was mostly drifting in the kata, there was still a section of it still awake enough to feel a twist of unease. He felt oddly vulnerable about the fact that Tate had picked up on that. Was his soul really that bare for all to see? A step. A stance change. "That is no business but my own." he replied. "You are deluding yourself if you think she will ever return your feelings." Tate intoned softly. "She views you as nothing more than a weapon, a new asset that can be utilised in the war she fights with the passion she will never give to you." "I still fail to see the reason for your interest." replied Partridge. "I dislike seeing a man of your skills used by those without." she said, flowing her stance in time with his. "You should be more than just a tool." "Better a tool of the light than of the darkness." Partridge replied. His words felt like sandpaper in his throat. She views you as nothing more than a weapon, a new asset that can be utilised in the war she fights with the passion she will never give to you. He’d known it was true, always known she would never feel for him in the way he felt for her. But to have someone else say it… It drove it home all the more. "Why serve anyone at all?" she purred. "Why not serve yourself?" Because I’m not worth it. They spun together, arms cutting the air. And for the first time came to a halt in separate Kata’s Fingers pointed at each others heads. "Well." said Tate after a few seconds. "I hope that this isn’t an omen of some kind." Without a word, Partridge turned his back on her and began walking back towards the arches. "Have a good day, Cleric." Tate called softly after him. Partridge stopped, turned. Tate had resumed her Kata. He shook his head, and made his way out of the hall.What was all that about? The residential area’s of Libria were distributed equally throughout the city to allow the citizens to live as close to their assigned work area as possible. Partridge walked at a measured pace along the pavement, careful to copy the cold and logical expression and pace of his fellow citizens. The voice of the Father echoed through the canyon of cold steel and concrete, an endless, unopposed political monologue. Partridge no longer heard the words, just the voice. A voice he had learned to despise. The phone call had come out of the blue, direct to his living quarters. "Block 45 G. Room 1014. One hour." He knew that the Resistance would never contact him in that way except via the most extreme emergencies. He was sure that the voice had been that of Kemp, not his usual contact. The questions and uncertainties rattled through his mind like dust in a windstorm. When he arrived at Block 45G, he found Mary waiting for him in the entranceway. She was clad in the simple grey tunic of a Librian citizen, her hair tied back in an approved fashion, he face bare of the makeup she’d worn every other time he’d seen her. It didn’t matter. Her beauty and her life still burned around her like an aura, even though she was acting the part of someone numbed by Prozium. They both strode wordlessly inside the tower block, off the teeming streets. When they were inside, Partridge asked in a low voice: "What’s going on? Why was I summoned here?" "I have no idea." replied Mary. She looked concerned. "I heard that Kemp had got hold of your contact details and put a call through to you, asking you to come here. I got here as soon as I could." "Don’t you trust Kemp?" "I trust him, but it’s unusual. He hasn’t cleared this with Jurgen or any of the other leaders. Whatever he wants to talk to you about, it’s something off the record." Partridge nodded. He felt the SP-10’s shift slightly against his arms, as if they were stirring from slumber. Not yet. I don’t need you. Yet. They climbed the grey concrete stairs until the bare whitewashed landing of the tenth floor stretched out before them. Wordlessly, they strode to door 1014. Partridge flicked out a black leather hand and rapped three times. Then once. Then another three times, as agreed. When the door opened, Kemp’s face appeared, looking it’s usual sombre self. But there was something in the eyes… He was hiding it, with all the skill of one who has lived in Libria without Prozium for many years. But it was still there, detectable to a Cleric. Anticipation. Tension. Anger. He looked at Mary and said; "What are you doing here?" "I here to find out what you’re doing." Mary replied. "This is an unapproved contact. You’re risking both your cover and that of Errol. Jurgen will want to know why." Kemp looked from her to Partridge, then nodded. "Very well. Jurgen will understand, but I had little choice in the manner in which I contacted you Cleric. Please, come in." He stepped back, gestured with his arm to the Spartan living space that he‘d been allocated. Partridge and Mary stepped inside. The three of them made their way into the living room, a large space dominated by a huge plasma screen, black and unused. Father’s image was banished from this place. There was also a standard metal table and four chairs. "Please, sit." said Kemp, as he opened up a chest of draws. Partridge pulled out a chair, sat down. Mary did the same. His eyes watched Kemp-something was wrong-as the man took something from the top drawer and walked over to the table. Partridge saw it more clearly now. It was a stainless steel document case, with the raised matt-black insignia of the TetraGrammaton on the front. He sat down in the third chair, opposite Partridge and Mary. "This was given to me a few hours ago." he said. "From a source who would not be identified. They left this for me at an agreed dead-drop." Partridge raised an eyebrow. Accepting a dead-drop from an unknown party was risky to say the least. It could so easily have been a trap, a set-up. Mary was apparently just as appalled as he was, but she was showing it more freely. "Are you mad?" Kemp ignored her. He opened up the case, the metal cover throwing a blade of reflected light across the room, and withdrew a simple document, their stapled sheets fluttering in the slight draft. Kemp stood, walked around the table, and handed the document to Partridge. It was an official document from the Grammaton monastery, and it was labelled: Combat Engagements and Confirmed kills for Grammaton Cleric 412 Errol Partridge. It was his combat record. A list of every person he’d ever killed, every battle he’d ever fought, every round he’d ever fired. What could Kemp want with this… The pain was crushing, spreading like a wave through his body, needles of boiling ice dragging through tissue and bone and skin. He felt every muscle in his body snap ridged, convulsing as if they wanted to tear free of ligament and skeleton and curl up into a tight ball. He lost awareness of his own body, his own soul, could only hear Mary screaming something at Kemp, could sense that the two of them fought wildly with each other, could sense others coming into the room, and still the pain continued, scraping his bones clean of life, hissing through the grey matter of his brain and handing him nothing in return but agony beyond any he’d ever experienced… And with a gasp he surfaced, and the pain left him, and he slumped off the chair and collapsed to the floor. He tried to stand, but his body wouldn’t respond. He felt hands seize his limbs, could hear Mary still shouting and screaming, still fighting. Spurred on by her screams, Partridge found the strength to trigger the SP-10 on his right arm, but it fired out past an unresponsive hand and skidded away over the floor. He was hauled back onto the chair, his head lolling atop neck muscles that refused to take it’s weight, his ankles bound to the chair legs with steel-wire cuffs, his other sleeve cut open and the hidden pistol removed. Then his wrists were locked down to the chair arms. He dragged strength back to his neck and looked over to Mary. She was being held now by two strong looking men, arms locked behind her back, her face desperate. Kemp stepped away from her, a trail of blood tricking down his nose where she’d hit him, looking flushed but somehow satisfied. "No! You cannot do this!" Mary shouted at Kemp. "You mustn’t." "You should never have been here!" he shouted back at her, obviously torn with conflicting emotions but determined to continue. "Take her away." "Jurgen will have you killed!" she cried as the men began to drag her from the room. "He’s the most valuable man we have! "I don’t care!" "For pities sake." her voice was pleading now, desperate. "He’s off the Prozium. He’s not the man he was before. He saved my life! So many lives! You can’t do this, you mustn’t- !" And her voice was shut off by the slam of the door. Silence came down, settling like snow. Partridge became aware that his entire body was aching, a dull ache. He knew now what had happened. A Taser stun unit had been wired up to the legs of the chair, under the floor. Kemp had triggered it by remote, and then grabbed Mary to stop her interfering. The extended Taser bolt had knocked his central nervous system sideways, long enough for Kemp and his men to disarm him and tie him up. He turned his eyes onto Kemp. "Why?" he croaked. Kemp’s face was stone still. "I know you remember." he replied. "They trained you to remember. The names, the faces of those you kill. What about Tanya Schofield? She was thirty when you shot her. When you took away the one thing that made my life worth living." Partridge remembered. Hers was one of the faces that sometimes called his name when he slept. Dark red hair cut into an approved shoulder length fashion, but it had been decorated with illegal ribbons and bows when he’d seen it. Her brown eyes had been outlined with make-up, her lips glossed red. She’d been cornered, desperate, caught at a Resistance stronghold during a raid. Partridge had warned her to drop to weapon. She hadn’t. And so he’d punched two rounds through her skull with his pistol. He could still see her fall, a trail of auburn hair and blood following her to the ground. "I was on the dose." said Partridge, his voice grating out through lungs still recovering from the Taser shock. "You think that gives you an excuse?" whispered Kemp. There were tears in his eyes now. His own voice was crumbling, collapsing under the weight of the emotion leaking from his core. "You think that you can just wave away what you did? Just forget the murders and the slaughter because you’ve come off the dose? She was all I ever had, all I ever wanted…" The door to a side room had opened up, and people were coming out. Men and women, old and young. They looked at him with hatred, but also with apprehension, as if he were a tiger caged in frail and rusted bars. "You won’t know them." said Kemp, never taking his eyes from Partridge, the tears flowing free now. "But you knew their daughters. Their sons. Their fathers, mothers, lovers. You split their lives apart and now they’re here to claim their justice from you." His words drilled Partridge‘s mind, and the Cleric knew full well that he was going to die, and he knew full well that he probably deserved to. He looked into the eyes of each of the men and women in the room, saw echoes of the faces and the eyes of souls claimed by his weapons and fists. Each relative approached in turn, told him about the life of the loved one he’d taken. Some were seething with rage, some were tearful. Some were cold. They took their turn, telling him of what he’d ended, of what he’d cut away from them. Partridge didn’t know how long he was there, how many lives they spoke of. He said nothing to them, could think of nothing to say. This is how it ends. I pay the debt I owe. They stood in front of him now, scattered all over the room, raising their weapons. He saw one old couple, both their hands on the rusting revolver. The woman turned her face away, started to lower the weapon, the man held her close, whispered something to strengthen her, and helped her raised the weapon again. "After Father is dead." said Partridge. "What?" Kemp kept his weapon trained on the Cleric’s skull. "We all know I’m the best hope for taking the system down." said Partridge, pain gravelled voice reflecting total honesty. "Let me do that. Then you can kill me." "All these years I wondered what I’d do if I found the man who killed Tanya. Now that I have, you think you can bargain-" "It’s not a bargain." Partridge roared with sudden rage and guilt and pain. "You say I deserve death, and I might just agree with you but the system killed them, not me. I was just the trigger in the gun. You want revenge, let me fight this war, use me to kill the system. Then if you want to smash the systems old weapons, I won’t stand in your way." It was an honest offer. Partridge felt had as if things had shifted into focus. He knew that the guilt would follow him forever, but he also knew that he had to live, had to survive to fight the war, to take down Father and the Order that had created him and used him for slaughter. He had to live. Not for himself. For those he’d killed. He couldn’t atone if he was dead. For long moments, Kemp said nothing, did nothing. Partridge could see the battle being fought within the man. He wasn’t so blind with hatred and grief that he’d forgotten about the larger war he fought against the TetraGrammaton. And at last, tears still running silently from his eyes, he said: "No." Then all is lost. The speed was incredible, even to the Cleric bound to the chair. The skylight above crashed down into the room, a glittering shower of razor sharp glass bouncing and skidding across the floor. And the shadow that had fallen through with it rose from the crouch it had landed in and became the Reaper’s pure follower, scouring the room, swinging the scythe of gunfire with a demon speed and fury that was the signature of one Cleric and one Cleric only. And as the room screamed with death and bullets, Partridge felt the emotions and physical trauma take him under into blackness, dragging him down. Down. Done. Next >>> more Equilibrium Fan Fiction