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 dawn came, but for the first time in so many weeks Partridge could find no joy in it. He stood in the Courtyard of Ordination as he’d done so many times before, letting the cold light fall over his skin, no more warmth left in his soul. It had been only one day since Preston had saved him, one day since everything had come crashing down forever. It was all over. He’d regained consciousness in the Medical Wing of the Monastery an hour after his rescue, and had discharged himself as soon as possible, before they could check him for Prozium or try to administer any to him. The details of what had happened were still crashing through his mind, slashing at his heart. The TetraGrammaton had received an anonymous tip off that Partridge was being held hostage in Kemp’s living block. Preston had apparently ran to the vehicle garage, almost thrown a Sweeper from his bike and screamed out of the Monastery like a bat out of hell. He’d cleared out the room and dragged an unconscious Partridge out of the living block before the rest of the Response Team had even arrived. Partridge’s first fear had been that Mary was amongst the dead. But her body had not been in the apartment. And then he’d heard the recording of the tip-off caller. It was her. She sounded terse, emotional. And so she would do. She was making a call that would kill her cousin. The choice had been to save the Resistance’s best weapon, or to save her cousin’s life. She chosen to sacrifice a family member to save her struggle for freedom. To save the future of Libria. Partridge was still alive. He could continue the fight, and he would. But he had nothing left in himself. He’d lost Mary. He stood in his dress uniform, it’s white fabric painfully bright in the morning sun. By his side, his Katana rested on his hip. He shifted the sword sash that rested on his shoulder. For some reason, it never seemed to hang right and he usually ended up holding the weapon’s handle with his hand to keep it in line. The Katana seemed alive in its saya, pulsing gently in his hand. The ceremonial sidearm of the Cleric, this version of the weapon had no tsuba handgaurd, and was made using advanced versions of the techniques that had crafted the original weapons of the Samurai. Two metals, blended together and folded countless times, providing a single hard cutting edge like a razor, but a spine that was soft and elastic enough to take a severe impact without shattering. Along the cutting edge, a frosted line known as the hamon ran the length of the blade like a genteel sea, showing the point where the hard metal met the soft. This blade was hidden within the saya, but in one motion… It could be free, could send blood rushing to the floor. And today, it might well get that chance The Courtyard of Ordination was in a sparsely populated area of Libria. Surrounded by high walls, it was comprised of two main features. One was a stand for the ranks of the Cleric to gather in. It was built in the shape of a horseshoe, each row climbing back until it resembled one half of the ancient and lost Coliseum of Rome. Like everything else in the courtyard, the rock used for the stadium was the colour of sandstone, the same colour as the Hall of Mirrors that lead to Father’s office, symbolising Father’s intense connection with this place. At the foot of the horseshoe stood Arch Cleric Hawks, sword by his side, a black stripe running across the raised collar of his white uniform. The ranks of White Clad Grammaton First Class stood on the lowermost levels, then the Second Class further back, then first the senior and junior Acolytes, then the Initiates right at the top. On the floor embraced by the horseshoe stood eight men, two women. They wore the White Dress uniform of the Cleric, but carried no swords by their sides. They were the Acolytes awaiting their Ordination. And their focus, and the focus of everyone else present, was directed on the other main feature of the courtyard. The Alter. Resting in front of the horseshoe, The Alter was a large, raised platform some ten feet high and fifty feet wide, also fashioned of stone. An in it’s centre, surrounded by a ring of pillars emblazoned with the symbol of the TetraGrammaton, stood upon the great seal that ordained the floor, was Vice Council DuPont. He wore his simple black suit and tie, his face etched with his usual impassive expression. Stood on the Alter with him, surrounding him with their black robes and lowered hoods, were the Ten Grammaton Monks. "Acolytes," said DuPont, addressing the ten to be Ordained, his voice echoing across the courtyard. "You stand here today not as simple citizens of Libria. You stand here as it’s defenders. You were selected during infancy, chosen for your natural characteristics that set you apart. Few are chosen for the honour of this life. Few can attain the standards required." DuPont had addressed those last three sentences to the Ordained Clerics. Now, he turned his gaze back to the ten Clerics in Waiting. "You are those few. You are the last line of defence. And with your skills of intuition and enforcement, your training in the Gun-Kata and the related combat arts, you will ensure that this line is never broken. You are the Grammaton Cleric. And when you accept this sword, you will leave behind you the life of an Acolyte and accept your life as a member of the Cleric. And so both I and the Council congratulate you. And most of all, Father congratulates you. For you are now part of his right hand." The ranks of the Cleric snapped into a formal bout of applause as the Acolytes were each handed a Katana by the Arch Cleric. Partridge scanned his eyes across the courtyard. He saw Robbie Preston, dressed in the uniform of the junior Acolyte, stood smartly to attention, his face the stone-like copy of his father. He saw DuPont watching the scene with an almost emotive air of smugness. He saw Preston glued to the ceremony with the total dedication and commitment that John had for everything to do with the Order. He saw Brandt, and could swear that the Cleric looked bored. And he saw Tate, and his teeth almost ground together with a rage that flared like a muzzle flash. She caught his eye, her jade green gaze locking with his. Giving him a cold but knowing acknowledgment. Then she returned to looking at the ceremony. The rest passed in a blur. More rhetoric spewed forth from the Vice-Council. More emotionless platitudes were mouthed about sacred duty and faith. And at the end, the ranks were dismissed and the courtyard faded to a still and empty desolation. Nothing moved in it’s empty wastes. Except the white clad figure walking slowly up the steps towards the alter, hand on the hilt of his Katana, fingers crushing the white silk wrapping and the rayskin beneath. Partridge reached the plinth and stood just on the outside of the circle of pillars, eyes closed. Waiting. Just waiting And, at last… "So you’re still alive then, Cleric." The voice was soft, the face beautiful. But the words and the soul dripped with poison. Partridge opened his eyes, but didn’t look around to the source of the voice.. "Why?" he asked. "Why give Kemp your kill sheet? Because I need you dead, Cleric. I would have thought that was obvious." Partridge turned his head, a slow and controlled movement. Tate stood on the opposite side of the circle, her dress uniform and katana immaculate in the fading sunlight. "I had no intention of jeopardising you." he said. "I was no threat. You could have left me be. Left us, left the Resistance alone." Her face twisted in contempt. "You’re whole Resistance is a threat to me." she hissed out. "You just don’t get it, do you? Your arrogance is breathtaking. You think that just because I’m off the dose, because I choose to feel, that somehow this means I want rid of the TetraGrammaton? That I think this system is flawed?" "I used to." said Partridge, holding her gaze with one of his own, forged of steel in the fires of his torment, a gaze that would never break under Thor’s own hammer. "But it would seem that life has taught me otherwise." "The TetraGrammaton made us what we are!" she said, eyes burning. "Look at us, at what we can accomplish. Our combat skills mean that none can stand against the Cleric, our intuitive disciplines allow us to anticipate our enemies very moves before they are made. You seriously want to turn your back on all of that? On the power we wield? In Father’s word, we are the top of the food chain. The other societies, the empires of the past knew nothing. Under their yolk, I would have been kept barefoot and pregnant. But in this world I am free. I am the warrior!" "Your grasp of history leaves much to be desired." replied Partridge. "I want this life. This system." "And that’s why I had to die." She nodded, smiled. "Correct. I knew that as long as the resistance had you, they would never trust me. Never let me close enough to make that final, killer blow. But with you gone, well, then there would be only one Sense-Offending Cleric in Libria. And they would have no choice but to take me to their heart." "The purpose of the De Morangias deal was to bring me to you, to give you my ID." said Partridge. "When you knew who I was, you dug through my record. The unseen knife, the poison in the dark. The only sure way to take down a Cleric without loosing your own head. You sought to turn my allies against me." "I thought it the most efficient option." replied Tate, a satisfied smile on her face. "And if that failed, I had a supply of untraceable, suppressed small arms that I could use to do the job. "Coward." roared Partridge, his face becoming sudden wrath, and for a second Tate seemed taken aback, unsettled by the force of the rage burning so close to her. "You think yourself a warrior? The warrior stabs his enemy through the chest, not the back. You’re a murder, nothing more." "Enough!" snarled Tate, breath coming now in deep, ragged fits. "I will bring Father the Resistance, and when I do I will become the greatest Cleric ever to walk this Earth. I will rival the Grammaton Monks themselves! As Brandt so often says, "what are we here for if not to make our careers?" Something in the way she said that let him know that she and Brandt were more than just partners. But Partridge no longer cared. "You think yourself a Cleric and a Sense Offender?" Partridge came back with mocking laughter. "You are neither. The Cleric serves Libria, not himself. The Sense Offender serves the vision of what Libria can become. You are a creature of the limbo between worlds, of darkness. Of nothing." Tate’s jade eyes flashed at that, and for long seconds both Cleric’s stood motionless on either side of the circle, both aware of what was coming. Then, moving slowly and as one, they slid their sword sashes over their heads, took hold of the pure white sword in it’s saya and slid the sheathed weapons across the floor. The two swords came to rest, side by side, in the centre of the circle, on the great seal of the TetraGrammaton. Then they both stood, hands by their sides, fingers flexing. Waiting. The sun had drifted to one side and rain began to patter down, water caught in the retreating sunlight like iridescent shards of ice in the air, an air that became damp with the rain and the promise of the blood to come. For the first time in a long time, Partridge met the inevitability of violence with something other than regret. He felt a desire within to strike out, to hurt. He disgust, his rage, his loathing and contempt for the creature stood before him was like an ancient wind that he could not stand against. Because of this woman’s ambition, because of her self-centred desires, so many had died. Kemp and his fellow rank of grieving loved ones used and manipulated to be the weapons of one who cared nothing for their pain, killed not by Preston but by the one who had engineered the situation. The Sweepers drifting as ashes across the Nether, dead because of a deal set up simply to unmask the identity of a rival. The suffering, the death, the pointless death. There will be one more death Cleric Tate. And then the trance of Gun-Kata came to his mind, soothed his thoughts in it’s caress, gave him logic and skill like the pure white virgin snow. Two sets of wrist holsters snapped out weapons, two sets of hands grasped the weapons. And hell broke through around the circle of pillars. The two Cleric’s danced with speed and fury, flowing from pillar to pillar, mixing the protection of the stone with their own kata flow, their bullets a screaming crossfire through the centre of the alter. The air became thick with dust and fragments from the great pillars as 10mm rounds tore bleeding chunks from the stone, tore at the flagstones underfoot. -Tate span left twice, whipping four rounds at Partridge from each weapon as each rotation brought him in line with her guns, missing each time as Partridge feigned a high evasion then ducked to a low and responded with a left to right sweep of full-auto rounds, two streams of brass casings arching skyways, Tate vaulting over the line of fire and behind a pillar as slugs that would have gutter her hit nothing but stone- They slipped like liquid mercury from one kata to another, blocking each other’s line of sight, double bluffing the others move, switching from single to auto and back in an effort to do something the other could not predict, to win a game of chess and poker played with burning lead and slamming steel. A duel of equals, Tate ever so slightly faster and more supple with youth, Partridge with more experience and just able to negate her advantage with his greater learning in the Gun-Kata. They moved like dolphins through the shallows, the rain splattering their faces and throwing up a mist in the sunlight that broke through the clouds to the west and kept their duel in it’s golden light. Both Clerics fired, knew that the rounds had missed as they were triggered, shifted stance- -Partridge in a wide high stance, side on to his enemy, rear gun pulled back beside his chin, front gun stretched out straight like a lance- -Tate in a wide low stance, also side on, front leg stretched out, back leg bent to take weight, front arm thrust out low, rear arm crooked up and over her head like a scorpion tail- Two last sets of white-hot muzzle flashes, each painting the TetraGram cross into the tortured, soaking air. Four shell casings clinking on the cold stone, four rounds flew the distance across the alter. Partridge felt the low round brush his hip, feathering the material on his suit and biting the skin, felt the high round breath on the back of his left hand, burning it’s wake across the flesh. He saw the round from his front hand cut a small harvest of golden hair from Tate’s head, saw his slug from his rear hand pluck the material of her left bicep, white fabric and a small spray of blood spitting into the air. And the bullets were spent. They froze there in their Kata’s, processing the fight, waiting to double bluff the other into the next move. Make them move too early, make them move too late. No sound but the rain hissing on the scorching muzzles of the motionless weapons, sizzling in the open firing ports, the locked-back topslides. Then both Cleric’s dropped their SP-10’s faster than thought and launched forwards. Into the circle. Diving forwards, mirror images, hurtling right towards each other. Passing each other in mid air, snatching up their Katana, rolling upright. And with a hiss of metal, the magnificent blades were free of their saya and met with a ringing strike over the great seal. And again and again, Partridge and Tate fighting like demons, arms cutting the glittering blades about at the speed of thought, drops of water flying from their sodden clothing and hair. Their strikes and blocks rang with a pure rhythm in nature’s rain, hitting with such force that sparks flew brilliant yellow into the space between them, each blow holding enough power to split a torso in half or shear off a limb, the razor edges of the weapons splitting the droplets of rain that fell into their path. Partridge dropped under a sweep that clove apart the air above his head, knew that she would be expecting a strike and would block it, so turned his drop into a sweep kick, his scything leg tugging her ankles out from under her knees. She fell down, to her back, Partridge sprang, lashing down with the point of his blade. But she rolled fast, too fast, and the blade screamed down into the stone, slamming in until a fifth of it’s length was lost in the paving. Before Partridge could pull the sword free, Tate’s kick hit the flat of the blade trapped between stone and the users grip, and with a ringing snap the Katana broke away at the tsuka handle, leaving a piller of bright steel in the stone, reaching for the clouds. Tate came back to her feet, began a side to side cut with her own weapon but Partridge was there first, diving inside the arc of her arms and slamming one palm onto the handle of the sword, the other onto the side of the blade itself, harnessing and redirecting the momentum of the weapon to the right- The point of Tate’s Katana rammed into a piller, slipping in deep enough to leave the weapon hanging there from the piller like a tree branch with it’s razor edge facing the sky. The two Clerics rolled away from the immobilised sword, stood a few apart from each other in the rain and the mist and the golden sunlight. "The Katana was never my strongest weapon." said Tate, reached her hands behind her back, up behind her tunic at the small of her back. And with a rasp of metal and a spinning flourish of steel, she pulled free the two gleaming Wakizashi that had been strapped against her back under her tunic. Shorter versions of the ceremonial Katana, these two short swords held the same frosted Hamon edge and folded blades as the longer weapon, and also lacked a tsuba guard, making the handle and blade one unbroken flow. "I’d noticed." Partridge replied, hand brushing his own tunic and returning with the short metal pole that snapped harshly open into his Jo short staff, whirling the weapon in a figure eight around his body and coming to rest with it’s tip pointing at the foremost of Tate’s short swords. "Come on Cleric." snarled Tate. "No more false starts. Hit me like you mean it." And she charged, duel blades flashing in the sunlight and slamming up against the spinning Jo. The weapons moved so fast that only other Cleric could ever have tracked the moves, Tate slashing and whirling her swords in her hands, Partridge spinning, swinging and thrusting the Jo. And so they fought, matching and testing their strengths and weaknesses. Her double weapons gave her more options, but his longer weapon kept her out of range. He was stronger, but her grasp of technique allowed her to mitigate that. She was faster, but his greater experience allowed him to mitigate that. One mistake. That’s all either of us needs. though Partridge as arms worked for their very lives. He understood now why she had joined him for that practice Kata. The words that had so cut him had not been the reason. They had merely been the distraction to keep him from seeing the real purpose. She had wanted to evaluate his skills, prepare for just this event. But he had also come to this battle prepared, he too had done research. She was a fierce warrior, extremely skilled for a Second Class. Whilst she would never equal someone like Preston, she would certainly surpass Partridge if she’d has his experience. Indeed, his arms were already beginning to tire from the constant, hard fighting. Even for a Cleric, a battle of this fury could not be sustained forever. But a battle was not only in the body. It was also in the mind One of Cleric Tate’s deficiencies, read the report that Partridge had hacked into, is that she is overconfident in her own abilities. She views her own skills and weapons as enough to grant her victory. Hence, she is liable to disregard environmental factors. This lack of environmental awareness must be remedied. Partridge began to deliberately slow his movements, just a little, aware of the risk he was taking. Too slow and he would die. Not slow enough and it would not be convincing. He blocked a little slower than before, struck a little less fluidly then before. He allowed Tate to drive him back, across the alter, growing a little slower with every step. He saw her eyes growing in confidence, arrogance. She knew he was about to fall. To die. He allowed his face to project a mask concern and worry. And she drove him further back, down the path he set. And then he was too slow, swinging the Jo down to block one Wakasashi, leaving his head open for the other. He saw her eyes flash with cruel triumph, saw her spin the blade underhand above him, saw her drive the point down like the Sword of Damocles, lunging with all her might towards his skull. And as soon as her arm was committed, the fear and concern vanished from his face. His speed returned like floodwater to a parched riverbed. He dropped away to one side. To reveal what he’d been hiding behind his back. Tate’s Katana, driven into the pillar, upturned blade exposed. Tate saw it, triumph turning to shock and panic, but it was too late. No muscles could ever reverse that much power or alter their direction in that short time. It was inevitable. Throw a stone, and it will fall to the floor. And with an organic snick Tate’s wrist met the waiting blade and her hand was sliced cleanly from her arm. The lost sword and hand bounced on the floor, such had been the force of her strike. Blood began to hose from the sundered arteries her arm, but she didn’t get chance to scream in pain or outrage. Partridge’s Jo came in, clutched in his right hand, slammed into her left knee and exploded it, rose to meet her jaw, snapping her head skywards and exposing her throat whilst his other hand tore the Katana free from the wall and swung it through the falling rain, a blade used by evil but made pure again by this last act. The consecrated blade upon my knees, is Sato’s ancient blade, still as it was Still razor keen, still like a looking glass. Unspotted by the centuries Blood exploded red down the front of Tate’s uniform, the surgical red line across her throat swelling to become a chasm of angry flesh and gristle, and Partridge held Tate’s horrified gaze all the way as the Cleric’s head peeled backwards away from her shoulders and fell to the floor with a thud that echoed inside his mind like a gunshot. It is done. He stood there in the rain, as his soul rushed back to fill the Kata void, and closed his eyes. The pain and fatigue surged into his limbs. He let out a deep breath, the rain rushing down the mirror-blade of the Katana, mixing with the blood to drip from the chisel point as a pink waterfall. Partridge retrieved the saya of the weapon of his fallen foe, slid the blade back in, then placed it neatly next to Tate’s body. Then he placed and RDX incendiary charge next to the corpse, hit the timer and walked away. In the background, the alter hissed into a brilliant orange inferno that the rain could never hope to put out. There would be questions. He wasn’t sure he could answer them. But he would try. He stood in the attic, coat folded on the windowsill nearby, looking out of the old window at the stars and the moon. It had been very risky, but it appeared that he’d once again cheated death and would live for one more day. He’d simply reported that he and Tate had spotted a man hiding an EC-10 book within his tunic on their way from the stadium. They’d chased him back into the courtyard and up to the alter, where he’d detonated an RDX grenade in an attempt to avoid capture. Both Tate and the man had been caught in the blast and burned to cinders. He’d explained the fact that their weapons had both traced as firing at that location easily enough. Tate’s weapons had cooked off due to the heat of the incineration, the ammo exploding in the melting guns. He’d had his guns out when the blast knocked him over, and the impact of the fall had triggered several rounds from the sidearms. No trace of Tate remained, so it was easy enough to say that no trace of the Offender remained either. He was free to live for yet another day. And so he would. But he doubted he would ever wrest enjoyment from his days again. She is lost to me. Even as a comrade, a friend, she is lost. She’d been forced to kill friends for him, a member of her family for him. He was the reason she’d lost them. To save her war, she’d had to loose them. And he knew that every time she saw him, she would think of all that his existence had cost her. He was the blade she would despise, the needed weapon she would still loathe. You could dose… But then he would loose the memories. The memories of those few weeks where her love was possible even if not probable. Where she’s smiled in his company, talked with him. He’d loose their moment here in the roof of an old cathedral, the finest and most treasured time of his life. I’d rather suffer an eternity of grief and keep these few happy memories than trade it all for the trance of Prozium undead. He would fight this war, he would see Father and the Council thrown down, would see the Prozium vials smashed in the streets. He would gain nothing, but those who came after him need never know the pain he’d known, be used by the TetraGrammaton as he’d been. They would live, and love, laugh and weep without threat from Clerics or Sweepers. He would help build her dreamed-of world, even if he would never see it. So Errol Partridge looked at the stars, and heard her voice in his head. Upon the star that marks the hidden pole Fix every wandering thought upon That quarter where all thought is done Who can distinguish darkness from the soul? There was movement, behind from the shadows of the stairwell. He turned his head, his jaw fell open a little. He got to his feet, breath catching in his throat. Mary walked out of the shadows, her eyes glittering with tears and grief and sorrow. Partridge fought for words to say, to apologise for what he’d cost her and knew that there were none. "I’m so…so very sorry." he croaked. "I didn’t mean for any of it to happen." She never broke her stride, simple kept her pace towards him, wordless. He wondered if she held a weapon she intended to thrust into his chest. If so, he wouldn’t stop her. After what he done, she had the right… And she walked into his arms, curled her own arms tight around him, pressed her face against his neck. And wept. He held her, losing track of time, just holding her as she hugged him and cried, the Cleric stunned to the core that she was drawing comfort from him, wanted comfort from him, the warmth of her body melting through the fabric of suit jacket, her tears wet against the skin of his neck. Finally, when her tears had calmed to quiet sobs, he said quietly; "I wish I could have known Tate would do this. I’m sorry-" "It wasn’t your fault." she whispered, and the words knocked him even further. "I killed their loved ones." "No you didn’t." she said, eyes still closed, left side of her face still resting against his neck. "If they’d have been on the dose, they’d have killed their own loved ones. The person you are now is decent, honourable, kind, gentle. In this violent struggle you’re the most peaceful man I’ve found. I’ve never known anyone try so hard to avoid violence the way you have. I wish I could be like you, and I admire you so much. And I need you so much." And she opened her eyes and looked up into his. "And I love you so much." she said, her breath soft and warm on his face. For a few seconds, they looked at each other, breath on each other’s face. Then Partridge did something he’d never done before. He leaned his head forwards, and he kissed her, her lips soft and warm on his. And she responded. And long seconds later, when the kiss gently broke, she looked into his eyes again and softly spoke: I am content to follow to it’s source Every event in action or in thought Measure the lot; forgive myself the lot When such as I cast out remorse So great a sweetness flows into the breast We must laugh and we must sing We are blest by everything Everything we look upon is blest And she leaned again into his kiss, and that night amongst the cold, moonlit stone ruins and starlight, Partridge found his absolution in the embrace of a woman that another man named Errol Partridge had once intended to kill. - Part Three Coming Soon - more Equilibrium Fan Fiction