[center][b]The Flock[/b]
by [name]Just Lurking[/name][/center]

The moist ground squelches beneath my boots.  I’m fairly sure that, that pipe is leaking sewage.  It’s difficult to tell in the dark.

At least it isn’t some sort of toxic, boot-eating, chemical.  You never can tell what’s flowing through these pipes.  Not that I care.

Y’see My name is Sab and I’m a girl on a mission.

I’m in the deepest part of the undercity, level zero, where the ground is soil rather than steel and concrete.  Not even the poorest, most desperate, pitiful, drooling, drug addled, destitute would come down this far.  It’s just me and the rats.

I remember--barely--when this soil lived.  When it breathed.  When it was open to the air.  Before the city was built over it.  Back when the sun light touched the ground and things--plants, trees--grew in it.

Nothing lives in this soil any more.  It’s polluted though and through. And not just from sewage.  It’s soaked from a hundred different chemical spills, each toxic enough on its own to kill a person stone dead. Even worms won’t live in this soil.

I flick my torch light to the left towards the stairwell.  It, like all the others, is built into one of the many steel-and-concrete columns that are the city’s legs.

Pipes and ducting encircle the support columns like veins on roots. The city’s roots.  They dig deep into the ground.  Sapping all that is good and wholesome from the earth and leaving nothing but waste and disease.  The city’s just one big weed, a pustule on the face of Möbius.

I enter the stairwell by the service door I forced open on my down. The motion sensors detect my presence and half a dozen dim fluorescent bulbs cackle and click on.

It’s miraculous they’re still working.  I doubt a maintenance team has been down here in a decade or more.  They wouldn’t dare.

I find a clean-ish part of the breeze-block wall and rub the soil from my hands.  That’s one unpleasant duty done and one left to do. As leader of The Flock, unpleasant duties have a habit of seeking me out.

I take the fingerless gloves from my belt, where I tucked them in for safe keeping, and pull them on.  After adjusting my trench coat and camo-pants, I set off up the stairs--it’s a long climb up to the city.

I suppose you’d like to know a little about The Flock, wouldn’t you? That’s fair enough.  I’ll fill you in about ourselves.  The Flock is what we call ourselves on account of our being sheep.

We’re not just any flock, or even a flock, we are The Flock--the largest and most powerful group of sheep there ever was.  We were a proud people and rightly so.  We ruled this zone--our homeland--with peace and wisdom for years beyond count.

That was in the days before Robotnik.  He came and he rolled over our zone--literally.  We were like insects to him--small buzzing pests--he barely noticed us as he built his Chemical Plant over our land.

And what a plant it was.  It was massive, half a kilometre in height. It spanned the entire zone from border to border, not an inch of our home was spared.  Fortified by fifty metre thick walls, barely enough for a manic who had the whole planet as his enemy.

Finally I reach the top of the stairs and I step into the lowest ‘real’ floor in the city.  There are only a few more folks loitering around on level one than there were at ground level.

The transit station is just a corridor or two away from here.  I get sprinting; I have an appointment to attend to in another part of the city--A.S.A.P.

This is actually still all part of the undercity.  The undercity isn’t an offical name or anything.  It’s what the overcity folks call the slums.

After Robotnik was defeated, the restrictions on travel between zones were lifted.  Anyone could come to the Chemical Plant and set up home.

Except, who would want to set up home in a city beneath a factory which pumps out tons of lethal chemical soup every day?  There are only two sorts of people in this city.  Those who work in the factory and those who have no where else to live.

The workers, the overcity folk, live in the upper parts of the city, near to their jobs in the plant above.  They come here looking for a job and money.  They’re usually young, poor, eager sorts.  Sometimes they come as couples, sometimes they’re loners.  They’ve all got the same plan though: come to work in the plant, for five, ten years and then off to wherever to spend their new found wealth.  Sometimes it even works out that way.

The undercity folks are all the people who couldn’t make it anywhere else. No one lives in the Chemical Plant by choice.  When you’re in the slums of the Chemical Plant you know you’ve hit rock bottom.

The prejudices were self reinforcing.  Eventually they became the unwritten rule.  You can tell how well off a person is by how high up in the city they live.

It’s sad really.

I arrive at the transit station.  The grimy display board tell me I have four minutes to wait before the train arrives.

I pat the holster on my left hip to ensure my laser is still under my coat.  I’m going to need it shortly.  Finding it still there I fiddle with the brass skull emblems on my lapels.  They really add to the bad ass look, but they’re a bugger to get straight.

I used to have so much hope.  There was a time I believed.  Believed that everything would turn out right if we just fought hard enough for it.

Those days are long gone.

Back then the Chemical Plant was ruled over by one of Robotnik’s generals, a robot by the name of Nutzan Bolt.  He was a short tempered, mass murdering, robotic, psychopath with a fixation on decapitations.

My S.O., Sol Furic, used to work for him.  Sol was always a bit naive. He believed he could change the system from the inside.  I told him he was wrong, that the only solution was to fight.  We went our separate ways that day.  I became a fighter and he became a collaborator.

Sol and Me went way back.  We were childhood sweethearts.  Fighting against my ex-boyfriend tore me up inside.  I still had feelings for him. Strong ones.

Back in the present the train is pulling into the station.  I board and find a seat which isn’t too ripped up.  The carriage is almost deserted. Like I said, no one comes down to this level.

Nothing in this world is static.  There was a zone runner, back in the bad old days, a diminutive fox with the power of flight.  It was he who gave us some of our most decisive victories which turned the tide in The Flock’s war against Robotnik and his Chemical Plant.

This zone runner had gotten separated from his fellow freedom fighters during a shoot out on the factory levels and had accidentally came into possession of some most valuable intelligence.

It turned out a particularly effective gang of zone runners had chosen the Emerald Hill Zone, to the south of the Plant, as their base of operations. Nutzan planned to breach the fortified walls of the Chemical Plant and flood the neighbouring zones with mega mack.  Lethal chemical overkill to take out a handful of individuals was exactly Nutzan’s style. Robotnik’s too, for that matter.

For Nutzan, it turned out to be a mistake.  It was the beginning of the end for him.  The diminutive zone runner turned out to be more than a match for him.

With the help of the zone runner, The Flock sealed the breach, saved the lives of countless thousands and gave Robotnik a metaphorical bloody nose.

Seeing that collaboration with Nutzan was doomed to failure, Sol rejoined The Flock.  I can’t say he didn’t face a lot of mistrust and rejection for his actions, but I forgave him and I think that the others have now too.

His time in Robotnik’s service had not been kind to him.  He had acquired an eye patch over his left eye thanks to a piece of shrapnel.  And his right arm was severed below the elbow.  He had some interchangeable cybernetic limbs made up to replace the arm.  His favourite is a large gun/cannon thing.

Still time hadn’t taken away the man I once knew and loved.  His sense of humour, his basic decency and his practical nature were all still there. He was still round too.  He always had been and still was a chunky, chubby, hug-able ball-of-wool.

Reunited, and with much lighter hearts, we continued fighting, and across all the zones of Möbius a hundred different groups, our brother and sister Möbians, fought alongside us in spirit.

In the end it was Sonic, the leader of the Emerald Hill group we had prevented the destruction of, who dealt Robotnik’s empire the fatal blow. We celebrated our new found freedom with elation and looked forward to the restoration of our home.

It didn’t happen.  The new government, our ‘brother and sister Möbians’, decided the Chemical Plant was too valuable to destroy and handed control of the Chemical Plant to the three stooges aka the Marxio Brothers.

That was the day I lost hope.

Finally the train pulls into my stop and I disembark.

I have the oddest sensation that I am being followed, I look about but I see no obvious tail.  I try to dismiss the feeling.  In a few minutes it won’t matter any more.

I surreptitiously check my gun again.

This level is very much alive and very, very busy.  Stalls line the walls of the corridors, the vendors behind them shout out to passers by, trying to peddle their wares and make ends meet.  Fursons of every description rush about the packed walkway.

I see a young lapin pick pocket being accosted by ‘soldiers’ from one of the local militias.  Which militia I’m not sure.  The levels change hands between them on almost a daily basis now.

To my right a goat and a lion haggle over the price of some dried fruit. It doesn’t look too fresh to me.  Of course all fruit has to be imported into the zone and the overcity folks get priority.  Whatever the undercity folks’ll be getting will be the scrapings from the bottom of the barrel.

An old lupine priest, in black robes, from some wack job cult is standing between two stalls screaming at unwary passers by to repent. He manages to take a young looking cheetah girl and her cub by surprise. The cub starts to cry and clings to his mummy.  The cheetah girl waves a fist in the cultist’s face and informs him that she’d be happy to give him some redemption if he doesn’t back off.

None of this concerns me though.  There is only one thing which holds my attention.  One of the doorways on the left side of the corridor. It’s surmounted by a flashing neon sign which proclaims that the name of the establishment is ‘Club Vak’.

I walk tall as I make my way towards it.  This is the last thing I’m ever going to do and I’ll be damned if I’m not going to do it right.

The bouncers either side of the door eye me as I approach.  I smile at them as I calmly pass by, never slowing.  They’ll probably be shooting at me in just a few minutes.  Of course, there’s no weapon search. Everyone in the undercity is armed.  It’s a fact of life here.

I walk down the steps into the club.  There is music.  God awful electronica which beats in time to the strobing lights or perhaps it’s the other way round.

Sitting in an enclave across the room is Marcus, my target for the night.

Marcus is an anteater in a wide brimmed fedora and a ultra tacky, bright, synthetic suit.  He’s the owner of Club Vak, and yes, he does look as ridiculous as he sounds.  You’d think that with all the money he’s made from this place he could buy himself a sense of style.

Only in the Chemical Plant could you find a screw up like him.  Oh how our zone has declined.

Still, his appearance doesn’t seem to be any problem for the four or five girls he has hovering around him.  Pretty ones too.  All looking vacuous and giggly; sensuous and silly.  Their dresses are skimpy, shimmery and silken.  And I’d wager that they, to a number, are all gold diggers hoping to be ‘the one’.  The one Marcus will pick and settle down with.

I guess that the vacuousness isn’t entirely an act, or maybe they’re just that desperate, because everyone knows Marcus isn’t ever going to settle down.  Whatever the case, both Marcus and his entourage make me sick.

I cross the dance floor at an even pace.  Making a straight line from the door to him.  Never slowing.  Never stopping.  I keep my eyes locked on him.  Forcing the dancers to part around me rather than walking around them.

I knew a girl as innocent as her wool was white, and her wool was as white as new fallen snow.  A girl, perhaps the only one ever, who genuinely fell in love with this piece of scum.

Right now he has his head buried in the breasts of the girl on his left, a sand furred house cat.  They are laughing at some joke that’s just been told.

He looks up as he senses my approach, “Can I help you?” He asks the grin still plastered across his features.

I reach into my coat with my right hand.  This sick piece of shit murdered a member of The Flock.  A girl, just sixteen years old, called Lana.

A girl that was enamoured of him, of his way of life.

A girl he seduced and used.

A girl who he discarded and murdered when he was done with her.

A girl who I had laid to rest in our zone’s hallowed soil not more than an hour ago.

A girl who’s death he is going to pay for.  Now!

I whip up my arm, laser pistol clenched in my shaking fist, muscles taut.

I’ve barely raised my arm half way when a punch comes out of nowhere striking the right side of my face.  Hard.

I wheel about and collapse on the ground.  My gun falls my grasp and hits the floor with a clatter.  I open my eyes and see an insect, an ant, standing over me.  Damn but those guys are muscled.  They can press over fifteen times their own body weight.  I didn’t stand a chance.

Marcus gets up from his seat and walks over so he is standing over me.  He doesn’t even have the decency to look surprised.  He’s still grinning, although now it’s a smug self satisfied grin.  I really want to disembowel him.

“Did you really think you could just waltz in here and shoot me sweetheart?” His voice is nasal, probably on account of the foot long nose, and his words are spoken without a trace of refinement, he’s a thug pure and simple.

“That was the plan.” I gasp, blood rolls over my tongue, my lip split badly by his body guard.

“Perhaps you should have thought it out a bit better.” He replies, “I assume this is about Lana?”

“Right in one.” The pain in my jaw line is really kicking in now.

“I don’t know what I saw in that girl.” He waves his hand dismissively, “She was so simple.  Nice, but dumb.”

He turns to walk back to his harem.

“Funny, I don’t know what she saw in you either.” I shout, “Although the length of your nose might have had something to do with it.  All those happy nights you could spend together.”

That hit home.  Marcus jumps a little in sudden rage.  He’s obviously sensitive about his nose.  Most anteaters are.

I smile to myself.  If I’m going to die I might as well win this little war of words.  It’s just a shame I couldn’t take him with me.

“Take her outside and kill her.” He growls from between clenched teeth, not bothering to turn and face us.

“My pleasure, Boss.” The ant reaches down for me.

I know it’s useless to resist or make a grab for my gun.  He’s far too strong and fast for that.  I resign myself to the inevitable. I’ve given up caring about this life.  My only regret is that Marcus is still breathing.

Before he can pick me up though, an almighty bang deafens me and the ant’s head splatters across the room.

The sound of gunfire sends a wave of screams about the club.  Confused and scared party goers make for the exits.  Reflexively, by battle ingrained instinct rather than will to live, I grab my laser and clutch it to me. Let me tell you, lying on the floor is not a good position to be in the middle of a stampede.  I dive for the nearest wall, which happens to be the side of Marcus’ booth, and press my back against it, staying low.

Marcus whirls around towards the source of the noise just in time to see my man, Sol Furic, levelling the muzzle of his gun arm at his head. A split second later Marus’ brains join those of his former bodyguard on the wall.

“C’mmon Sab.” He grabs my arm with his good hand and pulls me towards the back rooms and freedom.

I can see the bouncers fighting their way, through the panicked mass, towards us.  There’s no way I can get a clean shot at them while running with this many fursons in the way.  Instead I aim slightly above the heads of the crowd, high enough to make sure I don’t cauterise anybody, but low enough to make it look as if I missed.  The beam of burning, coherent light sears the air and leaves a nasty looking burn mark on the concrete wall behind one of the bouncers.

It has the desired effect.  The bouncers look at the burn mark on the wall, at each other and then dive for cover.  By the time they’ve popped their heads out of their hiding places, looking for a shot, Sol and I are long gone.

We don’t speak as Sol and I run through the corridors, seeking to lose any possible pursuers.  I have no idea of our destination.  I hadn’t planned on living past my encounter with Marcus.  Of course, I hadn’t counted on Sol tagging along either.

Sol leads us up through the undercity, up through the uppercity and up through the factory.  Civilians aren’t allowed in the factory levels, it’s workers only, but we’ve lived here long enough to know where the weak spots in their security are.

He takes us right up through the factory until we reach a hatch.  He pops it and we’re on the surface, three hundred and eighty metres above ground level, five hundred metres above sea level.

It’s dusk and a cold wind is blowing.  I pull my coat tighter about me. There is slight metal taste carried on the breeze which I’m sure can’t be anything healthy.  The sky is clear and I can see the first stars in the dark red skies.  The moon is waxing toward full and shines bright above us.

I’m surprised by the darkness.  In the artificially lit Chemical Plant Zone it is always morning.  I know intellectually what morning and night are.  Hell, when I was a lamb I experience both daily.  But it’s been years since the last time I went outside.  Somehow, when you live in the plant for long enough, you forget that there are mornings and afternoons and nights and seasons happening on the surface.

Sol puts an arm round my shoulders and pulls me close to him.  If he tried that in front of The Flock I would have ripped his head off.  It would be bad for discipline for the others to see any weakness in me.  But here, alone with my mate and lover, I press into his embrace and hug him back. It’s been a really bad day and I need him now.  Tears, a luxury for me, flow silently down my cheeks.

I’m really wound up and I’m really stressed and I’m angry and I’m tired and my nerves are frayed and I’m tired of keeping all my feelings bottled up and I just want to scream!

Sol senses my turmoil and gives me an extra strong hug.  Of course, he would sense that, he might not be the strategist of the century but he’s very perceptive of other’s feelings.  It is one of the things I love about him.

We walk in silence.  Our arms wrapped around each other.  My tears flowing into his chest.  We don’t need words.  We understand each other far too well to need them.

Sol leads me to what looks like a decommissioned cooling tower.  There is a ladder running up the side of it.

Sol breaks the silence, “You first.” He gestures.

I shrug and start climbing.  Sol is right behind me.

When we reach the top we sit on the rim, side by side, and look out over the factory, to the south, toward the Emerald Hill Zone.

We’re silent for a while longer.  My tears have dried up.

“Do you want to talk about it?” My boy asks in his beautiful, low, rumbling baritone.

“Not especially.” I sigh and after a pause continue, “It just seems so hopeless.  The Flock, The Chemical Plant, Lana, everything.”

“Life isn’t fair.” Sol says in response to my unvoiced criticism. Unvoiced because I already know it isn’t.

“We fought! Hard! And for what?” I ask the vista before us as much as Sol, “To be thrown under the bus when it became convenient for the rest of Möbius to do so?”

“To defeat Robotnik?  To save the lives of countless Möbians?  Not to mention their descendants?” Sol said softly, reassuringly, “All of who now have a chance thanks to soldiers like you.”

“And what of our descendants?  Our children?” I ask with venom in my voice, “I always dreamed I’d see the day The Flock would return to our land.  That The Flock would rise again.”

“There are too few of us left, Sab.” Sol reminded me gently, “You know that.”

“Yes, too few…” I sighed, “Our children will have to assimilate. To mix with common sheep.”

“There’s nothing wrong with ‘common’ sheep.” Sol countered.

“No, but whatever else our children will be they won’t be of The Flock.” I say, “And that makes me sad, Sol.  So sad.”

“The Flock was another of Robotnik’s victims.  It gave it’s life so that others may live.”

“It’s not yet dead.” I contested.

“No, but it soon will be.” He said as soothingly as he could, “You said so yourself.”

“It’s just seeing all my dreams come to nothing, Sol.  I can’t take it.”

“So you decided to kill yourself over it?” He asked referring to my suicide mission earlier this evening.

“Lana was the last straw.” I admit, “She was so innocent.  Such a nice lamb.  And he murdered her.  I just had to…” I almost brake into sobs, “Even if it cost me my life I had to.  Unpleasant as it was, it’s my duty as leader of The Flock.  Unpleasant duties have a way of finding you when you’re leader, Sol.”

“Sab, The Flock still needs you.” Sol lectured, “You have a duty as our leader to keep yourself alive.”

“Why?  What for?  What good will it do?” I ask macabrely.

“The way I see it Sab is this.” Sol began, “We’re the last generation that can be really called The Flock. Right?”

“Mmm?” I agree tentatively.

“Once we’re gone so is The Flock, because our lives are the remainder of The Flock’s ‘life’.  So don’t we have a duty, an obligation, to live the best lives we possibly can?” Sol asks.

“I suppose so.” I answer, not entirely convinced by Sol’s reasoning.

“Isn’t that worth living for?” He presses.

I just nod.  Our conversation lulls at that point.

After a moment I pull my knees up close to my chest.  It’s getting cold up here.

“Lana probably would have thought that was worth living for.” I say finally.

I feel guilty that she is so easily forgotten in our conversation. She’s the one who died today, but I’m the one Sol is fretting over. It shouldn’t be that way.

“C’mmon, lets get back to HQ.” I say, taking control of events. Once more acting like the leader I’m supposed to be, rather than a self absorbed brat.

“What are we going to tell them?” he asks, wondering how much of the day’s events I want to share with the rest of The Flock.

“I’m going to tell Lana’s parents that the killer of their daughter is dead.” I say decisively.

Sol nods, “Are you sure you’re all right?”

“No, but let’s do our duty by The Flock.” I say trying to sound upbeat, “After you Sol Furic.” I gesture towards the ladder.

“Whatever you say Sab Furic.” He replies.

I smile at his use of my name, our name.

‘There are still a few things worth living for.’ I muse as my hubby and I descend the ladder. 

