The Choice

Sigurd breathed a sigh of satisfaction as he guided his beaten Storm Crow into the repair bay. The Yellow Jackets were the last pests to be seen on the convoy route. He was very relieved to return from the mission with every one of his comrades. He was even somewhat glad to have Gunnar along, though he wanted very much to slug the man for calling him "freebirth" so much.

He brought his 'Mech to a halt in one of the repair bays and shut it down. The instant he was disconnected from the machine, he felt a surge of jumbled emotion sweep over him. It was then that he realized he had been suppressing his feelings for the sake of the mission. He rubbed his temples to massage away the confusion, but it did nothing to help. He rolled the stiffness out of his shoulders and set the neuro-helmet down as he opened the cockpit hatch. Across from him, he could see Gunnar climbing down from the Mad Dog. As if able to sense his gaze, the trueborn Warrior looked back over his shoulder and scowled. Then with a disgustingly sadistic grin, he mouthed the word "freebirth".

Sigurd brow creased a bit, as he fought to keep from glaring right back. 'One of these days,' Sigurd thought to himself, 'Gunnar is going to regret calling me that.' He shook the offence off and climbed down the ladder of his own 'Mech.

Before Gunnar had a chance to say anything, Sigurd snapped a salute and walked into the corridor, then wove his way through the crowd of civilian Caste workers to his room. He shut the door and promptly slid down to the floor with his back against the wall.

'I do not know how much more of this I can take… The confusion is making me weak,' he grudgingly admitted to himself.

The conflict within him was growing more violent with each passing day. He had agreed to serve the Wolves because he wanted to slaughter the Jade Falcons most of all. Now, he was beginning to wonder if the means would justify the end. He further wondered if revenge was the only end he wanted.

'What happens after I kill them? All of them?' he thought, as he lay in his bunk. He opened his eyes to stare up at the ceiling, seeing through the dropship's hull with his mind's eye to view the stars. He felt his mind begin to falter. The more time he spent within the Clan, the more he felt that he was just like them. It sickened him to think he was in any way similar to them, and yet he found that it was equaling sickening to be different.

He set his jaw and forced his eyes closed tightly as he ran his hands through his hair. He was being torn in two and there was nothing he could do to stop the sundering.

He could follow his mind or he could give in to his soul. The mind's will made sense and it made him feel safe; it was predictable, explainable, and it was the "right" thing to do. The desire he felt welling up in his soul was far louder and more furious, like a raging animal that howled, demanding to be heard. It frightened him, both in its intensity and in its origin. This was not something that had wormed its way into his heart, as he had told himself for so long. It had been there from the start.

'What do I do?!' he thought in anguish, as he turned over onto his back. 'I...I do not understand this.'

His terror suddenly increased as a new realization grew into his mind.

'I do not know what I am, anymore.'

All his life he had been so sure of who and what he was. He was Sigurd Volsung: a MechWarrior and nothing more. Now, things were not that simple. Everything was turning blurred and grey. The comfortable black and white lines he knew were melding together into an ominous, chaotic void that beckoned to him.

He had never felt so frightened in his life. Even when he fought the Smoke Jaguar pilot, he was not afraid. Instead he had fought the way he always did when cornered-- like a wounded animal determined not to go down without taking the predator with it. Now, rather than fighting, he only wanted to run away. It was such bitter irony that the one time he wanted to flee, he was trying to escape from an enemy he could never leave: himself.

He wanted to hate himself, to be disgusted-- to be anything but fearful. He wanted to hate the things he was supposed to hate. He wanted to want something besides revenge. He wanted to stop being afraid, and start feeling the things he ought to feel. No matter how hard he tried to imprint those emotions into his mind, he could not change what he felt welling up inside him.

The tumult of emotion raged even stronger than before and threatened to drag him down into a sea of insanity. Now, he was beginning to wonder if he even was sane. Maybe he had been mad all along. Maybe something in his head always been a little loose, and just finally snapped.

'No…' he told himself. 'That would be too feeble an excuse. It would be easy just to think I am insane and let everything go. It cannot be that easy.'

Tired and weak from the battle that still raged in his mind, he closed his eyes and tried to sleep. Perhaps things would be better when he awakened. He doubted that, but it was worth a pleasant dreams came in his sleep. Instead he was tormented further by an old recurring dream. He had been having this nightmare or vision at random intervals for the past few years. It was the only dream he could remember after waking and it hung over him throughout the day.

Every time, he would come to a desolate, decaying town full of ragged people. The people paid him no mind, for they were only human shells devoid of soul. Invariably, he would be compelled by some unseen force through the town to the outermost gate, whereupon he would find the great beast.

The creature he saw was wolfen in appearance, but it was like no wolf he had ever seen before. Its eyes were swirling wreaths of mist wrapped around bottomless wells of black, and its fur was made of dewy strands. The creature itself was over twice the size of a normal wolf, and its immense body was not a fixed form but a collection of dark, shadowy vapors. Its enormous paws were tipped with cruel claws of pure blackness and left no prints on the ground, but the steel and concrete it had passed over was burnt, scarred, and crumbling.

The beast tilted its muzzle towards the moon and gave a blood chilling howl that spoke both of sorrow and of rage. It struggled against the iron chains that bound its paws and often bit them. Although they never broke, there were deep gouges in the links from the animal's fangs. It growled in frustration as it twisted violently and attacked its bonds again.

Despite the savagery of the creature, Sigurd could see that it wanted only to be free. He crept closer and studied the chains about its largest chain was attached to a steel collar around its neck, on which was written, Self. It howled again and looked up at him as would a dog begging for its master's attention. He still kept out of its reach, and walked around to the plaque in front of it.

He read, "…The Nebelung."

As he spoke its name, the mist creature turned towards him and, staring into his grey eyes with its own, howled.

Sigurd awoke as the nebelung's howling morphed into that of an alarm. He jumped out of his bunk and pulled on his jumpsuit as a sharp voice resounded over the comm system.

"Red alert! Red Alert! Escaped detainees on level five! All Elementals to your armor! Prisoners are armed."

Just as he darted out the door, he collided with Emma.

"Sigurd!" she cried as she scrambled to pick herself up. "Come on! We have to get out of here!"

"I cannot. I must assist--"

"No! They'll have our heads on platters for this!" She grabbed his arm and tried to drag him after her, but Sigurd refused to move.

"Emma… what did you do?"

"What I had to do! Now, let's go!"

He shook his head and jerked away from her, then took off down the hall.

Several Lower Caste workers parted to allow him to pass, but he knocked down several Laborers and an unsuited Elemental in his hurry. Without so much as a look over his shoulder, he slid around the corner past a group of unconscious guards and into a large room.

---

Everything happened so fast that the Star Colonel barely had time to arm himself. First there was a sudden crash in the brig down the hall, then weapons fire in the corridor. The moment he came into the empty storage room where the conflict had taken place, he was met with fourteen armed, angry mercenaries-- the prisoners Tammi and Sigurd had captured.

Akela stumbled back in surprise as one of the foot soldiers lunged at him. Suddenly, there was a blur of motion that took the officer several moments to actually process. Before he could utter a single syllable, Sigurd had grabbed the soldier from behind. In the same motion, he pushed the man's head down against his neck and slid his knife downward along the jugular vein of the attacker. There was a bright red splash of warm blood and a disgustingly fleshy sound to accompany it.

Sigurd let the man drop, dead, from his hands and flicked his knife, throwing the excess blood off of it and onto the floor. He looked down at the body with an expression somewhere between contempt, anger, and insult, while his eyes burned like two strange, grey flames. Without a word, he bent down and cleaned his blade on the soldier's shirt, then held it up to the light for inspection. It was a mirror finish.

Akela continued to stare at him in shock. He was not so much surprised by the soldier's actions, but Sigurd's intervention. The speed and ruthlessness with which he attacked the man was incredible-- not to mention the astounding efficiency of the kill. It was so… Clan-like.

"This is my warning…" said Sigurd slowly, as he turned to face to other soldiers. His voice had taken on a strange, deadly quality that made Akela's skin grow cold just to listen. "If any of you make a move towards my commander, I will kill you."

Despite this warning, another soldier reached for the laser pistol in her holster. Before she could slip her fingers around it, Sigurd darted forward and threw his arm out in front of him. The blade flew from his open hand like a missile and lodged itself in the woman's left torso. He continued to sprint forward towards the small crowd of foot soldiers and hurdled over the woman as she fell to the ground. He grabbed his knife as he hit the floor again and slid, turning to face her comrades with his arms crossed in front of his face. In the time it had taken him to advance into the midst of the mercenaries and retrieve his weapon, another soldier had started a roundhouse purposed to sink a metal-plated glove into Sigurd's skull.

The bondsman slid back half a step across the smooth floor, allowing the energy of the punch to bleed off on his arm. Sigurd then ducked, grabbed the man by his ankle, then jerked his foot out from under him and sliced his unprotected hamstring. The soldier's head slammed into one of the crates by the wall as he fell to the floor with a crash.

"I have no desire to kill anyone else. You do not have to fight me," Sigurd said, as he turned his back to the wall, ready to move in an instant.

"Sigurd!" cried Emma, as she rushed up to him, pushing past the mercenaries without a glance.

"Emma, stay--"

Before he could finish his sentence, she slugged him in the jaw as hard as she could. "You traitor!" she screamed. "What are you doing?!"

He stumbled backwards under the blow and was immediately tackled by the remaining mercs. Two big men pinned him down and the rest of them began punching and kicking him. Sigurd struggled in a vain attempt to wriggle free, but managed to plunge his knife into the thick thigh of one soldier. The onslaught of fists made his vision grow dark and his senses bleak. Everything started turning a charred crimson.

The bright beam of a laser pistol slid through the air above him. He could not tell if anyone had been hit. Either way, it got the soldiers' attention and caused them to cease the beating. One by one, they backed away from Sigurd slowly and put their hands in the air.

"Enough of this foolishness," Akela growled, aiming the pistol squarely between the eyes of the nearest merc. Several armored Elementals were now standing beside him. "You will escort yourselves to the brig, or you will all be killed." He motioned for them to make their way down the hall and followed, keeping his distance.

Weak, battered, and bleeding, Sigurd rolled over onto his stomach and slowly sat up. He grunted as the pain surged through his nerves, but forced it out of his mind.

"Emma…" he said in a quavering voice.

She knelt down beside him and gave him a hellfire glare.

"Normally, I would not do this," he choked. "But… I think… I think I will."

"Do what?"

"Hit a defenseless person."

Before she could blink, his fist shot forward in a twisting motion and slammed into her nose. There was a loud cracking sound as blood sprayed forth, coating his hand. Emma shrieked in pain and fell back onto the metal floor.

"It sickens me to think that you called me a friend," he said as he rose, towering over her like a 'Mech over its target. His eyes blazed furiously as he glared down at her, his face stern and enraged, though it was slashed and swollen. "I was attempting to protect both of you from the mercenaries and you attacked me! I could have easily been killed because of your stupidity."

"But th-they… could've helped…" she sobbed, as she clapped her hands over her broken nose.

"Helped? How?!" he snarled, despite his wounds. "They might not have intended to harm you, but they would not help you." He shook his head and limped past Emma.

"S-Sigurd…"

The beaten man paused at the doorway and turned back towards her, with some effort. He drew a ragged breath and glared through his wounds.

"It sickens me to see what kind of people the InnerSphere yields. To think that you and others like you are what I have sacrificed so much to protect. Dishonorable. Untrustworthy. Treacherous. …Freebirths."

He could hear Emma crying piteously as he limped into the hall. The sound of someone weeping would normally have softened his heart. Now, it only evoked contempt.

"That was some rather strong language," remarked Akela, as he walked down the hall, having locked the mercs in the brig. "Did you really mean that?"

"Every last word," Sigurd replied between shallow gasps for breath. He looked down at the bondcord on his wrist and the blood on his palms. "I wash my hands of the InnerSphere."

Akela took his wrist firmly and drew the bloodstained knife he had removed from the soldier's leg. "I think it only fitting I should use this. The blood of our enemies wins your freedom." He slipped the knife under Sigurd's bondcord, then gave a quick flick of the blade, slicing all three of the cords at once. The rope bracelet fell to the floor. Its ends were coated in blood from the knife, as if the rope itself was bleeding from the cut. "Welcome to the pack."

---

Note: Part One complete. More to come, later.

Many thanks again to the reviewers for their help and to the readers!