excuse me while i tip-toe around organizational skills!
There's a smell in the air, chemicals and illness, lonely corridors of white faces and dark rimmed eyes. It's been a long time since these white walls have witnessed a smile, this young boy is not about to be the first.
He sits, hunched, eyes studying the patchwork floor, attention devoted to counting the notches in the linoleum, a rare moment of silence, his lips twisted into an ugly grimace, brow knotted with the effort of filtering the screams from his breathing, trapping the helpless rage behind his teeth.
His damaged hand rests on his knees, fingers contorted at angles impossible to reconstruct. Jagged bone protruding from the pale skin, blood and dirt his medicine of choice. Weak tremors jolt up his arm, each time breaking his focus, interrupting his thoughts, each time forcing him to rethink his situation, to absorb the hollowed-out white world.
This is your life.
Each night he dances with death, teases his sanity, but he's aware he can only take one home. Like a child in a candy store, his inner arguments rage, his conscience spitting its brutal opinions. He always caves, offering his arm to his sanity, escorting it home, glancing over his shoulder at a rejected death. A defeated smile across his face.
There's always tomorrow, Hwoarang.
These contorted knuckles, bruised and bleeding skin, these are his badges of pride, his physical attachment to the world. He glances down, reluctantly noting the rapid tremble of his hand; the fingernails caked in blood, knuckles warped and shattered. Self-induced injury, a choice he makes each night.
To bleed out or blend in.
He'd kill to not be ordinary.
He fights, taking his frustration in life to a new level, to a new victim. Dark shadows with leering eyes, watching him closely navigate his way through the night streets. Not even the neon pink spreads a light to his face, hollow eyes absorbing his surroundings like they're his first steps into a strange new world. Another fine act. It's the blood of the streets that pumps through his veins. These winding roads and filthy alleys are his childhood.
Pretence is next to perfection.
They spit their insults, their bitter lies of greatness, crack their knuckles and tense their necks. Drag hazy eyes over his body, evaluating the damages before the first physical connection. He stands, obediently, enjoying this position, the centre of attention, exposed and vulnerable.
Only ... not.
The contact comes, the shattering cracks, the enraged groans. Let the bodies hit the floor. And each night he walks away, a little more dignity stacked on an oversized ego. The things you can never have too much of.
Last night had not gone as well as he had hoped. His private rage at his personal life blinding him with frustration, red seeping slowly into his vision, making him irrational. The echo of his first victim, their heavy body hit the pavement. That was his calling, everything else blurred to white noise. And for a few brief seconds, he was an addict. His fist colliding with bone, the sickening cracks, shards of teeth embedded in his knuckles. Pleading and begging leaking out from beneath his fist, a voice he ignored, mastered by his own habits. An addiction to violence. The world around him faded to silence, the ragged voice screaming at him from below, disappearing, the slight whimpers dissolving into the night time buzz. The other shadows had blended back to the darkness, seeking shelter from a young boy's private rage.
Dear diary, my teen angst has a body count.
That was the vision that had stumbled back through the nightlife maze. Hands stained in crimson, the liquid glinting and catching the neon lights, reflecting a horrible truth. Feet struggling to maintain a rhythm, stumbling and shuffling. People watch but never interfere, say a brief prayer between their teeth that tonight, someone somewhere has spared them.
It's early morning now, the clock ticking its painful counting for the entire world to overhear, the noise echoing in Hwoarang's ringing ears. He trembles, but it's no advertisement for fear, or weakness, its shock. Skin peeled back like a sweet wrapper, shards of white puncturing the exposed innards. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, settling his mind more than his stomach.
"If you could keep those inner demons under control for once, boy, these things wouldn't be happening," mutters an older man, thick arms folded across his chest, eyelids heavy for want of sleep, flickering and fluttering, but still managing to intimidate Hwoarang. A skill practised over many years spent in each others company.
He's exhausted, his face gaunt, skin tinted with dirty grey shades, a man worn down from picking up the pieces of his student's life, over and over again. A repetitive motion they've become familiar with. They both know deep down, a nagging feeling in the back of their minds that should Hwoarang's after hour adventures ever draw to a close, it will have a devastating impact on their relationship, no longer able to provide that support for each other, the warm and familiar.
Last night they had played through the same old routine, the same desperate, hopeless expressions, inside forcing down a smile. He was awoken to the sound of frantic banging on his door, each thundering knock echoed by the sound of harsh breathing. Each night he rises a little slower, lingers a little longer behind the door to hear his student whimper and struggle. He listens to hear that moment where Hwoarang realises he's nothing more than human, the revelation that happens every night, its impact overwritten by morning. A sadistic pleasure in pushing his student to his mental boundaries, leading him through emotional hoops. But by the time he heaves the door open, Hwoarang is a picture of the apocalypse. Face carved in solid stone.
Last night had been different, a little more of Hwoarang exposed, a genuine hysteria in his voice as he came banging, the knocks mistimed, pausing and starting in bursts. The sight of Hwoarang standing in the shadows of the hallway, face streaked in lines of dirt, streams of blood, his hand cradled against his chest. Exposed bone glinting in the hall light. It brought his master back almost ten years to see such vulnerability in him. Hwoarang as the little boy with the cut knee, the bump on his head, crying for his parents.
Times change, Hwoarang's body count rising each and every day.
In the apartment, the student couldn't control his breathing, his chest heaving and sinking with the effort, eyes shut tight, reluctant to see his hand, to see what's hidden beneath his skin. A denial of seeing how human he is beneath it all. A denial of being normal beneath it all.
His master insists on medical treatment, unwilling to see his student's abilities stunted by a hand not healing right. But behind his fatherly concern, his rambling about medical procedures, he silently thanks his student, appreciates that for one more night, he returned to him, to keep him in strange company.
Only the people who have somebody, hate being lonely.
"Excuse me sir? Can I ask you to sign this? It's consent, Just so the doctors can take a look," a nurse suddenly thrusting a clipboard in front of the master, the crinkled sheets of illegible lettering almost touching his nose. His exhausted eyes drag lazily across the pages, looking but not seeing, the words a series of blurred lines. Hazy eyes dart to Hwoarang's hunched figure, initially a hint of teasing held in their depths, but seeing his student like this, dark eyes fill with nothing but regret and pity.
Hwoarang remains oblivious to the sympathetic stares, and maybe it's for the better, he still holds onto the idea that he might just be something better, sympathy from a human nothing but a nuisance. The young woman rattles the pages, a verbally lacking attempt to re-attract the old man's attentions, aware of the concerned glances he throws the younger man. He signs wearily, the scratching sound of the pen nib across the paper endlessly irritating the younger one, his undamaged fist curled tightly in a ball, fingernails carving half-moon shapes in his palms. His face knotted and focused, skin streaked with various stains, she ventures to think that maybe aside from the agony, this boy could manage 'pretty', although she reminds herself silently how unattractive a man with a god complex can be.
Collecting her clipboard and pen, the young nurse trots off, followed by a handful of desperate eyes, the mothers with their sick children cradled in their arms, their lips constantly moving in silent prayer. The man and his wife, his head bruised and bleeding, rivers of blood rushing down the plains of his cheeks, her endless cooing in his ear, her attempts at convincing him it'll be alright.
How eagerly everyone in this hospital room watches her, each screaming their own call for help, and yet the one man her concerns lie with, maintains a calm, collected persona, gazing indifferently at the floor tiles.
There's a tension in the room that sends prickly heat up her back, the kind of heavy, dopey stares that come from people desperate to do something but severely lacking the capacity.
As a last resort, she slaps a hand lazily on the remote control hidden beneath a stack of papers at the reception desk, all eyes instantly shifting to the small screen flickering to life from its corner.
"... unfortunate, it is a shame to admit the companies sales have rocketed over the past few months, because ..."
People shift uncomfortably to better see the screen, a shy shuffling so as not to disturb the other patients. The first stretches of sunlight spill across the room, an angry white glare on the television screen. Hwoarang doesn't glance up, eyes still rooted to the tiles that have probably witnessed a lot more misfortunes than he has in his short lifetime. The sound from his lips is almost inaudible, low and choked, voice harsh from his frantic breathing, scratched from abuse he doesn't care to admit to. His master glances over, hints of an amused smile creeping across his face at the question his student mutters.
"What's that old bastard rattling on about now?"
Heihachi Mishima, head of Mishima Zaibatsu, a company continuously gaining power, the man easily striding his way to the top of the food chain, fighting for his promotion to god. With the threat of war looming, the Zaibatsu, as a major arms producing company, once more found themselves on the rise to power, using metaphorical elbows and attitude to knock competitors out of the running. Mishima himself, under the pretence of a bumbling old man, managed to win over the public affection, smiling and joking his way through times of crisis, through the unidentified bodies and vanishing lawsuits against the company.
The man held more influence in his position than a president ever could, and such a rise to fame frustrated Hwoarang to no end.
His master smiles fondly, a warm gesture once more lost on a cold exterior. The grudge his student bares against the Mishima devil runs a lot deeper than a teenager's jealousy. Hwoarang craves the power and the influence.
He cannot live forever, but he wants to create something that will.
Although he'd never verbalize his thoughts, his master knows how he thinks, understands the complicated downward spirals his imagination works in. He watches him now, his battered and broken student, hazel eyes staring down the floor tiles as though the answer to life was scrawled across them. Copper coloured strands throw harsh shadows across his expressionless face, an almost audible crack of bones as his body tenses, visibly seething as the Mishima heads' words captivate the entire population of the room.
Hwoarang sees this threat of war as a personal attack, an obstacle to prevent him reaching any potential, all his rage misdirected at the mishima, encouraging the fighting with his obsessive selling and trading of weaponry. There are reasons the frustrated young teenager no longer lives with his parents, why he lives in a hostel, spends to majority of his time familiarising himself with violence. He knows it's only a matter of time, an inevitable fact; the authorities will come searching for him. His master has already warned him, the words sinking hard and fast, setting a terrifying ache in his head. Like every other young man his age, the military remains his future home, this threat of war setting a chain of inevitable events.
An ultimate fear of his.
To be drafted into the military, to wear the uniform, the follow the orders, to be normal.
That is his biggest threat.
He doesn't fight to cause trouble, he fights to relieve stress, he fights for the injuries, collecting them like stamps or action figures, hiding them away until they are of use to him.
Understandably, the notion of war sets Hwoarang on edge, his lips pressed in a grim line, bloodshot eyes squeezed shut tight, fighting the urge to glance at the screen, to see his enemy's decaying old face portrayed in such heavenly light. This man is responsible for many deaths, and he invites war, an opportunity to waste more human life. Hwoarang is on his list, but the red-head has absolutely no interest in playing pawn in Heihachi Mishima's sick little game of life.
The screen quickly flashes to another scene, a young man escorted by a herd of tough men, tight haircuts and veins as thick as vines roped around their necks. A crowd of people surge towards him, ebb and flow with the movement of his lapdogs, a tide of fanatic girls. Despite the dark glasses, dull black strands hanging in his eyes, shielding his expression from the cameras, there's no doubt who the withering character is.
"In related news .. ," the voice of the reporter interrupts, her sing-song words the background to the scene of celebrity downfall onscreen, "grandson to Heihachi Mishima, Jin, has recently publicly rejected his grandfathers pleas that he attend a clinic for a series of emotional breakdowns that have stretched over the duration of 5 to 6 weeks now. When probed further about his grandson's mental health, Mr. Mishima became a little less confident, insisting he had no comment about the current situation. For the time being he is unwilling to expose any information about his grandsons health although sources say that-"
The gossip suddenly blocked out by the roaring sound of white noise before the hissing screen blanks out, Hwoarang's functional palm splayed across the power button, his irritation written clearly across his face. The nurse glances up from her papers, reluctant to make eye contact with the irritable young man, bandages hanging limp, bloody and tattered from his injured hand, serving as a reminder of the limits of this boys temper.
She quickly returns to her frantic scribbling, shuffling papers and coughing gently in the back of her throat. Anything to block out the sounds as the arguments fire up, angry patients raising their voices in protest against the red-heads silent rage. His companion, she notes, does nothing but sit and watch, like this young mans sudden mental relapse is the most fascinating thing in the world.
Like this scene, the tattered young street ruffian, his scarves of bandages and blood, his fist hammered against the control panel of the television, that grim shattered expression on his face, like this is worth capturing on film.
Glancing over the rim of her glasses, she notices those pleading eyes, a collection of desperation, glancing back at her, each and every patient once more silently asking for her help, their distraction destroyed by the hazel-eyed young man.
"Irritable, aren't we?" hums his master, arms once more folded across a heavy chest, eyes closed lightly, mind lost in wandering. He quickly disguises his surprise, how Hwoarang remained glued to the floor tiles, physically and mentally, eyes absorbed in counting the scratches, despite Heihachi Mishima's smug comments onscreen regarding his regret over the coming war.
He recalls this situation, the lines and the actions, from a previous scene, another outburst, in private, Hwoarang visibly shaken by whatever he had convinced himself he was seeing. Another video conference, although his master highly debated any of Mishima's words had disturbed him so deeply. Days later, Hwoarang would hesitantly admit a certain jealousy, something not uncharacteristic to his nature, but towards someone he had never even met, a one Jin Mishima, the teenage grandson of a man encouraging war, and yet this grandson did not have to fight. A fact Hwoarang obediently and silently bore his grudge for.
I'll fight, but by my own rules.
"What has he got to be stressed about? What could he possibly blame for all these 'emotional breakdowns'?" Hwoarang spits, eyes once more fixed on the linoleum, disregarding the angered stares and concerned glances he's receiving from the other patients. His master snorts through his nose, eyes flickering open to regard his student, the defeated stance and the lost eyes.
A boy planning to take on the world.
He doesn't answer, simply settles back to his previous comforts, memories of when Hwoarang could remember how to smile.
"He's not going to war; he's got all that cash. Sure, he's gotta live with gramps, but it's a small price to pay. One I'm sure he can afford".
The red-heads mutterings and garbled ramblings continue under his breath, his master struggling to collect the angry words, to piece them together and pretend there's more to his student than misdirected jealousy.
"It's all attention. Pretty boy gets some media attention for bein' 'mentally fragile' and suddenly everyone knows the old man".
The master gently shakes his head, in awe of such strong hatred bleeding out of every pore; Hwoarang's face a carefully placed mask of indifference, but hazel eyes shifting in colour, the rage readable through them.
Hwoarang knows the facts, he's aware of the mishima history, a mental gift from his master, something to relieve his anguish regarding the whole situation. Heihachi Mishima's rise to power was all in fair game. A self-made man, single, and devoted to his career. A nugget of information to convince turmoiled Hwoarang that Mishima was already a household name before Jin Mishima came onto the scene. Granted, the family name did suffer under a lot of negative press a few years back after Heihachi Mishima's own son was reported missing. without any information, or a body, the case was declared to have gone to cold, although the declaration came a little too soon for the media who instantly began their questioning, prying and prodding, wondering if perhaps Heihachi had something to do with the disappearance. Kazuya mishima left his son, Jin, in the care of his grandfather before his suspicious absence from the family, allowingJin to be raised through the negative press coverage and the smothering daily routine of a teenage celebrity.
Despite his knowledge, Hwoarang remains ignorant, satisfied to blame his own downfall on the troubled heir to the Mishima fortune.
"Excuse me sir? We're going to have to move up your appointment, you're upsetting some of the other patients," the whimpering nurse from earlier shuffles over, voicing everyone's thoughts reluctantly, her voice timid and shaking, and her hands held out in surrender. Hwoarang doesn't react as though he's heard her, glowing eyes still studying his master, searching him for some form of encouragement, words of confidence to set his mind at ease.
The older man remains silent, head hung back, muscles relaxed, a rarity. Hwoarang shakes his head, a bitter smile breaking out across his lips. The simple gesture changes his entire face, proof of his youth now clearly on display. The nurse visibly relaxes, relieved to see a young boy with such a violent temper attempt to offer a smile.
"I'm just sayin', he should appreciate what he's got. There're people worse off," he mutters, rolling his eyes before obediently following the rigid nurse from the room.
"Careful Hwoarang. Who are we to know what goes on behind closed doors?" comes the sleepy response.
And who knows how many skeletons can fit in a Mishima's closet?
Ya-hah! Once more from the top. Man i must be a pain in the ass! I'm totally blaming this on raaaaaaaaaaazah! She TOTALLY peer-pressured me into tekken! lol. She's my inspiration for this one. Well, Her and tekkenpedia?! I'm only writing now 'cause i'm super freakin' happy!
Oh yeah don't own blah blah blah, yaddah yaddah. The usual, thanks.