This one's been in my head for several months. It's based off of Zafina and Julia's Tekken 6 story lines, which is, in a nutshell, they have to save the world by preventing Jin and Kazuya from fighting one another. This is what occurs when they fail.
And yes, I posted it on Valentine's Day on purpose. -- Sage
I: Sheol
She stood beneath that blood rain, her skin and clothes drenched in its terrible, beautiful color, a shade of red yet unnamed. It had been raining for a long time, maybe six months, if she'd kept count correctly. Night and day, hour by hour. This was no monsoon. This was a mourning ritual. A freak of nature.
The sky was a gaping wound, the clouds jagged bits and pieces of abalone bone and scarlet flesh dangling between the fangs of a ravenous beast. Stifling and thick, the air clung to skin like dried blood; Heaven seemed to bleed just like any mortal. Perhaps nothing was untouchable. There was no guarantee of an afterward, an answer--not like there had been before, when things had been relatively normal. But before, it was easier to hope, easier to pretend. Now...now it's easy to despair when those things you'd hoped for turned to ashes. Past tense. Memories.
No tales to be told, for voices had lost power and influence. No wise men and women to show the way, for they had been shunned to the back alleys and into shadows of thought, wisdom and self-determinism having been obliterated. No bards to sing of lost heroes and instill forgotten aspirations, for song and hope now fell on deaf, fear-stricken ears. Of folk tale and fable this may remain, an unspoken legend. There was just the long wait, the entire earth surrendering with a shuddered sigh. A breath held.
Time had long abandoned this place. Irrelevant, it had ceased to breathe, knowing that its purpose had now been in vain and its slaves no longer caring. For what use was time to people when your past and your future had been destroyed in a single moment? What earth or spirits or life she once felt here was no more. There was just this...place. She did not know if it even deserved a name. This Sheol. This Underworld. This Utopia. Clawing, digging deep and tearing out roots, the demons danced at your doorstep, taunting what used to be, with all the life you once knew hanging like a bead of sweat on parched skin, the last drop of water in the crackled ruins of a desert paradise. Here were the beginnings of a frail existence of the unrealized and the undone.
Back then the answers were easy. Purpose practically threw itself at you like a poverty-stricken whore. The journey was already built into the soles of your feet. All you had to do was go. And now a new journey was beginning, but there was no one to tell you what to do this time. Loneliness had never been so vigilant. Well, at least she still had that to keep her company.
Now what, fight for an illusion after you've failed the first journey, after the dying is done?
But you know what they say: never give up. It was a nice little mantra, but the truth was, everything had limits, and you had to know when to stop. She sure wanted to.
Saviors never did think realistically. Saviors, like the ones in old comic books and epic action packed films, were typically stubborn and idealistic and impulsive and sometimes even outright stupid. But they always saved everybody in the end. Realistically, if you're stubborn, impulsive, idealistic, or stupid, you usually wound up dead. Blind hope, was what some called it, stupid, plain old blind hope. In storybooks and movies it always worked, like the ones she used to read and watch as a child. But now, twenty-two years old and with enough experience in her head, heart, and hands, she wasn't so sure anymore. She'd lost that blind hope six months ago--if she'd kept count correctly.
After all, she'd been fighting her entire life, and this was her grand finale, the fruits of her efforts. Then again, she was only one woman in an unthinkably vast world; what difference could she make? What did it matter?
People were born; people fought, fucked, loved, shit, worked; people died, and nobody noticed, nobody made a real difference, not unless they made money or destroyed things.
It's easy to despair when those things you'd hoped for turned to ashes. Past tense. Memories.
Apocalypse heart; "heartbreak" was a term too vague and romantic for how she felt now. For here was the destruction of everything dear to you, an unbiased annihilation, and no merciful death or sugarcoated propaganda to make it disappear. There was just a shift in your state of existence, a turn of the mind, a hardened spirit--or a broken one. Survive, was what your body told you, instinct over all else, feral, animalistic, fight your way to the top, care for no one else. Just stay alive.
But she cared too much. She'd always been weak that way. And what use was life when you cared for nothing and no one but yourself?
The medicine woman had foretold of this disaster, and she had set out a year ago in hopes of preventing this from happening. Father and son were never supposed to engage in combat with one another. The world depended on it.
She'd arrived too late, as the Seer had, an enigmatic woman with the same purpose as her own, a warrior of different deserts far away. Together they had fought for peace, fought to prevent the occurrences of this day. But the Seer had been captured by the enemy, and she herself had barely escaped; and so the world fell into shadow. First, it had to bleed, bleed its former vitality away and remind both Seer and Wanderer that they had failed.
It's our fault...
The rain continued to fall, harder now. Thunder plundered the sky, turned clouds into smoke.
You were too late. Now look at this new world. You were told this would happen. Something could have been done.
Or could it?
She smiled to herself; perhaps this was the Afterlife, the Paradise after death that poets, selfish believers, and religious fools alike had preached and moaned about. Who was to say it wasn't?
But she knew that, regardless of how despairingly hopeless a part of her had become, she would thrive. Like the Seer, she had grown up in one of the harshest, most merciless environments, and she had survived it all. Unlike the rest of them, she would remember what life had been before, and as long as she did, then the world had not completely died. Gone was not everything.
Amazing what the mind could do. It kept alive what the heart clung to, all the serrated shards of the before, the never-should-have-beens and the all-that-could-have-beens, the innocence of childish hope, the sunlit fields of aching joy and bone-deep imagination, desire, trust, and want. And love of course, the elixir for meaningless lives, the cancer that, once touched by it, one could never truly be rid of.
Love, the one thing that's supposed to matter above all else, and the expected sole survivor of catastrophes such as these.
Such high expectations for a thing so flawed and damaging; even love could lose its resilience. Love, like everything, was finite. Good things don't last. Like him. Like your earth.
Nevertheless, she would fight for it.
Yet the mind could destroy it all too, tabula rasa, should it all become too much to bear. The mind was manipulative and easily manipulated. Hopefully the heart remembered...hopefully. Which one died first, the heart or the mind? Which one would save you in the end?
We're standing together on those hills of rock, staring out into an earth painted in shadows, the sunset bruising the land in gold and plum. The heat is almost sticky, but we welcome it, sighing in longing as we remember our homelands.
"What is your country like?" I ask softly, quietly twirling a wilting wildflower between my fingers.
Zafina breathes deeply, swallows. She always gets a little quiet before talking about something especially meaningful to her, always stifles the emotions. We've traveled and fought together for a good two months now, and still I cannot figure her out. It seems she knows me well enough however; all it takes is one look into those amber eyes of hers. It's as if she sees everything, knows things about me and all things else before she even opens her mouth to inquire. It's an eerie feeling, unsettling, but I trust her wholeheartedly, if that makes any sense. She and I both have a strong connection to the spiritual, to the land. To life. Though we know next to nothing about one another, that common ground is enough.
I've never met anyone like this woman before me. She doesn't seem of this world, and perhaps she is not.
"My country is a desert land, like yours," she replies simply, "the type of country that you judge with your eyes, a country you don't quite know what to make of."
She smiles though, a rare treat, her eyes scanning the lush landscape below us, "But for us who know it, it is a home that holds beauty unlike any other place, a bearer of timeless secrets. You can dig forever in the sand and uncover only a small handful of its knowledge. You can look and search forever, and still never experience all that it offers--and hides."
Zafina is her homeland personified, I think to myself, staring at her. No, she is not of this world.
"This is what you fight for," I murmur.
"Of course. I was born to protect it, it and all the secrets within."
Turning to me, the sage asks, "And I know that you fight for the same thing. For your mother too, and your people."
"Yes." I've given up on trying to figure out how she knows all of that already. I just agree.
"And for the love of a man too," she adds quietly, taking a seat beside me on the rocks.
"This time you are mistaken, my wise friend," I sigh, "I have no such love."
The Egyptian merely shrugs, her eyes already dimming, losing herself in her head.
"Yet," she whispers.
"Have you ever been wrong about your premonitions?" I ask softly.
She pauses, closes her eyes.
"Yes. I have the Sight, but nothing is certain. Sometimes I do not have the slightest notion of what is going to happen next."
"Do you know what's going to happen if we fail?"
"Yes."
"And...?"
"And so we cannot fail."
She remembered his hair was the same color as that bleeding sky. Whispering forced reassurances into her ear, he leaned above her, loving her gently, slowly, tenderly, wanting to savor their last moment together before that red was swallowed whole by shadow. Gently, slowly, tenderly, he reminded them of what they had already lost.
Lovemaking was a form of rebellion. You didn't make love in this new world, let alone think, dream, or feel it. In this dark city, love had ceased to exist. It had been written into law, and to disobey, to love, was to invite death.
He kissed her throat and touched her in all the places that should have left her helpless for more, wanting to make her feel good one last time. But she felt nothing but the hollow despair, the cold emptiness, even as he filled her up and held her close to his warmth.
Listen to my heart, do you hear it? It beats for you.
"We can't do this," she protested beneath his mouth, "they're listening. They see us."
Eyes and ears. The walls had eyes and ears. Nothing was safe. Nothing was secret. She closed her eyes.
"I don't fucking care," he rasped, "I love you."
"Stop," she pleaded, breathless as the pleasure mounted deep within her despite her attempts to stifle it. Holding her breath, she began to panic, afraid that any moment now Jin Kazama's spies would burst through the walls and make her scream in agony instead of joy. She'd seen it happen too many times.
Or worse...maybe he'd just watch them do it, with his beady red eyes in perverse glee. Get a free show and then bring down the hammer.
"Don't be afraid, sweetheart. I won't let them touch you."
"It's not a matter of 'letting'!" she snarled, "they'll do the same to you and me like they did to Asuka and her lover. To Asuka! A woman of Kazama blood, yet they tore her to shreds!"
Loyalty was myth. Family was myth. There was only one loyalty, one family; all others could be compromised.
"Hush now." And this time he abandoned tenderness as he willed her to feel it all, his movements near violent.
Gasping, she could no longer suppress, and reluctantly allowed the pleasure to consume her, clenching her teeth and holding her breath to prevent his name or any semblance of ecstasy from escaping her throat. Wave after wave of it crashed over her, clutching spindly fingers along every nerve, eradicating momentarily all thoughts, suffocating, drowning her like the rain outside. Why did sex feel like such a struggle, like fighting for air? Why the muffled moans, the press of the mouth to keep it silent and locked away? Shouldn't it be joyful, shouldn't you relinquish shame and sorrow? It wasn't supposed to be like this...at least, that's what she thought. Even now in this damned place she had not lost her idealism. It broke her heart every time when things didn't turn out the way she thought it would, because sadly, sweetheart, nothing was sacred anymore.
"Stop it," he snarled, clasping her to him as he pushed himself deeper into her, "right now."
And so she decided that she'd make it how it was supposed to be, one way or another. And so she cried out and held him tightly to her, suspended in that fleeting moment of untainted joy, and she rose above the world and was full again, full and free like before. She wished they could return to before. This was what being sacred felt like. See how you feel in love. See how his hands make you weep. Now let him love you like there was no tomorrow, for there surely was none.
The rain stopped.
The sun set and abandoned them all. There would be no dawn.
It was a new empire, Jin's empire. Everyone had their "purpose," their own duties, but above all, everyone was to follow the rules and to declare allegiance to no one but the new regime. Nothing was theirs anymore. Not this house. Not the creeping honeysuckle vines, nor the pale lilies of the valley nestled between the moss-covered stones in the pathways. Not the way the kitchen smelled of coconut oil and brewing stew, nor the bed beneath her body, the sweat on her skin. Not the smell of his scent as she held him close, nor the way he looked at her with sweetness in his smile. Not love, not even her own thoughts, her secrets. To question, to think, to dream and hope and envision, was to be a traitor.
He'd write it all down somewhere once the blood clotted, frame it in a mahogany and glass prison, or "find" it somewhere on tablets of stone to justify the tyranny. But there really was no need for such display; everyone already knew everything was gone.
This was the color: a final twilight, a lingering farewell, like the smudge of lipstick against the cheek after a wet goodbye kiss, the cliche color of love and romance--and of a world dead and gone and regurgitated as this. Regurgitated, not reborn. "Reborn" was too majestic, too beautiful; it implied the creation of life, and surely no life had been created here, no lovemaking to sow the seeds and seal the bond. But perhaps it was like a sort of birth--if you can imagine a screaming babe tearing itself free from its mother's womb, killing her in the process without an ounce of remorse. That kind of birth.
Blood is life as it flows in the womb, between the legs. Blood is life as it flows in the veins, between flesh and bone.
Blood is death as it ebbs from the wound. Blood is death as it falls from the sky.
As soon as Jin had won that battle, lightning had ravaged the skies, his own little trademark, while thunder made the earth tremble. Trees died. Fires erupted. Water ran with oil and blood and poison. Rain had ebbed from the clouds like the life that ebbed from Kazuya's flesh. Jin was no longer his mother's son. He had become something worse, and with him, so had we.
"I have to go away," he declared behind the glow of a cigarette.
He had quit smoking a long time ago, just for her in fact, but now it didn't matter. He was already dead anyway, so he figured he'd just speed up the process. Better by his own intention rather than by the government's venom-spiked needles with its false promises of immortality.
"I know," came the reply, "I saw the letter."
She'd known ever since they'd made love under that bleeding sky. Someone had seen, and now they were paying for that defiance.
"I won't be long," he murmured, wisps of smoke dancing about his words and his lips, clouding the truth.
They both knew that was a lie. It was what happened to all the lovers around here. The women remained to do Kazama's bidding, while men were sent miles away to fight a war that nobody understood. The men who were sent were never seen again. And with the mandatory vaccinations going around, who knew if they would return home the same, if they returned at all.
"I've been in the army before, so you don't have to worry."
"That's not the same as war."
"Sure it is."
Silence. More lies. He took a long drag on his cigarette, choked, coughed. Fucking useless; the fucking cigarette offered no comfort either. Had all pleasure been leached from this land?
There were rumors of a resistance, ANGEL, a handful of humans who despised this new world and had retained courage to think for themselves. They trusted no one, not even one another, and kept themselves well hidden. But they existed. This war of Kazama's was proof of that. Yet he merely lit up another cigarette, disgusted. He'd wanted to join ANGEL; his military knowledge and prowess with Tae Kwon Do would be a huge asset to them. However, they'd proven damn hard to find, and once he'd found them, he realized that he could not bear to be away from her for so long. And so he returned to her arms, feeling useless and yet knowing her love was more important; his heart was rooted in hers, yet his head was here and not here, there and not there, powerless and restless and waiting for something he knew might never come.
ANGEL should fight harder. If so, the world wouldn't be in such a state. If so, Jin Kazama, with his demonic blood and equally malicious brood of AKUMA would have no reign over this nation. If so, he could maybe perhaps hopefully love her the way he wanted to, give her the things she needed, wanted. But he couldn't, and the shame was too much to bear. He was no man now was he. Maybe going away to war wasn't such a bad idea. Maybe then she'd find someone worthy of her.
Ironically, now he really was leaving her, but would be fighting for the wrong side. He'd be fighting for his and her demise, and that broke him to pieces. He should have joined the resistance when he'd had the chance. Knowing how this world worked, there was no way of shirking his fate.
The poison of this new government entered his flesh like the nicotine into his lungs. Intoxicated, tainted, he smiled. He'd tell them both the lie they wanted to hear.
"I'll come back to you. It's going to be better, I promise," he soothed.
This time she did go to him, letting herself be swept up into his embrace. She felt his love there, all of it and more, and it frightened her. Here was his heart, fluttering wildly in his chest, a hawk trapped in a barbed wire cage. Here was his soul, his spirit, fierce and untamed and seeking release. Her bound little warrior. Cupping his face between her hands, she kissed him violently, once, twice, and once over the spot on his chest that imprisoned the fluttering bird-heart.
"You fool," she murmured into his skin, "they'll kill you."
He smiled. "Yes. They will."
She held him tighter, fingers tracing chilled patterns up and down his torso, hands creeping beneath the shirt to caress the bare flesh there, the hardened muscles and unspoken secrets sheathed in smooth, smooth skin. Every blue river of vein and every indigo shadow of a bruise. Every wet kiss and shared laughter, every tear. Every word of rage and heartbreaking sigh. She wanted to keep it there as it was, sculpt it out of marble and set it inside of them like a statue, hard and sure and unchanging. But even marble can weather.
Make love to me...don't touch me...
Sighing, he shivered with desire, his flesh at last responding to her touch.
"Make me one promise," she said.
"I'll try."
She kissed him again, wrapped a fist in his scarlet hair, and pulled, forcing his gaze to hers. Smiling, he returned the look and molded his hands about her hips, pulling her even closer.
"I said, promise me."
"I said, I'll try."
Promises were poisonous. They set you up for disappointment. They were fed to you with hope and wine and thin wafers. Sometimes your salvation lay in a promise. He knew this; she knew this. Yet she asked of him the unattainable anyway. They'd both grown accustomed to lies after all, so what was one more? Couldn't one create one's own salvation?
"Come back to me as you."
She kissed the spot over his heart. He stared down into her face, eyes heavy-lidded with desire and defeat.
"I promise."
I'll try.
"Tell me your name."
She stood shackled to a wall with iron chains that tattooed plum onto golden skin, mirages of weakness. Blindfolded as well; they had seen the magic in her eyes, felt it sear their flesh with a single glance. Regardless of her beauty, this had been enough to save her from the torture all of the female prisoners underwent. Young she seemed, yet in truth she was as ancient as the sorcery flowing in her veins, with a strength and beauty unparalleled and unknown to this land, her soul a maze of mystery and secret. The grain of sand on wind that had refused the manipulative scorn of fire that had turned all other sands to glass.
Evil, dark, abominable creature, pretty, toxic little plaything; you know she is dangerous. And yet she intrigues, your new infatuation, like a venomous serpent with scales of gold. Tread too close and the serpent may again tempt thee to consume another fruit of knowledge and cast thee from this wasteland you call Eden. The ways of the Seer are many.
"Tell me your name," he repeated, tracing a pale finger over the fullness of her mouth.
"I have failed, and no longer possess such a thing," she whispered against the pressure of his finger, too exhausted to bite, but not so much to stifle her voice. Come the right time the serpent would strike.
"Is it such a terrible request?" he murmured, chuckling to himself as his fingers trailed lower to her neck.
"In times like these, names have lost their power," she answered calmly, "they mean nothing in this world of the faceless. What use is there for an identity?"
He smiled and bent down to kiss the covered eyelids.
"You are blind, my poor, lovely little Seer," he crooned, "but I will make you see again in time. I will show you a new world, my world, reborn and newer and better."
"I have already seen. Had I the choice, I would have chosen to remain blind."
This made him angry. He struck her across the face. She did not cry out.
"No one's coming to save you! She has forgotten you, fled like a coward. You've no one but me now."
She smiled knowingly, "Oh but the Wanderer will come, and with her a legion of other things you've no notion of."
At this he laughed, "A legion of what? That pathetic excuse of a rebellion ANGEL? I will crush them!"
The Seer's smile broadened. "You will soon see that I am not the one who is blind."
"I love you with all my heart," he said.
"I love you too," she murmured back, her head nestled into the curve of his arm and shoulder.
"But...but I'm afraid."
"Afraid?"
"That I...won't be able to support you. To give you what you need."
She didn't understand why he had to be like that. They loved each other; wasn't that enough?
"I know," she replied.
"I guess we'll just have to put our faith in love then, see where it takes us. I hope it can be enough."
Months later, when he'd been drafted, as she'd read the letter over and over as he smoked and smoked, as he'd grown more and more distant, as the world slowly fell, she understood.
Love wasn't enough. It had never been enough.