Disclaimer – I don't own Tekken.
Note – One of my many Tekken projects at the moment.
Benumbed Suppression
.
.
.
Asuka
.
His first opponent is a child.
The surname had drawn a breath of interest, and he'd allowed his fingers to flicker deftly over the picture concealed in his pocket.
The girl approached.
A brash youngling, decked in silver and blue with a hard look in her eyes. Yes, the resemblance was but a mere passing, but surely would result in an investigation at a later stage.
"Hey, why are you circling me?" Arms crossed defiantly against her bosom. A rough voice primarily edged with a city accent. "You a vulture or something?"
He finds her description strangely apt, and allows his lip to twitch a millimetre at her insight.
Her sight is sharp, for her eyes narrow and her body falls into a fighting stance.
"Finding me funny, huh?" Her fists are raised. "Let's see if I can make ya scream, smartass."
He has heard of the Kazama style, namely its grace and fluidity, but her strikes are sluggish and over powered, charged by her youth and as he rightfully guesses, secret street brawling. He is caught off guard by a backward windmill kick; the edge of her boot grazing his chin.
She falls back, panting, shocked to actually having touched him. Dragunov straightens up, lifting the blood off his jaw with his forefinger. He observes it silently; a break of cherry crushed on hard frost.
Her throat shifts as she swallows.
He charges.
Her defences are well timed, and a carefully aimed low kick causes him to grunt. But overall, he makes quick work of her. His attacks are swift, powerful. His defences are sound and impregnable. Although the girl has talent of a raw and common kind, Asuka Kazama still falls to his far superior skill.
As she lies immobilised by exhaustion, he gets on one knee and makes the appropriate arrangements for acquiring the girl's DNA. Asuka swipes weakly at his hands, swearing in streams of strangled Japanese, but her eyes are filling up with humiliated tears and he swabs them too, if only for good measure. After that, he redresses her and stands, dusting down his uniform.
Two minutes later, the medics arrive. Her injuries have driven her into unconsciousness, and they lift the limp young woman onto a stretcher. A few misplaced tears cling to her bruised cheeks.
As he turns to leave, he feels a swelling ember of self congratulation tame his inner chill. His sense of resourcefulness is something one should aspire to.
.
.
.
Miguel
.
The riotous Spaniard finds himself as a subject of scrutiny.
"Like what you see, eh?" He lazily motions towards Dragunov, whose nostrils pinch at the blend of urinated whiskey and sweat. Miguel smirks. "I always heard the Russian Military were a funny bunch."
Dragunov combs his chin with gloved fingers, and presents his trademark quiet as his only reply.
Miguel laughs hoarsely. His voice is rich, yet worn and rough, bringing to mind the thin swill of cheap wine drunken by the European lowlife. Indeed, how quaint.
Despite his laconic mince, here is a man who is not quelled by a humble life sought with difficulty, but infused with it.
Dragunov watches the impressive amount of talent on display. Miguel is faced off against a silver haired quick stepper by the name of Lee Chaolan, and although the opponent's moves are performed with pristine polish, the volcanic fury of Miguel's improvised brawling drags the veteran into a draw.
A telegram from HQ awaits Dragunov in his quarters. They are orders instructing him to detain possible threats to his mission. Formless faces, names, ages, nationalities, gaze up from the checked lines and excel sheets. Right in the middle there is a photograph of a dark eyed man with his arm around a smiling girl. Behind them is the Aquaduct of Segovia.
Overlooking the participant's hotel is a vast garden of a wild and immersive nature. Woodland. A lake. A rural training area. Perfect for hiding.
Miguel is seated on a rusting fountain on an abandoned overgrown path. Spurts of ice cold water soak through his white shirt stung with sweat. He's brushed his dark curls over his eyes, and he brandishes a beaten up old flask. He may have been good looking, once, before prison sentences and ample alcohol ravaged his face into harsh, angled lines.
He's singing, sobbing, swearing, slurred vowels and cussing consonants merging into an accented crescendo of sound. His song, an old Spanish working ditty, is muted by the cluster of vegetation shielding him from the world.
"She was wearing peach, y'know," He calls out to an approaching figure breaking through the midnight mists. The trees seem to bend back, retreat, from this strong shouldered and silent shadow.
"White. She hated white. She looked so beautiful in peach." The rims of his eyes are red and swollen. He tilts his flask towards Dragunov. "Vodka. You Russians are partial to vodka, yes?"
Dragunov accepts it without a word. Miguel begins another song, a slow Russian lullaby. He hums it under his breath; a husky murmur of dead, frozen earth.
Dragunov lowers the flask, dabbing at his mouth with the corner of a spotless glove. Miguel throws him a weak smile, and leaning forward, ghosts the tail end of the dulled scar with fingers thick in calluses.
"Cold old world," he utters softly. Dragunov's eyes, as cool as clouded glass, follow his every movement.
As if remembering himself, the Spaniard slouches back and slaps his knee.
"Surely, you sing too, eh?" His attempted Russian is weak, but Dragunov would have understood him, regardless of the language. "Sing with me, will you?"
He takes another swig of the flask, and resumes his humming.
The darkness cloaks the neighbouring woodland in an indigo husk. A light northern wind agitates the branches swaying above their heads, basking the two men in creeping shadows and ice thin moonlight.
A melodious hum, like slowly materialising ghosts of sins long past, carves itself out of still lungs and teases the air.
Miguel shivers, for he is suddenly cold and the lullaby strengthens, drowning his senses in its spectral, age old melody. But his breath is short, his insides constricting and failing. Moonlight, as vague and lovely as a sister's wedding veil, cuts a silvery gash across his face. A flask, not his own, falls from his loosening fingers and hits the water in an ugly splash.
Dragunov rises. Tucking his arms behind his back, he walks down the twisting paths and fields scattered with wildflower, humming to himself.
.
.
.
Armor King
.
Ghosts are merely manifestations of mental hysteria.
"You!" The armour plated warrior rises to his full height. Black leather slung over tarnished metal, a red eye polluting the grimy air through the furry confines of a Jaguar mask. A most base gimmick; the head of a wild animal to invoke intimidation.
If his memory serves, the hide of such a creature is laid on his lounge floor as a most becoming rug.
Despite the gruff introduction, the man lifts his fists and embarks on a juggling motion with his feet. It is evidently the beginning stance of his simple discipline.
The cemetery grants them a bleak backdrop. Lightning strikes a nearby branch, crumbling it into ashes.
And in the dust of dying embers, he shall leave his enemy to mark a new grave.
.
.
.
Alisa
.
"I don't want to fight you."
He watches her silently. From afar, she reminds him of a Russian doll he had seen sitting on a victim's bedside cabinet.
Green stutters into red.
After the fight that ends in a draw, she flips her synthetic pink hair and fiddles with the gold embroidery stitched on the red of her dress.
Alisa bows, thanking him in softly spoken Russian.
He retreats in silence, and continues his mission.
.
.
.
Raven
.
This isn't a personal assignment. He of all persons does not commit himself to such a trivial thing as matters of a personal nature. But it is one of great necessity, especially to him.
As the superiors discuss in hushed voices the removal of a long standing enemy, he marches in, salutes in silence, and shifts the folder from its resting place on the desk. They all freeze...so wary, and he won't pretend it baffles him...and he nods in mock politeness, and is gone through the door.
Logic dictates this mission was to be his assignment. His efficiency is unmatched. He merely seized the order before it was addressed.
Dragunov studies the co-ordinates until they are locked, firm and tight, in his mind. This shall be a simple affair, and base weaponry, such as a gun and a few knives, are all he will need.
It is a different kind of battlefield.
To other more emotive beings, it would be a surprising piece of trivia that the X scarred agent would have something as mundane as a home, be it based in the lush glory of the Canadian wilderness. Even the most elite and ruthless of warriors must rest, and Dragunov assumes that after the toils of facing an enraged and very much alive Heihachi, a need for respite would arise.
He circles the area for the first few days with long forgotten flickers of curiosity. It is a small house, with sparse inward interior, hidden away in a dense forest. Outside there is a small training patch, more rustic and homemade then the cold stainless steel dojo that possibly awaits him at HQ.
From afar, the target looks disarmingly ordinary. He has left behind his black attire and instead drifts around in loose Ninja slacks. Each day, he trains diligently, knocking over the dummies and splintering the wooden boards or covering the tiny piece of land in breaking brick dust. Occasionally, the target sits amongst the trees, legs crossed and brow furrowed in intense meditation. Dragunov theorises that each nerve, each bodily sensation and sense is hot wired to any passing disturbance as he sits in this not-so-vulnerable-state, so he rejects the obvious and holds off attack.
Away from their usual blood laced dances, Raven is a quiet and self contained loner. He trains, meditates, and trains some more. Gone are the apathy of his reflective shades; instead, two intelligent eyes scour the landscape for intruders. They are a deep, rich brown; the colour of molasses.
After three days of observing the enemy, Dragunov constructs a small shelter hidden within the mountains and rests there.
He doesn't dream. It is a childish vocation he does not wish to make a habit of. But that night, fragments of his consciousness, subsuming and feverish events of long past, nestle in the spaces behind his eyelids.
He is battling a small legion of men assigned to a rival corporation that is growing in power. His own men fight hard, terrified to see their failure witnessed by their commanding officer, even if he has just been promoted to that rank.
Amongst the opposing group is a new recruit, frighteningly skilled and dedicated to bringing down the opposite side. He is also young, too young and over confident to be posing as a tangible threat to Dragunov himself. The man swipes a knife across his face, and gashes him along his mouth.
Dragunov is a stiff believer in disciplining those who refuse their place in life. Overpowering the young man, he drags him to a remote area just out of the way of the fight, and slams him down on the frost packed ground. Even if his arm is dislocated, the youngster struggles and swears, and glowers up at Dragunov without a shred of fear. Blood bubbles on Dragunov's wound; it leaks, warm and salty, down his chin and stains his new uniform.
This is personal.
He crushes his hand down on the soldier's neck to keep him still, and pulls from his pocket a switchblade. It flashes under the watery grip of sunlight, and the boy begins to struggle more violently. The first traces of hesitancy creep into his eyes, and deliver Dragunov a usual amount of pleasure.
He inserts the blade into the dark skin, and slowly slits a jagged line sideways along his face. The boy's eyes swell with agony and he emits a choked, breathless cry. His work not finished, Dragunov conducts a similar pattern on the other cheek, until the young man's face is swimming with blood and he is queasy and limp from the pain.
Dragunov's lips quiver, and curve into a small, upward line.
Knees compress into Dragunov's chest, waking him.
Raven hovers overhead. He is still without his shades, and the power honing through those angry, dark eyes burn to the back of his skull. A knife is held to the bulge of Dragunov's jugular.
"You think I wouldn't figure you out?" He hisses, jamming his knee further into Dragunov's gut; he doesn't even flinch. "Think I'm that stupid do you, Sergei?"
Sergei's finger touches the trigger of his pistol. He pauses, fills his lungs with breath, and smirks.
He overturns Raven, striking him in the jaw. They tousle in the damp undergrowth, twisting away bone breaking holds and knocking each other off balance. Raven clamps his elbow; Dragunov throws him over his shoulder in a powerful thrust, and floors his knee into the base of Raven's back.
The pain is awful, Dragunov can tell, and he grinds his knee further into Raven's spine, so much so that the rival agent grits his teeth to stop himself crying out. From behind, his gi is undone. Raven's back is smooth, devoid of scarring, and such a sight confuses Dragunov. His body is a catalogue of old battle wounds, dulled by time, resembling the rubbed out ends of a pencilled map.
Carefully, he withdraws a blade from his boot, and lightly nicks the skin.
Raven freezes.
Blood smeared on snow. The boy struggles, wheezes, dragging in each desperate breath. His eyes harden with realisation. Skin, matted and torn with trauma, stitches and heals in an ugly X. It forms and shapes their shared destiny.
Raven roars; a brittle, swelling cry, and turns suddenly. The momentum strikes Dragunov's guard and he is sent sprawling into the earth. Raven is on him once again, and they spar, underhanded and close and reckless.
Dragunov grunts and hisses and half smiles, because he harbours a most keen sense of destruction and this form of ruination is worlds apart from writhing bodies engulfed in flame, or the smattering brick dust embrace of falling church or school or military base.
This is studied wreckage, the most intricate and intellectual of unravelling, and how, how he excels at it. His sense of resourcefulness is something one should aspire to.
There is movement in the trees, scurrying shadows and raised voices. They call Raven's name, alongside warnings, warnings of an attempted assassination, and Raven growls deep in his throat. He gashes Dragunov's head on the gravel.
"Never again." Dark fingers curl around the black mane of his enemy's hair. "Never. You hear me, Sergei? Never."
"We shall see," Dragunov says simply, his voice muffled by blood and the chilling press of earth. When he silently laughs, it is hollow and cold, for winter rattles in his lungs.
He forces his elbow into Raven's gut, and feels the too easy release of the other man's grip. Getting to his feet, he stumbles into the forest, dodging the lapdogs of the rival corporation, and he doesn't hurry, for he knows Raven isn't in on the chase.
Dragunov may only give his opponent credit for one singular thing.
He knows the importance of time and place.
.
.
.
After his battle with the armored jaguar, Dragunov awaits security to transport him to the next stage.
He explores his rain drenched surroundings, kneading half sunken tombstones with the shining tips of his boots.
A sudden Caw cracks the silence.
A large black bird fixes him with a beady eye. It pecks at the edges of its lustrous feathers, craning its head to study the man below.
Sergei cocks his gun. Lifts, aims, shoots.
The raven falls dead at his feet.