The sequel to Vertigo is here! Due to its large word count, I've decided to post it in between two to three chapters.
I would highly suggest reading Vertigo before you embark on this fic. It takes place a few months after the end of Vertigo.
Disclaimer – I do not own Tekken.
Warnings - Implied slash.
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Fire.
Soft, burning, tendrils of fire.
The spinning blades of the helicopter suddenly seem deaf, separate, from his ears. Below them, the enemy base smolders and dies within the grip of the building inferno. The smoke reaches higher, higher, licking the edges of their transport, as if trying to drag them down to the fiery swamp that awaits them below.
Forest can feel the heat seeping through the floor. It pushes through the leather of his seat, through the soles of his shoes, leaking into his veins and dousing his forehead in sweat. There is a cry somewhere, clawing at the edges of the breeze, before it falls into the immortal crack and slap of the flames.
The velvet stitching of the arm rest splits beneath his nails.
Nina crosses her legs, coughs, and pops a mint, as white as bone, into her mouth.
Gordo sits opposite. Forest can't really see, but as Eddy lowers his chin to his chest, the sunlight cloaked in smoke flashes through his shades; his eyes are tightly closed.
Jin, seated beside Forest, observes the hapless heap of crumbling bases behind the protective sheen of his window. He tilts his head, as if trying to gain access to a better angle, his eyes hungrily searching the scene below. The amber swirl beneath and around them cushions his features in a deft, red glow.
His lips lift and hold.
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.
As they return to the Mishima tower, Forest tries and fails to get used to the shake in his legs. The four of them stand together in the lift. Gordo taps in the buttons. He lingers closer to the door, closest to Forest, as Nina and Jin engage in a low conversation about further threats from the G Corporation.
They seem to have devised between them this silent, sufficient body language, and as Jin hands her a clipboard with tightly binded papers, she nods and exits at the next floor. Eddy follows suit at her call; he steps through the closing doors and turns to look back at Forest until the metal barriers shift and shut them out.
The crawl up to the top floors is a lengthy one. Jin taps his finger on the base of his own clipboard, his eyebrows creeping closer together at some unknown statistic. Forest clears his throat, clasps his hands in front of his lap, and proceeds to be as stone.
Finally, mercifully, the doors peel back to reveal Forest's floor. He can't help but release the breath he's holding in. As he moves out into the break of chilly, circulating air, there is the twinkling of an electrified bell. He turns. Jin Kazama, his finger pressed down hard on the lift hold key, observes him from beneath the curl of his eyelashes.
"Do not forget. Tonight. Six o'clock."
Forest bows at the waist.
"Yes, sir."
As he folds himself back upright, Jin is still standing, still staring, as if he could rip right through him with his eyes. The bangs that fall in front of his face seem longer, wilder. Forest manages to keep his gaze, but only just.
Jin parts his lips, as if to say something more, but instead he half smirks and releases the button. The doors slide and click.
In the corridor, Forest covers his face with his hands.
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The Mishima dojo is immaculate. It is spiked with rows upon rows of weights and stools and bars. Every bit of it is stainless steel, heavy and hard and humungous to behold. It is the largest dojo Forest has ever seen, spanning four times his father's, even when Dad was at his best and they had the roomy, airy walls and floors of what once had been the old restaurant's main dining area.
Every evening, Forest prepares himself for Jin's training. He showers, before and after, for Jin is so fastidious and Nina has warned him about always setting an example. His new fighting attire is karate trousers embellished with a dragon motif, which resembles the back of his working uniform. He insists on his white singlet, if only to provide his body some protection from the white hot heat of Jin's incoming fists.
On the first evening of their shared training, Forest's chest had been wrung with tension. He'd still had been reeling from the compromises to his freedom, and the dojo, to him at first, had seemed cold and brutal and dustless. There was metallic sadism winking off the heavy ends of the gym equipment, and upon seeing Jin advance through the doors, he'd been shocked to see his employer in his training clothes. He'd only ever witnessed Jin in designer suits, silken shirts, impeccably pressed trousers. But Jin's chest was bare, his karate trousers stitched with winding tongues of flame, and of course, the iconic red of his gloves strapped hard to his wrists.
While they'd trained together before, once in jest, sometimes after in quasi-awkward friendship and then, at that time, in a confounding mix of comfort and skill, well none of that even touches what commences between them now. Jin's punches are compounded with a new, severe vice and Forest, fighting his doubts, forcefully conditions his body to be obstinate in the face of Jin's frightening and incomparable skill.
After each session, as whatever agitation scuttling beneath Jin's skin begins to abate in the running of their sweat, they bow and Forest formally excuses himself. Jin is always the first to leave. Always in the corner is Nina Williams, who ever watchful, shadows Jin as he goes through the door.
There is emptiness in this world, but nothing quite as empty as the silence that lingers behind them in the dojo of sweat and steel.
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His room is a cool vacuum after the air tight space of the dojo. Exhaustion has been grinded deep into his bones, his eyelids anchored with doze, but he eyes the bed with distrust.
The sky outside is bare, starless. The lights of Tokyo whizz and curl below his window in snake like twists. Forest has long since abandoned the view. A phone sits on the bedside table, but it's a tease, for each call and text and fax is carefully monitored. There is a television; a huge plasma screen stylishly concealed via a sliding door in the lounge, but Forest neglects to watch it. The news channels relay his actions, his experiences of previous days, in crisp beautiful colour and it makes him sick.
His private castle is a gilded prison.
Forest looks around the minimalist mammoth of his apartment and resigned, begins to undress. He folds his training clothes and leaves them in the corridor for the maid. The very action makes him feel strangely uncomfortable, but he has little choice. As he pads back to the moon stroked bed, his stomach begins to clench and he breaths in hard through his nose.
He nestles his head on the pillow. It isn't long before sleep sinks him further into the bed, until his consciousness is floating and vulnerable and he, himself, is powerless.
The flames slink into his head, into his dreams. The helicopter hurtles through the air in spinning, dizzying patterns. Both doors are missing and the windows are nothing but frames of empty air. Gravel and weeds and bloody sun merge in a chaotic blizzard around them. Nina Williams chews on little bones as white as mints. Gordo's eyes are nothing but burrowed holes of shadowed reflection. Forest huddles away from their skunking, perverse parodies and his arm bumps against Jin's.
Jin observes the carnage from the gaping wound of the window.
As his lips pull back, his front teeth cut into the flesh of his tongue. The pupating fangs are as cut and jagged as razors.
Forest shakes himself. His weary consciousness blurs into a mix of the room and the wispy, scarlet remnants of the dream, but Forest stiffens his body and forces his eyelids open.
The heating hums gently. There is the raising twinkle of a woman's laugh below.
The bed sheets are wrapped around him in mocking warmth.
Forest shivers and throws them back.
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The next morning Nina tsks when she sees him.
"I wouldn't dwell on it, kid," Opening her powder mirror, she gestures towards the purple visible beneath his eyes. "You'll get used to it eventually."
Forest nods and shadows her to the lift once more. Once inside, she offers him a pair of shades. He goes to takes them, thinks of Eddy, and politely refuses.
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The party is a nice change from the board meetings, the countless flights to far off destinations, the ceremonies, and the places that leak fire and blood.
The ballroom they've entered, despite being more intimate in terms of size, is a sight to behold. Men and women practically drip in finery and class, weaving in and out of one another in shared, civilized small talk. The floor is lined with black Italian marble and the ceilings are etched with ivory white rose carvings. Outside the French windows the Monegasque coast sparkles; a rich turquoise disc stitched with diamonds. The entire effect of the Rochefort's personal palace is dazzling.
As Jin moves further into the crowd, Nina on his right and Forest on his left, do the crowds quiet to a murmuring buzz. Forest glances at Nina; she returns his stare, but offers no indication of what is to come. The quiet of the surrounding folk finally falls into dead silence.
Mr. Rochefort is a small, bumbling man. His fair hair is thinning, his body gone soft from sitting behind a desk. His suit, despite being of the highest value, looks baggy on the chest and his forehead glistens with moisture. He pauses in front Jin's indomitable shadow, and forces a weak smile.
"Mr. Kazama…" There is a hitch in his voice that begins to play havoc with Forest's memory. "What a pleasure to have you here."
He holds out his hand. Jin stares at it until the very oxygen seems to ice. Mr. Rochefort sucks his teeth, and lowers it.
"We're here to discuss business," Jin's words cut the silence in dark, rumbling currents. The other guests draw back in whispering clusters. "I trust you have the papers?"
"Indeed, Mr. Kazama," The older man replies quickly, linking his fingers tightly together. What might have been a humbling gesture is culled by the white in his knuckles. "I-I-I thought we could debate the ownership of the oil fields over a glass of our best wine. We have our own vineyards, as you may know…"
"There is no need for debate," Jin says smoothly. "Everything is decided. The papers." His lips curve. "Please."
Mr. Rochefort gabbles one last plea.
Jin's shoulders seem to broaden. The leather creaks in his shoes as he leans forward, ever so slightly intent.
"The papers," he repeats.
Jin refuses the request to enter Rochefort's private quarters. The quivering mess of the man is forced to bring them out, in front of his guests and family, and shivers and sweats as Jin slides them easily from his grip. Jin hands the papers to Nina, who files them in the folder tucked under her arm.
A flash of gold.
Forest blinks. He turns his head towards the staircase, wondering if he'd imagined it, but then he sees her.
Lili is dressed in a white dress, puffed at the bottom, with frilled cuffs on her neck and wrists. Her hair, the colour of thriving maine, drenches her back. But her eyes are fuelled with a sharp, scorching fury.
She glowers at Jin, before her eyes slide sideways and their gazes meet. For a moment, her mouth drops and an odd, hopeful light takes hold in her eyes. And then the realization dawns, on him and her, with bitterness so prominent he can practically taste it.
Forest looks away.
Each clack of her heels on the stairs punctures the silence like a gun shot.
"How could you?" The creeping venom in her screech poisons Forest's defenses. He feels his insides begin to shrivel with shame. He tries to close in on himself, but Nina is staring at him blankly. Mr. Rochefort just gawks at his steely and statuesque daughter. "I trusted you, Forest! I trusted you!"
Forest sees her hand raise, ready to strike, and in a way, he wants to feel the slap, the sting. Maybe it'll be enough to crush this unimaginable world in one violent blow. He closes his eyes.
There is a sweep of air, blown gentle and strange against his face, and he blinks his eyes open.
Jin has caught her wrist.
He places one foot in front of Forest, his expression one of flawless composure. Lili's cheeks are burnt pink and there is the shimmer of tears on her cheeks. She gulps, shifting once more to get closer to Forest, but Jin holds her stern and still. Forest's feet are frozen, anchored, to the floor.
"It is appreciated, Ms. Rochefort," Jin whispers coolly, but there is something gnawing at the edges of his tone. His thumb presses down on the delicate grove in her wrist. "That you do not lay a hand on my associates."
Lili's eyes are wide and wet.
"I may speak to him if I wish."
"Emilie…" The desperation in her father's whisper seems to make Lili shrink. She glances back at him, but then back, once again, to Forest.
This does not go unnoted by Jin.
"Mr. Law has more important things to attend," He says simply. "Then to cater to the whims of an indulged brat."
He releases her hand. Lili, red as lava, goes to snap back but her father's hand on her shoulder stops her mid-sentence. The previous joviality of the party has been sucked dry and there is nothing but the ringing of appalled silence.
Jin nods to Nina. She replies in kind, and gestures to Forest to follow her to the exit. As Forest turns, his ears catch the beginnings of Lili's small, humiliated sobs. For one instant, a brief, painful instant, his feet pause on the marbled floor.
From the corner of his eye, he spots Jin watching him.
Forest bows his head and resumes his heavy trek back to the plane.
As they leave the Rochefort home, Jin walks in perfect tandem to Forest's steps.
Nina, waiting beside the plane, is a safe dot in the distance.
"She did help us, you know," Forest says quietly. They're walking through the glaring masses of thick, buttery sunshine, among the cropped and cut beauties of the luxury garden. "Unknowingly, but she did help."
He thinks Jin isn't going to answer, for a moment passes, but then…
"That is irrelevant to the task at hand."
Forest looks away, over the crashing surf of the coast.
"Were my actions back then…" They're getting closer to the plane, but their pace has slowed. "Are they no longer relevant?"
Jin's head angles towards him. Forest immediately feels uncomfortable.
"No."
Nina, waiting in the plane, grants Forest an unorthodox look.
Forest shrugs and sits down.
As the aircraft lifts into the sapphire jewel of the Monaco sky, Forest observes the Rochefort estate until it is nothing but a blue and white smudge on the landscape.
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Within the warping walls and corridors of the labyrinth of the Mishima Zaibatsu, a recovering Ling Xiaoyu has been put to rest.
However banal the hospital had been before, at least it possessed a bland brightness; life and noise and people. But Xiao's new luxury accommodation is big and beautiful and oddly unwholesome. Once upon a time, Forest had wondered if Jin even cared about his old friends, but now, looking at himself and Xiao's pretty prison, he wonders what is more dangerous.
When Xiao had discovered Forest looking after her in his free time, her initial delight faded into distrust. Noting his new, baffling stoicism, she pushed and pushed until he finally told her he held contract with the Mishima Zaibatsu. He'd even tried to joke and said he wasn't lying when he said he'd be seeing more of her.
Distrust turned to disgust.
But now, time has passed in the desolate chambers of Xiao's apartments. Any upheld disdain has been squandered in the sick brunt of loneliness, and Xiao twitches and turns in her bedclothes.
"You look better, Xiao," Forest places the dumplings on the side. He still cooks, sometimes, in the scarily polished kitchens. "I think you'll be out of here in no time."
"He won't let me out," She doesn't look at him. Well, that's basic protocol. He should have known better than to have doubted her stubbornness. "He sent me a letter this morning. Said the outside world was too dangerous."
"Dangerous?"
"The resistance."
"Ah." Forest slumps lower into his chair. "I hear they've been getting a lot of slack recently."
The wall clock ticks idly by.
The steam rises on the dumplings. It curls away into thin, cooling air.
Xiao has taken to facing the window. Her hair hangs loose and limp down her back.
Forest glances at his wrist watch. He knots his brow and sighs, rising to his feet. Time now holds a tighter, more anxious place in his life.
"I've got to go. My free time is…"
"It's fine." Xiaoyu reaches for the dumplings. She nibbles one of them, tearing away at the skin with her sharp little teeth. "Go. Do what you have to do."
He wishes to say her name, but the syllables curl away on his tongue. All the skin around her fingernails has been bitten raw. Her skin seems too tight, too pulled back against her face, her eyes too misty and marble like. She swallows.
Something seems to crawl, to pulse, behind his eyes.
He rubs the bridge of his nose. Turning back, he heads toward the door.
"Forest?"
Her feet nestle on the floor.
"Yes, Xiao?"
Two milky arms slip under his arms, move towards his chest, and lock.
Her tears wet his back and dampen the gold spangled embroidery of Jin's dragon.
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Even if he's been told countless times over, that his duty is to Jin and Jin alone, he is assigned for one day to accompany Nina Williams to a military facility.
That morning, they leave via the steel, weighty body of the Mishima helicopter.
"It's an annual check," She snaps her powder mirror shut. Her freshly applied lipstick is a peach glimmer on her lips. "Nothing fancy."
They parole the grey, soundless corridors. The base is armored like a battle tank. Men in formless uniforms with faces rendered mute by large, round helmets, shadow Mrs. Williams and politely ply her with intel. They address her with nothing but the highest respect, for she commands them with effortless efficiency and Forest can understand, finally understand, Jin's complete and unquestioning trust in her.
The last room they enter is bleached a pure, soft white. Flickering 3D screens line the room, showing a deft outline of what looks like a feminine shape. Thick, fat wires ride in from all directions, finally settling in what Forest can only categorize as a huge mecha coffin.
Nina ushers away the latest grunt. Fixing her gaze on him, she sighs and shakes her head.
"Go on, then," She says lightly, gesturing in the direction of the streamlined, shining casket. "Go and have a look at it. But be quick."
Forest's bow is snappy and short. He sidles up to the coffin, and slides back the shutters on top.
At first, he thinks she's dead. There is no telltale lift in the bosom, no flutter in the lashes, yet her face is as composed and wholesome as if in a deep sleep. Her hair blooms a baffling gumdrop pink and her features are babied, soft, girlish. Her gloved hands are folded over her chest, just so, almost as in a fairytale.
"You won't wake it with a kiss," Nina's voice, dry as always, tickles his ear. He jumps and looks away. Nina tsks. She smoothly places the shutters back in place, blocking out the pink and flower and face of the girl. "Don't get too attached, Charming. It's as artificial as a Barbie doll."
As they walk back to the heavy metal monster of the helicopter, Forest finally poses her with a question.
"Who was that?"
Nina pauses by the entrance. She inclines her head towards his, her lips threatened by a half smirk. Before, Forest would have focused on the floor, the sky, and his hands. But his returning stare is polite, but steady.
"Its codename is Alisa," The vehicle door sweeps open. "A specialized military weapon, designed to protect Mr. Kazama."
Forest thinks of the sweetly turned smile, the vibrancy of plastic daisies, the fineness of fingers rested on a still, pale chest.
"I see."
Back inside the helicopter, Nina crosses her legs and appraises him briefly. She seems taken aback that he finally opened his mouth.
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Forest had never been out in the depths of the Japanese wilderness, only seen it illustrated in pictures and television and the glossy stock photos of his mother's nature calendar.
The reality is brutal. The wind shudders in frost bitten gales, slipping between the gaps in his clothes and nipping in merciless snaps against his skin. Jin is unfazed in the maddening white whirl of the blizzard. The black of his jacket billows behind him like the unfurling wings of a large bat and is a night shade shock amongst the snow.
Forest keeps close. He tries to quell the teeth chattering in his head, for there is no cover he possesses beyond the thin, silky material of his uniform. The cold drives searing pain into his head, setting ice in his temples, and he envies the scouts in their heavy, hibernating amour.
Jin's phone is held aloft by his ear, but the whistle of the air steals any breath of sound so Forest feels trapped in a frozen, soundless bubble. There are lines and lines of troops, brainwashed men hidden in helmets with red eyes. Jin had stood in front of this human horde of military, and saluted. It was a lazy salute, a careless salute, one lacking in faith. But the men, each one wound like a separate toy soldier, struck their hands to their heads with the snap of a long practiced, mechanical unison. Forest had gazed out on this landscape of white and black and red, and not bearing it, had to look away.
A thick pair of boots crunches the snow. The approaching man is the only one not wearing a helmet. His hair should be wild, given that it sticks out in all directions but there is a bizarre order to it, for it is assembled in perfect, soft spikes. His eyes are chemical blue, but there is warmth and an acute, questioning intelligence shining within them that lifts the hair on Forest's neck. This broad figure struts through the men, who rift apart and bow their heads. On his chest is the kingly emblem of a lion and tucked under his arm is a bundle of thick, woolen fabric.
Jin raises his head, and there is a sudden, strange tensity stringing up the air.
As they converse, their heads close together, an equally inappropriately dressed Nina Williams sidles up beside Forest. Her hair is loose, rolling down to her shoulders in golden waves, but the strands have been made stiff by the cold. Her eyes drift to the young commander and her lips set in a tight line. Forest fights the urge to burrow his hands in his pockets, but it would be an unsightly act and he is sure that somewhere in his contract, this kind of informality is forbidden.
The man finishes with Jin. He doesn't bow, or salute, but merely nods his head. As he passes the two, he shoots a glance at Nina, who pointedly glances the other way. Forest blinks at this, before the man catches his eye and his formal front dissolves into an effortlessly charismatic smile.
It's such a staggering sight that Forest's vocal chords fix themselves in his throat.
"Here," The corners of the man's eyes crease as he holds out the material folded beneath his arm, which Forest sees is a double layered military coat. "This climate is punishing for those not used to it."
"Eh..." Forest takes it. His fore finger touches the smooth of the man's wrist and electricity; potent, painful, crackles through and shocks his blood. "Thank you."
"It's no problem." The commander takes the opportunity to fiercely grip Forest's hand in greeting; the thunder in his veins pounds through the exchange and sets off white spots in Forest's vision. "I see you are new to our corporation. May I offer you a personal welcome?"
"Lars," Nina's tone, although smooth, is chillier than usual. "Your men are awaiting their orders."
Lars pauses, oddly still, but smiles at Nina in a way that is almost indulgent. However, a sideways look from Jin stiffens him back into sobriety.
"Of course," Not taking his eyes from Forest, he flexes his fingers, and if on cue, Forest allows a shiver to dampen his back. "I shall see you back at base."
As the sway of his cape clashes with the oncoming sheets of sleet, Nina scoffs, and turning toward Forest, observes the lacquered ends of her fingernails.
"I see you've met the local hero," She rubs her thumb across her lips, which are red, chapped with frost. Jin has followed Lars, leaving the two of them stationed in the wintery wasteland. "How did you find him?"
"He seemed..." Forest rubs his palms together, desperately trying to expel what feels like a bad case of pins and needles. "Charismatic."
"Yes," Nina steps closer to him, crossing her arms. She observes the two blurring figures in the distance. "He certainly comes off that way. The men are puppets to his every whim. Sort of sickening, really."
"I still think I'm new to all of this."
"Not quite, kid."
"Why?"
"You're talking, for one thing." She rests a hand on the curve of her hip. The snow fall has tempered to dotting flakes. They melt on the wiry curl of her hairline. "For a while, you didn't say anything."
The ongoing bolt of Lars's handshake refuses to leave Forest's body, jetting his blood in rankling bites, but her words soak like the snow on his jacket and sting his skin. He hadn't been aware of the untangling of the silences he'd kept locked, hidden within himself.
"No." She says as she turns away. Forest has offered her the wooly enclosure of the coat. "I'm alright."
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Another conference.
Forest is stood next to Jin. Eddy shadows the front of the stage; Nina, on the right of their employee. The crowd is settled out in mismatched rows of tables, with sparkling white cloth and champagne tinkered between fingers rich with rings.
Jin stands on the podium.
"Our new deals demand co-operation from all those Governments and Governing bodies called forward. Any resistance is highly discouraged..."
Forest coughs, and adjusts his collar. The air is breezy and brisk, for Jin insists on the air conditioning to be blasted through every nick and kink in the building, even in the deepest of winters. Forest has placed blankets on his bed, worn vests and extra thick socks, but everywhere is punctuated by Jin's insistent, inclosing cool.
"Consider, ladies and gentlemen. The greater good..."
Jin's rich patrons are shackled to their gilded chairs, to the gold tinted glasses of their complimentary champagne. Under the glow of the chandelier, droplets of moisture cling to each finely powdered forehead. Jin's speech is slow, monotonous, eased along in a drawling slur like gum stretched long and thick.
Forest imagines Jin's old, comfortable silences, positioned in the grey flicker of dojo and bedroom and kitchen. The memory only serves to slump his shoulders down further. The dark, otherly, well maintained presence beside him pricks his mind like the touch of an extra-terrestrial.
Near the front, seated near a shivering French heiress, is a man dressed in a grey suit with a fedora tilted over the sharp slant of his eyes. As if sensing Forest's scrutiny, he lifts the end of his hat with his forefinger and thumb. His eyes widen in a barely contained panic.
There is no hitch, no break, in Jin's speech. If anything, it seems to lengthen, to plod on, each word a nonsensical stretch of sound as Forest and the man partake in their stare off. Nina scratches the end of her nose. Eddy stares blankly out amongst the sea of satin and silken table cloth.
A man. Shifting just left of Forest's vision, on the table closest to the stage. His suit is clean, but his shoes are scuffed and he's hasn't shaved. He fumbles in his pocket, and there is flash of metal. He lifts the gun aloft, and points it in the direction of Jin's chest.
Forest doesn't actually know what enters him that moment. But his limbs spring like clockwork; his mind whirs, his heart fractures his ribcage and he jets into the space between the barrel and Jin.
He just about sees the nerve twitching in the corner of the man's eye, the quiver of the thumb of the trigger, the black bags slung beneath his eyelids, the grind of teeth against crusted lip.
The gun goes off.
Plaster flakes from above and catches in Forest's hair. He'd high kicked the gun from the man's hand; it hits the corner of the stage, and clatters at Eddy's feet. Forest belts the man in three staccato swipes; knee, stomach, head. Not enough to kill, or even to maim, but to knock down and wind. The man stumbles away, crawling on his hands and feet, and Forest sees he is surprisingly young.
A woman screams. There are mutterings and cries from the crowd. The noise is a dull quiver in Forest's ears. There is a silver dash to the side as Nina takes after the man. She leaps; a beautiful, metallic blur, for his sight wavers, but then she latches herself to the man's neck and the insuring crack goes right through him.
I'm such a fool.
The ceiling is a starry swirl above his head. The chairs screech on their legs as people rise and evacuate. He is sure Baek Doo San, the classy bastard, would have slipped out with the rest. His eyes shudder closed. The shadows are a dancing mockery beneath the flutter of his eyelashes. Settling his breath, he turns back.
Jin is staring down at him.
Forest is still stood in the space between Jin and the now vanished gun.
Nina is kicking the body over, ripping the pockets inside out. Eddy hovers near her, but his head is turning towards the two men on the stage.
Jin's expression doesn't change. Natural as can be, he closes the file. He lightly shakes the hair from his eyes, one hand pressed to his temple, as if fighting a headache.
"Mr. Gordo," Eddy raises his head at the order. "If you would be so kind as to dispose of this mess."
Forest exhales as Jin passes. And then promptly piles the breath back in, for Jin's fingers brush his arm. It's a cold, faint, testing touch.
The shoddily dressed assassin is on his side. His pockets have been emptied, but nothing found. It seemed the man had crafted himself as a non-traceable void. Forest's eyes attach to the ghastly pallor of his skin; the neck, hoisted at an impossible angle. Bone prods through skin twisted by Nina's quick, clever hands.
His stomach does some strange twists of their own.
"Mr. Law," Forest slams his back straight at the address. Jin pauses by the door. "I expect our session at six o'clock, as pre-planned."
Forest bends at the waist. Sweat is prickling along his hairline.
"Yes, Sir."
"Good to know." The doors swing and conceal him from view.
Nina shields a smirk as Forest glowers down. The quake in his legs travels up his body, settling in a hurricane swirl in his stomach, and he fights not to retch.
Eddy's hand is a soft weight on his back.
"The toilet is that way, Forest."
He has to run.
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5 o'clock.
Despite the hour, night has already poured in through the windows and bleached Xiao's room in shadow. The wind tinkers the windows, making them shudder in their holds, and despite the chill in the rest of the building, Xiao's room is warm, cosy, the dark holding all the warm and comfort of hot chocolate.
She'd retired to bed early.
"Weak," She whispers as he enters. She's hidden beneath a mound of bedclothes, her feet curled beneath her. Her hands, peeking through the duvet, are small and pale in the moonlight. She wets her lips with her tongue, although her eyelashes lay heavy and still on her cheeks. "I-I feel weak."
"Rest then," Forest's reply is gentle. He lifts the edge of her blanket, and pulls it up to her chin. Her neck had seemed too bare, too vulnerable, steeped in the ashy glare of the stars. "Get all the sleep you need. I'll come and see you tomorrow."
As he rises, her hand reaches out; curls around his fingers, and gently pulls him back.
"Stay." Her eyes are liquid coffee beneath the flutter of their lids. Her voice becomes a doughy murmur as she tucks his hand beneath her, burying it beneath the weight of her chest. Forest kneels; rests his hand on hers. "Stay."
He waits a few moments. Her breathing tides out; evens.
Slowly, he pulls his hand free.
He closes the door so soft and swift it's as if he was never there at all.
.
.
Jin is waiting in the dojo.
As Forest enters, he discreetly eyes the clock. 6 o'clock. Sharp.
Jin unfolds his arms. Moving to the centre of the floor, he adjusts into a fighting stance. The black of the premature night is a ghastly thrust against the windows. The light above them is too shrill, too much of a harsh shock, to his eyes.
Forest bows.
This is the first time Jin hasn't initiated the pleasantries.
The fight proceeds as usual. In tandem with Jin, Forest is a well-oiled machine; he doesn't think of that first time they did this, buried deep beneath the kitchen and lounge and bedrooms of his home. How desperate. How needy. How urgent it had been.
Forest falls back as the clock knells the closing bell.
He bows again. However, on the floor, Jin's shadow doesn't fold in polite reciprocation.
Forest blinks, and rises to his full height.
Jin tightens the strap on his gloves. His eyes drift slowly to Forest, where they suddenly fix with a terrifying intensity.
"That…" He observes the studs on the back of his gloves. "…was unsatisfactory."
"I…" Forest stiffens. "What?"
"Unsatisfactory," Jin repeats, his voice as clear and cruel as cut glass. "It did nothing. It was without energy. Without…" He looks at Forest again, and this time, it is that old stare; the one that dives into Forest's head and blisters the back of his eyes. "Passion."
"There was no change from the usual procedures."
"You disappoint me, Forest."
Forest visibly recoils.
Jin appears to smile. He moves toward the door, and for a moment Forest thinks he's going to leave him in the shaming silence of the dojo, but he moves off towards one of the tables loaded with weights. Idly, he runs his forefinger across it; lifts his hand, and monitors the smudge of dust on his fingertip.
"It puzzles me," He begins slowly. "That you have taken such little interest in the whereabouts of your family."
Forest's heart begins to thud.
"W-What? I…"
"It seems quite callous, don't you think?" The dust crumbles between Jin's fingers. "That you haven't even called your ageing mother."
"Jin." Forest's voice. Iron clad. Shielding the pleading, the pleading he knows Jin can detect. "Stop."
"It puzzles me also," Jin continues, breaking another shelf of dust with his hand. "That you give more loyalty and attention to the man who took them away from you."
"I don't a choice."
"You don't?"
"You saw to that. Jin…" Forest takes a step toward him. The barriers between them, professional or otherwise, are beginning to fold inward and loosen his tongue. "Please don't…"
"It must be easy then," Jin's tones have fallen to a soft, coaxing whisper. "To hate me."
Forest snaps his mouth shut. He imagines himself shot with ice, but it doesn't do any good. The same, contagious heat of Jin's gaze trickles sweat down his back, his chest, his hands.
"I don't…" It's strange, why doesn't he? It's logical. His fingers harden into fists. It's more than logical. But he doesn't. He never has. "I never hated you."
"Oh, but you must now," Jin's words are still cloaked in that eerie, unsettling hush. "Even now. Even as you deny it."
"Stop."
"Forest," Jin begins to walk towards him, each step honed with deliberate dilatoriness. "Think of what I've taken. Think of what you will never have again." He cocks his head to the side, and smirks. "Think of how I might have even enjoyed doing it."
"Stop." Forest spins on his heel, breaking their shared gaze. He glances at the door; Nina is nowhere to be seen. "Stop. God, please…"
"I agree. You need to stop this denial. It's consuming you." The next words are infused with a smooth, smirking cool. "Made you weak."
Fire. It stirs in Forest's blood, crashing through him in each heat soaked haze. The cleansing, cold truths of rationale are caged and caught in his mind, overcome by that damn, horrid, unfathomable heat. As he turns back to Jin, he knows it shows in his eyes, for Jin nods, satisfied, and falls back into a defensive stance.
Each breath is a tormented hurl through Forest's throat. He tries to fight it; tries to lock it down deep, tries to mount it with mental earth. He won't let himself go, he just…
"Forest." Jin's voice is firm. "I won't split."
No.
"I won't break."
It breaks in Forest instead.
The new few moments are gleaned together in heat, fury, hate.
He can't touch Jin. He doesn't know why. Each blow, each drop kick, each flip and jab and hold. Jin is unfathomable, untouchable; each attack, blocked, as if batting off a fly. Jin's defense is impregnable, crafted without a single, humbling flaw. Forest hates him for it. Hates hates hates him for it.
During the day, when Jin is busied by documents and meeting and contracts and good knows what else, his attentions are diverted and his manner is just, well, indifferent. But of now, with nothing to distract him, his mind strays to darker things and Forest isn't spared this because he knows too much, and it's his own damn fault for getting involved because he wouldn't be here now, would he?
The dark shadows under his mother's eyes, the slur in his father's voice, the sheen of betrayal in Paul's stricken summer blue eyes, Lili's tears and Xiao's pain…
He strikes Jin. Hard, hurting, deep in his stomach. Jin doubles, a sigh escaping his lips.
Forest freezes.
The red mist is squeezed from his eyes. He wrenches his arm away and curls it into his chest. The old injury creeps into the bone; a shadow of the cruddy, creaking pain.
He stares at the clock.
An hour.
A whole hour.
Jin dusts himself down.
"That was much improved, Mr. Law. I expect that sort of performance each and every night."
Forest says nothing. He's conscious of the knot he's nurtured through the past months, tangled away in his stomach, begin to unravel and fade. The lessening, the release, prickles his eyes and he blinks quickly.
Jin bows. He pads to the door.
Forest looks out towards the windows.
Jin pauses. His hand is held aloft over the handle. The moment passes, and the light click of the door echoes off into nothing.
.
.
.
Every blue moon, they're allowed a day's rest.
The announcement is shoved through his door the following morning. Forest almost feels like collapsing when he sees it. Exhaustion of a more prominent, mental kind dragged his limbs into bed the previous night, but the demons in the dark refused him sleep. He scoffs at the ivory tinted paper when he sees it, but then he sees it is signed by none other than Jin Kazama.
Something large and lumpy rises in his throat. He half crumbles the letter with his fist, and shoves it in his bottom drawer.
At first he thinks of going back to bed, but the day is a dark and grey one and he's sick of the crabby grip of tiredness. Instead, he changes; old jeans and a bulky sweater of plain, homespun knit. He ruffles his hair and sighs. Even for a few, precious daylight hours, the little world of his apartment is his.
Naturally, he cooks.
He brought along with him a small handbook, splattered and stained with various ingredients and the like. It's dotted with all sorts of recipes; from American to Italian to Chinese (and even a bit of Korean, for that one surreal time Hwoarang had demanded him to make Baek's favourite childhood meal.) Forest mixes them up, crafting his own creations, which much to his relief, busies his mind.
"I always liked a man with busy hands."
He smacks his head on the open cupboard.
Nina is leant up against his door frame. She cocks a finely plucked eyebrow as he gabbles a greeting.
"M-Mrs. Williams…"
"Nina." He sees she is dressed in a purple turtle neck and leather trousers; thankfully informal. "At ease, Forest. We're both off duty."
Before he can ask the obvious question, she lifts up her hand and dangles a skeleton key between her fingers.
Forest grimaces.
"I guess if this was a paid job…"
"You would be dead." She clacks further in. Her nostrils pinch at the mixture of smells. "Yes."
"I'm not much of a threat," He smiles as he turns up the oven. Turning on the taps, he starts on the washing up. "You would have no trouble with me."
"I wonder," Her tone is slow and soft as she peers at his self-made recipe book. "After yesterday's actions, I'm not so sure."
Forest chews the inside of his cheek. He clatters the dishes with more gusto than usual, and she sighs and tsks under her breath.
"Anyway," She turns the pages of his book idly. "I have something to ask of you."
"What's that?"
She places a typed page on the table. Forest wipes his hands on his jeans and peers down at it.
"Irish lamb stew?"
"Yes." She wanders further around the kitchen, eyeing each utensil with disinterest. "The gourmet cooks in the Mishima kitchens are useless with peasant food."
Forest sighs and turns back to the sink.
"And you think I'll do any better?"
"I know you will. Jin told me you're a good cook."
Forest's cheeks begin to burn. Triumphant, Nina smirks and taps at the page with her forefinger.
"Also, the potatoes have to be prepared a special way…"
"Colcannon potatoes," Forest's voice; low, quick. "A mixture of mashed potatoes with either kale or cabbage, depending on preference, which are then infused with light seasoning."
A silence. Nina tilts her head, and smiles.
"You are good," She replies. "I'm impressed. And by the way…" She jangles the keys in her left hand as she swivels back towards the door. "I prefer kale. Extra curly. Fresh. Green."
"Noted." He clears his throat as she totters back toward the door. He thinks of her hands on the man's neck, leaving bold, ugly imprints; the careless, callous ease in which she dispatches any that threaten Kazama. And then he thinks of the reflection of his bruised eyes in her powder mirror, and the comments she makes, unaware and offhand, to him in moments of quiet. He coughs. "Nina. Would you like to join me for lunch?"
She emits a short, disbelieving laugh.
However when he turns, she's already sitting down.
.
.
The hapless man has tried his best. Be it plying Jin with fine wines and women, he's exhausted his energies and his vine yards and his personal harem.
"If you would be so kind as to sign."
"B-But this is my life's work! Twenty years of constructing the perfect corporate empire..."
"Ah. And I have merely done it in one. Sign, or face further circumstances that you may find…unfavorable."
Forest's father had always been sneery about the upper classes, the privileged races, those decked out in wealth and ignorance in equal measure. But Forest stares at this stuttering slop of a man, and at the shadow of his family, hovering in the doorframe.
Jin's assimilation of wealth, of land and properties and supplies, seems to be insatiable. Forest stands beside iron fisted bankers, calculating CEOS, monstrous corporate sharks. And more than three quarters of them are reduced to weeping as they sign away their life in ink and paper.
Forest doesn't know much about figures (he guesses quick finger math in his shop shack hardly qualifies) but he can't figure out how, how Jin does this. How with a snap of his fingers another line of chess pieces fall and clatter at his feet. Jin is a dark angel of ruination, of superficial and material loss, and as he sits beside Forest in the helicopter all this secret speculation presses down on Forest's mind like a dark cloud.
It's the fourth time today someone's livelihood has been snatched away from under their nose. Nina is in the cockpit with the pilot. Eddy Gordo, strangely absent, is supervising the buildup of a military operation. Forest is sat in the main bulk of the hull. Jin is sat beside him; in his signature seat, by the window. Forest notes the other empty seats, but forces himself not to dwell on it.
Jin's phone is held to his ear. He speaks in slow flutters of sound; each word so indistinct from its context he could be planning the end of the world and no one would know about it. He finally bids Lars farewell and flicks the phone down into his pocket.
The engine thumps and jolts beneath the floor. Forest, uncomfortable, doesn't dare adjust himself in case of disturbing his superior, but the floor shifts again and jostles both their seats.
Jin's leg presses hard and quick against Forest's thigh. Forest coughs and moves over. The low hum of the engine plays havoc with Forest's head and his head pounds and his stomach turns and god no, not now. He closes his eyes and tries to breath, but when he opens them Jin is boring holes through him with his stare.
"Sometimes," Jin's voice is still stern, still professional, but there is a tangible tendering of his words. Forest shivers. "We have to tear down in order to rebuild."
Forest turns to glare at the opposite window.
"Our methods may seem excessive," His tone hardens at the edges. "But it is for a…purpose."
"There is no doubt of that, sir." Forest's reply is suitably robotic. Jin leans back, the lights in his eyes closing in on themselves. The sky outside the windows is a drifting, cold blue. Hesitant ruffles of clouds grip and break each other with flimsy, powder white hands. Forest opens his mouth, licks his lips, and then closes it again.
"J-Sir," he says quietly, quickly. "May I enquire the reason?"
Jin doesn't respond.
The thrust of his leg against Forest's resumes its pressure. Forest's heart thuds, and he wonders about Jin's chest; that beneath the skin and muscle and curve of bone, whether the space is empty and closed and dark and the only thing that beats there does so out of reluctant necessity.
But he still feels its ensuring, determined pound, through the mask of silk and skin.
.
.
That evening, he returns to his apartment. Somebody has pasted a new rustic recipe to his fridge door. The curvy copperplate is none other than Nina's and he smiles, peeling it off the steel. As he walks into the lounge, he idly switches on the television. He never watched it to begin with, but sometimes there are old comfortable comedies from the forties, overly bright sitcoms from the eighties, cartoons and shopping channels and stupid things, things that are light and willfully ignorant, that offer distraction in differing forms.
It's the news channel. He would switch it off, but the name Rochefort titles the headline and his fingers freeze on the remote.
Mr. Rochefort has collapsed from stress.
The cameras glide around the hospital in callous clusters and he sees Lili. Her hair is in a golden bun pulled too tight, and her eyes are stung from the smog of the city. She looks across the sea of reporters as she marches to a silver capped limo headed by her butler. The door closes and hides her from view.
The resistance has bombed out a Mishima research facility. There are currently five people missing and who they believe are being held as hostages. Names and faces flash in garish lines across the screen and Forest can only stare until the program closes into a commercial break.
His ringtone beeps in slurred strings of monotone until finally, his hands shaking; he lifts it to his ear.
"Your promptness leaves much to be desired," Jin. Composed, collected, as always. "I expect you in the lobby in exactly five minutes."
The dial tone is a dead beat in his ears.
.
.
Streetlamps are weak, watery gashes of light through the limo windows. Nina, sat opposite him, occasionally catches his eye and smirks. Jin's focus is straight ahead; his body taut, his mind set.
Forest's thoughts are troubled, tenuous. He doesn't know why they're here, out at such a late hour. Sleep threatens his eyelids but the atmosphere is so tight and terrible he doesn't dare rest them. Nina crosses her legs and coughs. Her skin holds an alabaster beam beneath the dim overhead light and she seems suddenly translucent, unreal.
Forest wonders if he is dreaming. Whether he'll wake and there he'll be, tucked up in his shabby old room with daylight filtering through the windows and the noise and mutterings of the café below. Or even back in that time, with the man in the basement, deep in the throes of that warm, weathered summer.
Jin's lips quirk. He's staring at Forest, deep into Forest, and it wouldn't surprise him if Jin could strip him right down with that look. Lay his mind bare, vulnerable, to unpick and mull at his leisure.
The limo rolls to a halt.
Warehouses. Warehouses connected to a road buckled and broken from an old bombing.
Forest can't breathe.
He can't.
He can't.
.
.
The ruckus outside is deafened by the concealing block of double glazing. Orange red lights streak through cracks in the blacked out windows, dusting Forest's knees in bloody pipelines. They slide over the carpet, over the richly stitched leather, the perfectly honed angles of Jin's face. Nina has long since stepped out, in a bid to aid and head the troops.
Jin cradles his head on his fist. The brandy he's poured himself is untouched. Forest wonders if the burning brunt of it will wake him up.
A gun shot. Something small and hard rummages into the window. Forest jumps; he can't help it. Jin finally reaches for his drink; observes it held between his fingers, and sips.
A tirade of bullets emits a series of deepening dents on the side of the car. Forest can detect shouts, screams, the thunk of sprawling bodies on the sidewalk. Jin opens his phone and checks his messages.
Another voice; rough, thick Korean slurs. More cracks and creaks on the pavement.
Forest lowers his head into his hands. Runs his fingers through the edges of his salt speckled hair.
"Forest."
He freezes.
Jin's phone closes in a short, violent snap.
Jin pours another glass of brandy. He holds it out towards him.
Forest takes it. He has no intention to drink it. Brandy is a strong, blunt taste, but Jin crosses his arms and watches Forest. Just watches him.
He's damned his own politeness before, but Forest bows his head in thanks, and bracing himself, lifts it to his lips.
It isn't brandy. At first, he isn't sure what it is. It's a strange, seasoned flavor, herbal and tangy, but bitter, clear, bold. It rushes straight to his head and he reels in an instinctive cough.
"What is…?"
"An herbal drink," Jin's response is deft, disinterested. "From my childhood."
He keeps watch until the glass is finally drained empty in Forest's hand, and Forest's head spins with the indomitable effects of the "herbs."
The limo rocks sideways, almost propelling Forest out of his chair. From outside, a fury bound roar. Another powerful blow cracks the glass from the inside and Jin finally lowers his glass, stares at the place where the damage was stuck, and his eyes narrow.
"Your weakness acts as a distraction," He begins, chewing out each word, and Forest's temper begins to fray. He pauses, rubbing his chin. His next words are as immediate and striking as the bullets outside. "Get rid of it."
"Forgive me for not possessing the natural response of switching off my conscience," The rim of Forest's glass splinters, splitting skin and drawing blood. "Unfortunately, we can't all be like you."
"Alas." Jin responds coolly. "If the world was like me, there would no need for this." He raises his hand and gestures his palm toward the unseen carnage outside.
"What's happened to you?"
"I've merely grown wiser. Have I really changed that much, Forest?"
His name. A gentle weight on Jin's lips. He should be used to it by now, should have immunized himself to its ability to disarm his reasons, his anger, but he never changes. His father always pointed out how stunted his development was, so how wasn't it true?
Forest weakens; sighs, and slumps his shoulders.
"You're doing this for a reason," He desperately tries to soothe the aching spaces between his eyes. "You…you always did everything for a reason. I can't believe you just…started something like this merely for the sake of it."
A ringing. Empty, toneless, heard only to Forest's ears, but the figure opposite seems to tauten. The time trickles like water between them.
Jin reaches into his jacket. He pulls out a small, blunted instrument, dark and black and heavy. Forest flinch is sharp and stricken as Jin calmly holds it out to him.
It was one thing he had never been assigned.
"It is necessary," The shadows outline the dark beneath Jin's eyes. "It is merely a means to an end."
I don't want it.
But it's not an order; it's an offer. But Jin is not offering him the gun; he is giving him the illusion of choice. The gravitas of the inky shades of shadow ply in from all the unlit corners and slide beneath Forest's flesh.
As he takes it, he expects it to be cold, but it is warmed from the heat of Jin's body and the revelation shocks him.
Jin's other hand closes over the gun, over the mild shake of Forest's fingers.
"I'm surprised, Forest," he adds softly. "That you do not sense the change in yourself."
From outside, another gunshot.
And then, finally, silence.
.
.
The moonlight is steamed silver off the bold terracotta of Hwoarang's hair. He's on his knees; hands bound behind him, the crook of his jeans soaked with blood and sweat and rainwater. Three grunts circle him, rifles in hand and pointed to the base of his skull.
Forest would have wondered how they got the Blood Talon on his knees, let alone to surrender, but Baek Doo San is being restrained nearby. There is a blossoming flower of red on his jacket, straining through and opening like a widening plaque sore. He gasps and writhes, sweat settled between his temples, but his face becomes composed and cold at the appearance of Jin.
The other members of the group are scattered about; some in custody, some unconscious, most dead. The pavement is awash in a sea of crumbled bodies, crushed by bullets and warfare. The surrounding landscape is a blink of red lights and sirens, courtesy of military vehicles and relief squads. Jin calmly steps through this; Forest follows with his head high, his body rigid. The shadows spread within him and he imagines his skin being glossed with steel.
The warehouses crowd in like huge, industrious tombstones and cloak each and every line in Jin's face. He glances sideways at Hwoarang, bypassing a glare of inflamed manila, and beckons to Nina. They draw their heads together and he whispers something in her ear. She nods to the surrounding troops, who salute in that same, spooky unison and shove the struggling survivors into the backs of the armored vans.
It barely takes a second for Hwoarang to shake off his captors.
A spiraling high kick, headed for Jin's neck.
Nina Williams is a blur. She catches his leg, bringing the weight under her, and Forest knows that when she has him at the right angle, she will embark on a quick, agonizing break. But Hwoarang scoffs; his other leg whips up, bracing itself on her chest, and the ensuring clout sends her flying. She crashes into the tarmac; rolls back on her feet, but one hand is grappling at her breast and Forest can see she is badly winded.
Forest's job is just to be another body, another barrier. And he hasn't felt pain in a long time. Not the kind that rips through your body; makes your nerves scream and your eyes water.
Hwoarang pulls his leg back in a warning stance, eyes slitting dangerously at Forest's approach. He's a wild, wronged animal, set free from a cage where the very bars are welded with fire.
Jin's arm blocks Forest's path.
"Sir?"
"You're a coward, Kazama," Hwoarang lowers his leg, eyes ablaze. "Hiding behind body guards? Pathetic. Afraid I'm gonna beat you again?"
Jin's whisper is uncharacteristically dangerous.
"Are you still as blind as you've ever been?"
Forest and Nina exchange glances. She grips her stomach, staggers, and half smirks as Forest slips his arm around her shoulders.
"Yeah." Hwoarang cracks his knuckles, but there is a frayed, frantic edge to the action. "If you hadn't been so damn weak as to give into the beast in your blood."
Forest begins to sense something. He isn't quite sure what it is, if it's anything at all, but the wind begins to pick up, casting a chilly, cutting breeze on his face. He shivers, trying to shake it off, but it continues to blow in bouts of agitated air.
"This whole resistance was pointless." Quiet. Low. Cruel. Too solid, too smooth and pointed. "But you have provided us with a possible link to who has been leaking information from our data files. But as of now..."
"You're just like your father," Incorrigible, ignorant, idiotic Hwoarang. "Remember when you used to preach peace? All that self-apologetic shit, but in the end..."
"You must step down, or the consequences..."
"You're a goddamn monster. You might have had hope once, back when you used to spew all that Momma's boy crap, but now you're just like..."
"Enough." A warning of warm liquid amber, swanning in the hard dark circle of Jin's irises. His voice chipped with ice. "Enough."
Hwoarang loves to unveil blue, fleshy strings of nerves; pluck and torture them with the jagged ends of his nails. Strip a person down to their base and challenge their very essence to a duel. But Jin's pity, if he ever had any, is near vanquished and he's broken the spirits of so many, down to the most powerful, prestigious governments, so what chance does Hwoarang have?
Jin silently orders Baek forward. The gun barrel is placed firmly between his eyes.
Hwoarang's face pales.
"Enough." Jin's eyes are as brown and moist as earth. "Surrender."
There is no other choice. Forest distances himself from Baek's searching gaze and looks to the murk of the sky, and a moon driven red with bloodshed.
There was never any choice.
.
.
When they return to headquarters, it's past midnight. Forest is frazzled with an overly exhausted energy, which he hopes will thankfully flicker and fail before his head hits the pillow. Tomorrow, they have to be up early. Something about an investigation in Egypt.
As they stand in the elevator, Nina steps out at her floor. She steadily appraises her superior as the doors slide shut.
As the elevator rises them up, up, towards the polished and lonely caverns of Forest's quarters, he reaches into his pocket and hands Jin the gun.
Jin silently raises an eyebrow and takes it. Forest feels the tension in his shoulders loosen, but then Jin turns it over in his hands and lowers his head.
"I feel it." His finger dusts the trigger, the barrel, the turn of the handle. His voice is suddenly breathless, heightened into a crisp, urgent whisper. "It's moving now. I know it."
Forest shifts uncomfortably.
"Sir?"
Jin looks up, as if remembering Forest, and his lips move in a shadow of his old smile. Forest's chest tightens at the sight.
"Everything…" His hand closes into a fist. His eyes glaze. "Everything is in motion."
The elevator doors clink open at Forest's floor. Forest swallows hard, his eyes still on Jin.
"Jin?"
Jin's hand falls slowly down to his side.
"Mr. Law. I believe this is your floor."
Below them, beneath brick and rock and metal and plastic, the last smoking remains of the resistance are dragged behind bars of steel and strife. Sweat dampens Forest's brow.
The corridor is a blackened length of nothing but the light in the elevator is dim and artificial, odd and stinging to his eyes, but an ungodly sensation is crushing his chest and he can't physically move.
The men and women below may wonder if they are in hell.
Hwoarang…
He doesn't want sleep to claim his eyes, he just doesn't…
Jin draws closer to him as the doors ride together and shield him from the corridor, the darkness, the doubt.
To Forest, Jin is a walking shadow, swelling and spilling near him, toward him, over him, in him.
The elevator ascends to the top floor.
