"Interference"

Legal Material: All DarkStalkers references are copyright Capcom, Inc. 1994. All obvious references to his work are copyright Chuck Palahniuk. Leon Reinhardt is copyright the author.

Author's Note: This has ZERO continuity with any of my other DarkStalkers stories.

Suggested Listening: "Passive" by A Perfect Circle

Part I: Instigation

"Wake up and face me.

Don't play dead, 'cause maybe

Someday I'll walk away and say,

'You fuckin' disappoint me;

Maybe you're better off this way.'"

-Maynard J. Keenan of A Perfect Circle

1:34 A.M.

1998 A.D.

New Orleans, Louisiana

U.S.A.

Calling Bowden's a hole in the wall would have been giving the tavern a little too much credit. Half of the neon light fixtures that adorned the windows were out of order or flickered so much that to stare at them too long would have put anyone at risk for an epileptic seizure. At the entrance the second step from the top was always slippery with some substance whose identity was probably better off not being pondered. The severity of the condition of the last stall in the men's room was best left to the imagination, but for those in whom creativity was lacking, the smell alone provided more than enough inspiration. The patrons who frequented the establishment the most, however, didn't care in the least. Bowden's had a large basement and an owner who shared their philosophy: that was all that mattered. This simple arrangement made possible the founding of the New Orleans chapter of Fight Club. Every night after closing time, a decently-sized group of disenchanted middle- and lower-class citizens crept silently through the backyard of the residence behind the bar, jumped the rickety chain link fence that separated the property, and descended single file into the harshly lit cellar. Once inside, the rules were read for anyone who was new, and the night's fights were laid out accordingly. When the dust settled, everyone left strangely satisfied and easily able to handle calmly and rationally any bullshit with which he was confronted during the week, be it at work or at home. Even the guys who would have needed reconstructive surgery to look like they hadn't been hit by a Mack truck on the way to the office came back for more. To be certain, Fight Club wasn't about venting all of one's anger and frustrations through violence—that was just a bonus. The real purpose of it was to assemble those who were fed up with the rat race and wanted to find some sort of enlightenment. Eventually, every single one of them reached the same depressing conclusion regarding their stations in life, and in an even shorter span of time they figured out, more importantly, that this granted them a brand new sense of autonomy. No longer were they bound by society's expectations to pursue the so-called "American Dream." Leave that to the hot shot lawyers in Los Angeles, the Wall Street financial wizards in New York, and all the other deluded fools in between, who if ever got the chance would rather that proletarians like them didn't even exist. But what the upper crust didn't like to think about was the fact that they needed people to take all those "lower" positions. More frightening to them still was the stereotypical uprising scenario that would undoubtedly take place if the working class ever completely united in purpose. So the rich built themselves luxurious mansions in gated communities and generally did their best to isolate themselves from those whom they deemed as inferior in social status, taking comfort in the monumental odds against some sort of revolution on the part of the working man. Little did they know that the mechanisms for such an event were already being assembled right under their supercilious noses.

Leon Reinhardt understood all of this. What troubled him was his inability to pinpoint the real reason why he, as a DarkStalker, had chosen to align himself with this particular institution of thought. Sure, the fights were great for honing the combat skills of his human form. But what was it about Fight Club that attracted him so strongly? He mulled this quandary over in his head for what had to have been the hundredth time as he ran towards his destination. Pulling open the doors to the basement, he was met by a disconcerting silence. The hell…? He called out a greeting. "Hey, guys, sorry I'm late. How's it going, Ray?" He raised his hand to shake with his contemporary, who stood like all the others as though hypnotized by an object far in the distance.

"They can't hear you," a smooth, seductive feminine voice spoke up from the shadows.

Leon spun to face its owner, a cold knot of fear beginning to form in his stomach as his senses verified the presence of another Dark One. Oh, shit…. Whoever this crazy broad is, she could ruin everything. Stay cool, just stay cool, damn it. "I'm afraid that this is a private gathering, Miss…"

"Aensland. Morrigan Aensland." She filled in as smoothed back her blue-green hair. "And it would be in your best interest not to take this meeting lightly, Thomas 'Leon' Reinhardt."

"Really?" he replied with a condescending smile, though inwardly his confidence was shaken when he heard her name. He'd only gathered up bits and pieces about this "Lady Morrigan," all of them less than complementary in nature. "And why is that?"

"Because once our business is through, you may or may not be in possession of your life."

"Oooooh, the not-so-thinly veiled death threat." Leon threw his hands up in the air in mock fright. "Like I don't get that or worse once a week…anyway, the name of our little organization is kinda misleading. If you came here expecting Mortal Kombat, you're at the wrong pla-."

The DarkStalker was interrupted by the slish-shunt of sharp metal tearing through flesh and then bone. Leon's countenance turned visibly lighter in color as he took in what had happened a split-second before. Lodged in either side of Sully Dugas's skull was what appeared to be a black flexible harpoon. It withdrew behind Aensland's back as quickly as it had struck, and the dead man's body toppled onto the cement floor with a sickening thud. Reinhardt's shock faded almost immediately and was replaced by a burning rage. Sully had a wife and a kid, and they were good people. As if swatting a common fly, she had robbed his family of him forever. Leon's anger personified itself in the form of an unearthly howl as he allowed the Darkness that tainted his body to emerge. He could feel the tissue in his muscles being ripped apart and healing over ten times stronger, while a thick coat of black and platinum fur pushed through his pores, covering him entirely and reducing his shirt to shreds. His usually bitten nails extended to form finely honed claws capable of slicing through nearly anything. At certain points in his body, particularly his face, spine, and legs, the bones either cracked or dissolved and then calcified to shape his lycanthropic form. His eyes, now an eerie crimson, cast a menacing glare of unadulterated hatred at his newfound enemy.

"I think it's safe to say that I have your undivided attention now," Aensland stated with a content smirk. "That being the case, we can begin your lessons for tonight."

"Your arrogance is stifling," Leon growled as he rolled his neck with a gratifying cr-crack and pulled the belt off his navy blue cargo pants. After tossing the item aside, he fell back into his ready posture, reverse arm up about neck-height with palm out to deflect high blows and lead arm bent at the elbow, angled to protect his ribs. His legs rested about shoulder-length apart, and he kept his weight on his toes to maximize his reaction time. "Allow me to remedy that unfortunate personality flaw."