His slick, pointed hair punched a hole ever turning as he walked away, his only direction. Its' darting procedure to otherwise foes showed them their state as anathema to him, a grim reminder of the broken arm their friend just received.

He left the alley, undaunted, prompting that she asked him, "Just going to leave him like that?"

He pulled his shades off to mutter only countenance to her, stating yes. At this the chapter began, the two leaving on their motorcycle. Leaving behind them was his skirmish with a brigand in the streets of Okinawa, one who was wielding a knife and thinking little of the slim man who put him in disrepair. A look in his eyes mattered through his motorcycle helmet, burning fire as if to wake her up from the dream of these two leaving on the bike through Japan.

The piercing shadows were there, but so was the fiery blaze: she was awake in the sweat of her panting, something to the chagrin of an alarm clock not even reached in its' target. In her eyes was fear of the devil, but it bid her to a calm when she realized it was just a nightmare.

A few hours later she was downstairs as her oldest sister watched Fuse France and her youngest ate cereal. It was a cloudy morning in Paris, the essence of European rain possible for a day that didn't look of cloudburst. As she moaned through her empire of fatigue, D'elle was making certain that she was not in the talking mood. The former sister turned to see her younger, standing up to go over and hug her. She asked her sister if everything was alright, saying, "I heard you scream, but assumed it… was…"

In solemn and slow reply, she said, "… The devil, again." This alone prompted the youngest to come to her and join the embrace, saying, "I love you. No one's burning that in hell."

Slow to her gab, D'elle stated, "It's not the hell that's scary… it's that he's real."

The eldest of the three said, "We know. That's what we're here for."

Pulling away, Alané the youngest punched her right fist into her left open palm and said, "We've got this! There's no way we can't find him!"

"And kill him, right?", Essé the eldest closed out laughing. All three were laughing and from there D'elle said, "You guys are nuts. You know that?"

Alané pulled over the box of cereal and said, "Honey nuts."

All of a sudden there appeared on the television an ad glimmering dialogue, "The King of Iron Fist Tournament starts here!"

As quick as it was on the television they pulled to it and from there their attention was fixed like a prize wanting its' victor. As they stared into it, D'elle could only rapture herself in the knowledge that her dark dream would soon be over for all of humanity.

IRON FIST: TEKKEN

By Beyond Birthday 69/Shad73

(Jessica appears as credit from 'Sephi')

Her name was D'elle Haim, a resident of Paris, France who lived with her two sisters Alané and Essé. Unlike her sisters she was not a practicing Muslim, but she of the three of them most clairvoyantly received visions that they shared as siblings. What they were in touch with was not shared by humans other than themselves, at least not immediately.

It has often been said that in religious cultures essences divided along lines of light and dark would be drawn from the same place in the human spirit. These could be used to summon from the spirit world light or dark energy or even beings that personified themselves according to how that same human perceived the realm of the godly. These three sisters shared the essence of a being standing most as the antithetical counterpoint to the possessor of the Devil Gene, one which was originated from forbidden practices of Japanese Oni worship.

The origins of these girls' powers was a mystery to even themselves, the energy they shared as Sister Haim reminding them perhaps more of Christian sainthood or even the angelic than of their native Islam. Notwithstanding this, D'Elle's ability to greet Jew, Christian and Muslim alike as brothers and sisters was surprising considering her affirming stance in atheism. Prior to her inauguration as a more spiritually-powered fighter her visits on YouTube to Richard Dawkins and Christopher Hitchens were differently and loudly followed, when talking to herself afterward; now her visits come with silence until the day she has killed the man most devil.

As D'Elle boarded the train by herself she was reading the French version of a book called The Day We Began by Meredith Wingaersheek, a self-help text on the nature of accepting change: though she was often cynical about this type of literature she was willing to happen on any less cynicism than she as a millennial often had. The passage for the day of September 5th read as follows.

"While I can't presume any religious persuasions herein lying with the reader, I can often encourage that where there is a higher power (even if it's one's self) there is a belief in absolute truth. Sometimes our truth is shattered by events externally that become internalized and emotional traumas, such as make us calloused and hardened to the world without.

"We learn to close ourselves off from trusting new people and making new friends, things that are a component of life we can only be happy with if we love ourselves first. As we wake up in the morning we find ourselves with the heaviness of the past, knowing that if the sun doesn't shine we'll slip once again into those depressions and dry spells of dissatisfaction that only begins with ourselves. The truth is that we are never born with these dissatisfactions and can learn to shake them off with the religious component I am getting at: faith.

"Do you have faith in somebody? Do you have faith in a friend, or a family member that loves you? Make every effort to spend more time with them and don't be afraid of faith that one day you will be healed. Make sure it's even the least faith you have, because that will be as a mustard seed for ages to come. When you are faithful again, the old parts will slip away and create a most beautiful pair of butterfly wings. I can't pray for you like you can, but that's where I pray as writer what I am capable of. Go out and enjoy the world and most importantly, thank you for listening."

Somehow, this was making her happier and a little voice from above said, "Excuse me, miss?"

Looking up she said to him, "Bonjour, how can I help?"

This young African-American with dreadlocks said to her, "May I ask you… Do you know where Marshall's Law is located?"

This made her look with instant happiness upon a charming young man with the biggest smile she ever saw. Before she answered she asked, "Before I answer, can I come with you? That's where I'm headed."

This young man from Compton, California was a surefire cherub of excitable joy; the slight lowering of his willful eyes indicated a depth and sincerity that was proven by years of war for the underground of his very soul, making this a more instant appeal to D'Elle Haim as they walked off the train.

At Marshall's Law Restaurant they were walking towards the entrance like two friends the lifelong; Marshall's was a stead located in San Francisco's Chinatown, somewhere she could visit through her reluctant use of magic and a state he already lived. It was America she often intended to escape to the most, because she could not be understood. However, it was situations like this her wonder of another world got the best of her and revealed how capable of communicating she actually was.

As they took a seat she said, "So Kendrick, do you come here often?"

He said, "Well, I am training to go into the King of Iron Fist Tournament. I'm traveling under the name I use for battle rapping, 'Proof.'"

"'Proof?' Isn't that the name of Eminem's dead friend from D12?"

"That's why I add 'Worth' at the beginning, form my full name. Kendrick Cepé Worthington."

"… 'Cepé'... are you French in ancestry?"

He replied with a teasing poke of his nose, suddenly ushering in a sentence fusing Haitian Creole and French to confuse the young lady like no one else's business. She approximated, "Haitian, rather. Sorry."

He stated, "Well, actually, I'm not Haitian, but my great uncle is. I'm mainly African, but I have practiced Creole phrases and French to win over cute ladies like yourself."

"Get out", she teasingly deflected. It was clear that they both thought each other were cool, Kendrick clowning her with his charismatic and jovial banter and her seeming unusually at odds with her often reserved demeanor. She then said, "So you're 'Worth Proof?'"

With his little hands tossing up he said, "Proof. Worth Proof. I go by these names interchangeably."

"Why do I get the feeling that you're in the tournament for something… important?"

Smiling with a quick glance he asked, "What?"

"Oh, I just wonder. Why do I feel like you are in this for… for the right reasons?"

It was here he could remark at an instant her intellect regarding the King of Iron Fist. The founder of the tournament Heihachi Mishima had a rumored ill repute for inside actions of his Mishima Zaibatsu that provoked government curiosity, such as ties afforded to syndicated crime that provoked umbrage where applicable. This was certainly no different in California, where the Bloods and Pirus were capable of affording weapons now bigger than their usual semis. California's disaster couldn't be touched without the multinational infrastructure that Heihachi himself had. Payoffs and government briberies were the least of these.

Kendrick said, "My dear, we're all in it for something bigger. It's Heihachi we're talking about."

She leaned in to say to him, "I'm in it…"

This turned to a whisper as her words became, "… to kill his son."

Falling away from the other side of the table, he asked, "He has a son? What's his name?"

With hesitancy she revealed, "Veiji."

For a few seconds he was thinking to himself and then he said, "Lemme guess. Instead of those two hair-pointies that Heihachi got, he got one like that motherfucker Vegeta!"

Both of them were instantly dying laughing, himself standing up at the table like a little king of the hill and bellowing the Rock the Dragon theme quietly, "'Dragon Ball Z!', my…"

Like that their food arrived and she said, "We'll talk more after the Rangoon. Want some chicken dumplings?"

Taking up his spoon, he said to her comically, "Baby, I'm gonna butter your bread."

"Los Angeles… Los Angeles, Los Angeles, Los Angeles."

The wall slams and like so, he states, "My name is Smith Myers. I am the head of the Shi No Geijutsu division of the United National Karate Study in Los Angeles and I am pissed off. That Japanese name I just gave you? That's the style of karate I teach and it is not some toy for a competition."

Letting go of his student's gi, he furthered his speech saying, "We avoided that bastard Heihachi's stupid devices until today, when some idiot had to go dress in a fucking Mohawk and act like he was speaking for all of us. I'm about to change that and when I'm done with him, I am leaving the competition. They can keep the prize money."

As he circled the room a bit further from where he stood, his student said, "I know how you feel: what kind of doofus calls himself 'Art of Dying?' As an alias? He must think he's Armor King, or something."

Another of Smith's students said, "I never got why there were two Kings. What's next, a third King?"

This speech alone not the aggravator, Smith yelled, "Enough! I just want that bastard back here in one piece so I can show him what the real art of dying is."

Smith was obviously very perturbed that his own pupil John Heather could walk so callously into the heart of a competition that was always avoided by the Shi No Geijutsu school. Like a tall tower of hearty muscle, this long-haired red raven of a man was contemplating his trek to the heart of the competition, one he forbid for so long to his students. He often declared how the person who fought in Tekken from his division would be exiled from the school, given his attitude's contrast to the greater liberality and acceptance of the competition of the UNKS. With that said, he yelled, "Jessica! Get down here!"

-Fin