Disclaimer – Don't own Tekken.
Just a little story I quickly whipped up to accommodate the occasion.
Happy Halloween!
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Spectre
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Lili.
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The rolling hillsides are bright, glistening green beneath the failing autumnal sun. The beckoning cover of night had brought with it a chilling wind, and Lili had buried herself in fur and flounce in an attempt to keep warm.
She wets her cracking lips; shivers, and roots in her handbag for her lip balm. Beyond the limo window, she observes the day withering into indigo dusk. She never cared much for the frugal enclosures of the Japanese countryside. The high rises of the grassy mountains cast fearful shadows across the padding of her limo floor and the hills themselves, mighty and otherly in the dark, hold all the gravitas of sleeping giants.
"Ms. Lili?"
She jumps, her lip balm smearing across her cheek, and her retort is a little too sharp.
"Sebastian, please…"
Her butler nods his head and coughs. Beneath the dimming hue of the car light, she spots the skin stretched taut over the crumbling bone of his fingers and naturally, she feels guilty.
She misses the hot glitter of Monaco, the sea and surf and the bittersweet tang of salt. When night hits, the dark is alive with light and magic. Here, the shadows shudder with silence and the isolation of distance. It is beautiful, of course, but its beauty is swallowed by its scope. Sebastian had claimed the intimate, social prettiness of Monaco couldn't touch it, but to her it is cold and vast and sort of ghastly.
The road closes in and suffocates the blear of their car light. The highway becomes tight, arching, swerving through labyrinth passages and she begins to worry about Sebastian.
The road they turn into is more constricted then the others. Darker, if that is possible. The mountains huddle in closer, as if trying to devour the air itself. Lili narrows her eyes and squints through the mist. The trees on the opposite roadside seem to have been layered with what looks like a heavy, shimmering gauze.
There's a shape.
She isn't sure what it is. The car seems to slow down, laboring through some bizarre stretch of time, and the tinny drone of the radio becomes a drunken, dangerous slur in her ears.
It's a bike. Or what remains of a bike. It's a twisted, burning wreck, metal wound in tortured shapes, flames licking up and highlighting the dark of the trees behind.
Something rises behind it.
It hobbles, dragging itself toward the window, for her eyes turn down and she sees the leg is bent at an unnatural angle. The figure draws to its full height, swaying on its one good leg, and she sees it's a boy. Its shoulders clench and fall, as if breath hails a fresh death with each intake. His hair, even through the darkness, burns toxic scarlet. On his crown there is a pair of smashed goggles, and with a wrench of horror, she sees the glass has been jammed deep into the skull. He fumbles in his pocket; still dilatorily making his way toward the window. A cigarette pulled up to ruined lips. A snatch of flame illuminates his face, and then the inside of it, for his left cheek has been ripped away, in crusts of blood and bone and rotting tissue.
But his eyes.
The wrecked flesh contorts as he smirks.
He thumbs up, in a parody of a hitchhiker, and then the car splutters to life and there is light and radio and the jolt of the floor beneath her feet and she is uncharacteristically silent for the rest of the trip.
When Sebastian opens the limo door, he has to dive and gather up his mistress in his arms, for she has fainted dead away.
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Forest.
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He'd always hated this damn journey.
The hotel was cheap, but traditional, housed in the middle of the mist covered mountains. They'd done the trip before when he was younger, but that was in the sanctuary of Dad's beaten up old beetle and the bright light of day. The instructions Paul had given him were packed up in his backpack, but that was strapped in the bike's locker and the night was pulling in fast.
He felt unsure on the bike. It was a dented old Harley, but it still felt too big, too powerful, to sit beneath uneasy hands. Or maybe it wasn't the bike that made him uneasy. The trees were encroaching monsters in the deepening shadows and the road was narrow, slippery from rain.
Typical Dad. He was always pinching pennies, even if it meant them bunking in some worm eaten hotel in the middle of nowhere, if only to spare a buck.
Thunder rumbled overhead.
Forest blew his hair out of his eyes.
Shit.
Up ahead, he noted an old street shrine. It was something he'd always seen, back when they'd braved these roads when he was a kid. It had been broken for as long as he could remember. The side of it was all crumpled in, as if having taken a strong blow a few years back. The stone statue inside was split and broken.
Somehow, the longer he focused on it, the slower his wheels seemed to turn. Hissing beneath his breath, he urged the engine on, but it spat out one last splutter and rolled to a stop.
What the…?
Forest swung himself off; rolled the bike to the side, and inspected the engine. He expected the exhaust to scald his hands but it was freezing to the touch. Yelping, he hugged his hand to his chest. The freshly birthed moon cradled itself behind the sudden, sweeping gauze of mist and Forest blinked, trying to usher it away with his hand.
"You lost?"
A pair of boots was approaching, crunching in the dank matter of the undergrowth, and Forest felt relief swell in his chest.
"Yeah." Forest wiped the rainwater off the saddle, and sighed. "My bike has broken down."
"Heh." The figure paused behind him. Forest knelt down and once again peered desperately at the engine. The voice was a strange one; a slick and sardonic drawl, and Forest wasn't sure if he liked the sound of it. "Did you crash it?"
"I think it would be more busted up," Forest responded lightly. "No, it just rolled to a halt and decided that was that."
The footsteps padded further around the bike, and there was the sudden rattling squeak of his wing mirror being pulled back.
"This is a Harley, right? Not bad."
"Glad you think so."
"Heh. Mine is better."
"What's yours, then?"
"Custom made. Personal masterpiece."
Forest, despite the wet soaking through his jeans, has having a hard time rising to his feet and facing his visitor. It was stupid really, but the fog was clawing its way into the surrounding woods and its density was so heavy he could barely make out the outline of the exhaust pipe.
"Shit." His legs were stiff, damp, but he finally managed to stand. "This is bad. This fog has swallowed my ride home."
There was silence all around and he wondered if the guy had decided to slip off, before…
"I think you can risk it." Breath. Hot, rancid, tickling the back of his ear. The stink of burning metal and decay. "We all need a bit of adventure, hm?"
"What the…"
The night was as clear as water, the air as sweet and fresh as nectar. The bike rumbled gently beside him and there was not a soul to be found on the dark length of road.
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Baek.
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He only visits in the day, when the sky is blue and clean and kind. The woodland rustles with wildlife and the breeze is a slight weight on his sagging cheeks.
He lays the flowers on the wooden skeleton of the shrine. The thorns of the roses prick the ends of the fingers, blooming bulbs of blood on his old hands, and he leaves quickly for there is stillness in the wind and the trees above poise in frigid anticipation.
The man leans on his stick as he limps away. Age will finally crush him into dust and soon he will be nothing but sleeping particles on the sticky residue of soil.
A shadow bleeds from the back of the shrine, spilling out into the grass shielded from the sun. It watches the old man until he is nothing but a memory whispering amongst the leaves.
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Forest.
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He was sure he'd seen the hotel in the distance. The lights, now not far off, were a cozy blink in the blight of the returning fog.
He was starving. Dad had promised a new recipe, and god forbid he hoped it wasn't egg fried rice with the spicy French sauce. His tongue hadn't quite survived that last bout…
The comforting hulk of the hotel shrank and shriveled in the icy mesh of the mist. The lovingly tended lights become darker, hued with blazing orange and red and his nostrils pinched with the stink of oil and fire.
Then he saw it.
The shrine was a savagely splintered husk. Tire tracks were scrounged deep into the tarmac like ugly, jagged scars and on the left side, near the trees, a bike had flipped and crashed headlong amongst the sprawling walls of vegetation.
Shit.
He threw his bike sideways, forcefully grinding to a halt, even if the tires screeched like banshees at the impact. He knew he had a first aid bag in his back, but this looked really, really bad and damn…
A milky film seemed to settle over his eyes, obscuring the scene from view. Swearing, he shook his head, as if to dislodge the illusion.
But the road was empty. The only light was the paltry glare of the stars.
At the end of the road an old, half destroyed shrine stood idle and ghostly in the moonlight.
Forest nearly blew out half the engine as he rammed down on the gas.
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Lei.
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This is basic protocol. Just closing another chapter in the casebook. Finally putting any old suspicions to rest. It's as I say, Lei thinks to himself. Basic protocol.
His partner had filled him in on the details. A bad accident. One of the worst he'd ever seen. Stupid kids. Stupid punks, riding dangerously and throwing their lives away for cheap thrills. And his partner had added, between coffees and out of date digestives, with a kind of ghoulish glee, how mutilated the body had been.
Gee, you should have seen the young man. All crumpled and crushed beneath that great bulk of a machine. Good thing he didn't live, I say. Apparently he was a heartthrob before all that shit. Well, after we dragged him out, he wasn't a pretty sight, let's just say that.
It's a wasted exercise. There isn't much to see out here. He circles the area, scribbling down notes of little importance. An upturned leaf. Hiding a murder weapon, perhaps? He smiles to himself. Nothing to see here. A base accident, and little more.
He pauses outside the shrine, and his smile melts away.
A sorry state of affairs. No family to mourn the boy, no friends to connect him to anything; just a listless, restless soul, like so many he shackled on a daily basis.
He sighs as he folds his notebook and shoves it in his jacket pocket.
The boy was a classic case of textbook delinquent. Bad company, bad ties. Fights. Petty thievery. Consumption of illegal substances. Reckless behavior.
Lei tsks.
You reap what they sow.
The sun is low in the sky as he packs up. As he slams down the boot of the car, he's faintly aware of a strange, drizzly vapor descending on the air. It dampens the base of his spine, sending tingling shivers scuttling up his back, and he coughs and rolls his shoulders.
He reaches for the handle of his car.
A click. The car lights flash. The doors lock, and the key, now firmly stuck in the door, breaks off in his hand.
A flutter of movement by the old shrine.
The trees hunch over the road, as if in mourning. The sun blurs and dies on the horizon in a bloody mess.
A tall shadow is seated below the trees. He fiddles with a cigarette between the calloused, cut edges of his fingers. He lifts his head, and smirks at Lei. One hand reaches up and supports his left cheek, for the split skin flaps low and loose and the maimed jaw is nearly unhinged.
His voice. Clear, confident, cruel.
"You got a light?'
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Forest.
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The mist fell about Forest in glittering, grey spades of damp and dark. The road was as black as treacle, the wheels lodged deep in what felt like the sharp turn of a spinning wheel.
There were no trees, no mountains to be seen now; just an ongoing line of cursed concrete and holy hell was he even moving?
Around and around he went, as futile as a hamster on a wheel.
A light blasted through the fog. Another bike zoomed in close behind, and he heard a faint, ecstatic yell crawl along the breeze.
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Hwoarang.
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He hopes the wind can drive the brunt of humiliating moisture from his eyes. His master's words ring in his ears in all their ruthless, rigorous glory and he will, will prove him wrong.
It's a foggy night, laced with a crisp cold, and he grits his teeth against the icy onslaught of the mist. The chill gusts through his thin jacket, and he's sure that'll be another thing Master will scold him for.
The mist is deep. Deeper than he first thought, and he squints his eyes to see through it.
A hut like structure comes into view. An street shrine, by the looks of it. Nothing special. A dime a dozen in Japan.
But he hasn't seen it until now.
He slams on the brakes, but the road is slippery and sodden with ice. He hammers into the side of the shed, the bike hurtling up, up, up. The world turns and he smashes face first on the ground and is hauled beneath the bike as it skids toward the undergrowth.
Flames crackle and spit beneath the dying engine.
Short, shallow breaths.
And then nothing.
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Forest
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The young man was level with him now. The roar of his bike was like the howl of a wounded beast.
On the wind, the hollering of wild laughter.
Forest wanted to shout back, to berate and scream, but his tongue was a numb weight in his mouth.
The other driver pulled in closer.
One side of the man's face; devastatingly handsome. The other, beaten and bloodied beyond human recognition.
He smirked, and revved his engine in challenge. His voice was a low, elated hiss.
"It's been so long since I've had a proper race."
The mist swarmed in and suffocated, like the clutch of oblivion.