A short Jun drabble I wrote on holiday a week ago.
I'm going to try and make a real effort to get back into this fandom. With the release of Tekken Tag 2, I've been propelled by some new inspiration and a desire to complete some more stories. I'm also itching to bang some more life into Idiosyncratic, and have begun to plan/draft the fourth chapter. I've got some serious catch up reading to do aswell.
Note – This fic is based in the vague universe of TT2. Therefore it is completely non-canon.
Disclaimer- I don't own Tekken.
Witness
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She observes, from within the gaggles of contesters and blood fresh and old. She is struck by the blur of colours that flee past her in a garish sweep. She hears the ugly swell of sound from overhead speakers, which bursts like audio plaque. This world...to return to it once more, to feel her old fighting gloves curl around the bruises on her knuckles, to excite the old battling blood in her veins. It should really be a comfort, this beaten up old world, but there are far too many new things in it.
The fights do little to please her. Occasionally, a face or feature would flash from the array of stone cold contesters...a certain pattern on a trouser, an outdated quiff, an impressive high kick angled towards heaven...or stranger still, a bird feather tucked into a hair band, which calls upon a breath of memory for her lost friend Michelle.
But now, the fights are aggressive as opposed to honourable. The contestants are greedy instead of humble, vengeful and materialistic and too focused on the promotion of self then to the kindness that so needs to be...oh yes, in these desperate times...bestowed on the weak and helpless.
The woman in white and black shields herself in her corner, drawing only the most insightful of eyes, and slips between the rows of people as a sombre shadow.
On huge screens, wave after wave of images stutter to life. Faces she has known, faces she has yet to discover, and even those faces which call back to darker times; before cribs and baby powder and a life shrouded in nature.
Light is always found in darkness, she reminds herself, imagining a tiny hand fitted into the grove of her palm.
Amongst the chaotic gathering of anguish ridden youngsters, she spots a man with kind eyes and a thick mass of hair gathered in a long ponytail. Oblivious to the tremors of anger swimming through his opponents, he offers each and every one of them a smile, and if he can get close enough, a handshake. She hides her own smile at the clash of a pink shirt and...Oh for the love of hypothetical gods everywhere...white jeans! What would the man of her memory make of such an assortment?
Despite the laughter lines circulating his upturned lips, there is a hard resolve in his eyes she knows all too well, and as he moves, the handcuffs dangling from his belt clank a warning melody.
As he draws nearer, she presses away; resisting to ghost her hand across his, if only to feel his touch, be it just for a moment.
Above her, Jin and Kazuya are blasted on the screen. Two men of shared blood are split by lightening with the words "Upcoming Battle" scrawled beneath.
Her heart twists. Her chin tightens, and she lets her eyes drift over each striking similarity between father and son. One night, she had almost been panicked to death by an approaching figure in the dark; only to find a concerned fifteen year old holding a basket of apples, unable to understand his mother's agitation.
But now, she trembles with renewed power. New purpose. She shall not fall again. Not to a devil cloaked in a man's skin or to a wronged Grandfather with hellish desire or a fallen god with skin the colour of earth.
Not even to her son.
When Jun Kazama looks again, Wulong Lei is lost in the crowds.