She sat in the crowded bar, trying to gather her thoughts. With the constant thud thud of the rock music blasting from the club's speakers at ear-splitting volume, and the constant jostle of rowdy revellers, it wasn't the best place for contemplation. At any other time she would have enjoyed an night out like this, but she had to remind herself that she had a job to do.

She reached into the inside pocket of her jacket, pulling out a crumpled photo. She felt a slight chill on the back of her neck as looked at the image, her target. His face was partially hidden by the hood of his tracksuit, but the film had managed to capture enough for a positive identification. From his poise, she guessed that he knew he was being followed; he was glancing backwards, his haunted eyes staring from beneath that hood.

Her target. Jin Kazama. Son of Kazuya Mishima and Jun Kazama. Expert in both the Mishima style karate favoured by his father and grandfather, and the Kazama tradition of several classic martial arts.

The youngster should have been dead - his grandfather, the infamous Heihachi Mishima, had shot him enough. But Jin was no ordinary youngster - like his father, he carried the so-called Devil Gene' in his blood. The secret was out amongst the scientific community, and everyone wanted to capture the elusive Devil Gene. Even the Mishima Ziabatsu had been searching for Jin for months - obviously the old man lacked the gene, unlike his progeny. The Mishima Ziabatsu, Umbrella, and even G-Corporation had been putting out feelers recently - everyone was looking for Jin Kazama.

Including her employers.

She sighed and put the photo back in the hidden pocket. Heihachi was a wily old man; why spend time and resources searching the globe for someone who doesn't want to be found, when you can entice them to come to you? She was certain that was his reason for launching another King of Iron Fist' Tournament - to lure Jin into his clutches. She shuddered involuntarily; the thought of the Mishima Ziabatsu controlling the Devil Gene, and the power that invariably went with it, was a chilling thought.

She was jolted from her musings by a large, obviously inebriated hulk of a man swaggering into her. He threw a chunky arm around her shoulders, and grinned lecherously at her, flashing tobacco stained teeth.

An' what's a good lookin' sheila like you doin' in a place like this? he slurred, spittle flecking his lips.

Marvelling at the originality, she said dryly. And looking for this man. She took the photo of Jin out and held it before him, hoping that there was sufficient distance between the two to prevent it from being sprayed when he invariably spoke. Have you seen him?

Ahh, why go for a Chinese guy when ya can have pure bloodied Aussie? he laughed, jabbing a thumb to his chest. Yer lookin' for a man, look no further!

Japanese, you moron, she thought darkly. She drained her drink and slid of her stool.

I've got to get going now, she said politely as she could. Nice talki-

The man slammed an arm in her way, and shook his head. Yer not goin' anywhere, sweetheart. We're gonna have some fun - you know, do our bit for Anglo-Aussie relations-

I don't think so, she said, her tone full of warning. Where I come from, bestiality is a crime. Goodbye.

The man furrowed his brow before realising she had just insulted him. He was about to block her path again when he was pulled roughly back.

I think the girl doesn't want to talk to you, the newcomer said in a low voice. Leave her alone.

By now there was quite a crowd around them, buzzing with anticipation. Looking at the newcomer, she felt a sense of recognition. He was young, roughly the same age as herself, and his appearance and accent suggested he was Korean. His hair was a different from the photos in his files, but the confrontational attitude was the same - it had to be Hwoarang, the formerly unbeaten Tae Kwon Do expert. Like everyone else, he was looking for Kazama; only he didn't know, and probably wouldn't care even if he did, about the Devil Gene - he just wanted to beat Jin to prove he was the better fighter. So much so that he had absconded from the army for the privilege, evidently.

Suddenly, her unappreciated suitor took a swing at Hwoarang, who avoided the drunken effort with ease, and in one fluid motion followed with a swift roundhouse that connected to the assailants jaw with a sickening crack. The man fell to the floor unconscious, whilst Hwoarang shook his head.

Too easy, he said, smirking slightly. He looked up from the man's prone form, and asked with what sounded like genuine concern, Are you okay?

I'm fine, she said smiling. But I'd worry about yourself, if I were you.

Hwoarang looked puzzled. If he had turned around, perhaps he would have had time to stop the thug from smashing a bottle over his head. Instead, he too ended up unconscious on the floor.

She sighed. If you want something doing, do it yourself...