CHAPTER ONE! Wrong Guy
He saw the van in the distance—headlights on, immobile—but didn't dwell much on it.
After all, that's some paranoid shit, and if there was one thing he liked to think he wasn't, it was paranoid.
In his mind, he could care less if the world was following him because he was sought after, watched, feared, admired every second of his life already, so it wouldn't make much of a difference and certainly wouldn't keep him up at night if the people in the van were stationed there for a reason.
The headlights were an eerie yellow, piercing the dark night and shining just left of where he stood, which landed them directly on the faces of the punks in front of him.
They were in a triangular formation, three guys staring down an impatient and anything but impressed Hwoarang as if they actually thought they had a chance of winning if he were to throw a punch.
The leader of the pack was some overly muscular rocker wannabe. Tattoos of naked women and gang symbols graced his arms in impolite colors, and his greasy sand-colored mop had definitely seen better days.
Hwoarang mused for a moment that he would have been spitting distance away from resembling a younger Paul Phoenix if not for the thin scar racing down the side of his face, strikingly white and illuminated even more so by the van's headlights.
He was talking fast but not saying much of anything, and Hwoarang was tired of him already.
"Yeah, yeah," he interrupted, crossing his arms indignantly, "You're boring the hell out of me."
"You hear that, fellas?" the leader retorted, glancing at his comrades, "The dog says he's bored."
Hwoarang dropped his cocky smirk. "What did you call me?"
"You heard me. You're nothing but a low-life dog," the leader spat, "You wasted all that time following Kazama around like a pet. A dog and his master. And now you've reconciled? Just face it. You can win as many fights as you want, but you'll still be a cock-sucking canine!"
"That's it!" Hwoarang growled.
He launched into a blur of kicks and punches, knocking the leader down, then pinned him and started delivering punch after punch to his jaw and face.
The other two guys tried to pull the men apart and eventually succeeded, only to be knocked back by a kick combo.
Hwoarang grabbed one of the guys by the neck and slammed him into the nearest wall, a cement structure littered with graffiti. His forehead connected with an omniscient crack. He stumbled backward once released, completely dazed and powerless. A sweeping kick combo landed him outside the alleyway, and he remained idle on the pavement, drenched in a pool of the van's sickly light.
The leader, recovered now and on his feet, apprehended Hwoarang from behind, slinging a thick arm around his throat.
Feeling the oxygen being stolen from his lungs, Hwoarang jerked violently to the left, then the right, his mouth open but only choked gasps escaping.
The second of the groupies approached from the front and delivered a sharp jab to his gut.
"Looks like the dog's reached the end of his leash," the leader mocked, tightening his grip.
Hwoarang closed his eyes, frustration surging through him, and pushed all the strength he could muster out through a thrust of his elbow. The leader keeled over briefly, and Hwoarang seized the opportunity to reach behind him and grasp a handful of his shirt in both fists and flip him over his head with a bend at the knees.
The leader landed with a gruesome thud on the ground in front of him, and he took no time to continue his assault, kicking him in the gut with the heel of his boot.
"What was that?" he exclaimed angrily, delivering a few more kicks to the stomach and ribcage, "What the fuck did you just say?"
The leader rolled over onto his stomach, clutching his side in agony.
"I'm not a fucking dog!" Hwoarang yelled.
One swift kick to the back of the head and the leader gave a disgruntled whimper.
Hwoarang shot a dangerous look at the other guy, who was standing a foot or so away with a hesitant look on his face. Within seconds the guy had dragged the leader to his feet and limped away with him, stopping only to coax the third member to get up and run.
Breathing steadily returning to normal, Hwoarang relaxed and fell out of his fighting stance.
Then, suddenly, there was nothing but darkness.
"What the hell—" Hwoarang muttered under his breath, squinting in the absence of light.
The van had turned off its headlights. Seconds passed, the sound of his own breathing the only thing he was aware of. The lights returned with a temporarily blinding aftertaste, filtering around the silhouettes of five figures standing before him with their hands behind their backs.
As his eyes adjusted to the light, he could make out their faces. The man standing in the center had blue eyes, so bright they were almost creepy; definitely not natural.
Hwoarang narrowed his eyes, fists clenching instinctively.
"Is there something I can help you gentlemen with?" he asked carefully, eyes darting from one man to the next.
"You," the man in the center said gruffly, pointing, "That was quite an impressive fight."
Hwoarang snickered. "You recruiting or something?"
The men weren't amused in the slightest.
"Look, I know how good I am. You don't have to tell me," Hwoarang continued, waving a hand dismissively, "What, do you want to see for yourse—"
He took two steps forward, fists ready, then stopped dead in his tracks. The henchmen had reacted to his advance instantly. The two men on either end unsheathed katana swords; the men closer to the middle bore curved daggers.
The man in the center was the last to draw a weapon. Sapphire eyes gleamed as he pointed a handgun directly between Hwoarang's eyes.
"Hey, whoa," Hwoarang said, chuckling nervously, "Hold on now. I was just kidding. Okay? All in good fun."
He held his hands up in surrender, then slowly backed up a pace or two.
"Fun," the man repeated, "You don't know what fun is."
He toyed with the trigger of his gun sadistically, smirking. "Haseo is dead."
"I don't know what you're talking about," Hwoarang scoffed, taken aback.
The four other men began to laugh; apathetic, almost evil laughter resounded in the alley.
"Of course you don't," the man in the center replied.
Any self-assuredness that had once composed Hwoarang's disposition drained from his face in a matter of moments.
These guys think I killed somebody. Probably one of their crew. But it wasn't me! I wouldn't be so stupid as to take someone's life in one of those petty street fights.
"Hey, uh, you've got the wrong—" Hwoarang tried, though he was interjected by a sour "Save it!" from one of the henchmen.
Hwoarang prepared to glare at him but caught sight of his sword shining in yellow, a looming reminder that he was unarmed and outnumbered. Normally it wouldn't have phased him—he'd taken out guards before, after all—but there was a look in the front man's eyes that told him if he even tried anything he'd end up dead.
They were consumed with fury and vengeance, the five of them; it wasn't a thing to mess with.
A low chime sounded, emitted from the gang's direction. The center man snarled, reaching into the pocket of his leather jacket. He hastily pressed a button on a cellular phone and began to murmur into it. His speech was too quiet and quick for Hwoarang to make out. Ending the conversation without warning, the man shoved the phone back into his pocket, then cleared his throat.
"It's being moved," Hwoarang overheard him whisper to his men, "We have three days. We must begin preparations immediately."
"But what about this guy?" a man bearing a dagger mumbled.
"The stone is more important than such a waste of space," the front man answered, "We will make time to deal with him before we leave."
The men nodded in unison. It was strange to see a single motion shared by many operate so fluidly. It was almost as if they had rehearsed such a movement many times.
"Expect another visit soon," the man in the center boomed, "For now, we are leaving. I would suggest hiding but—we will find you, no matter where you go."
"I promise you that," he finished, rancor dripping from each word.
The darkness came again, followed shortly by the screeching of tires against asphalt. They were gone.
"Damn," Hwoarang muttered to himself.
He walked out into the street, hands in his pockets, and looked up at the clear night sky. A smirk slowly crossed his lips.
"Fuck that," he said, "I'm not just gonna sit back and let them plot against me. No, I'm gonna fight back with everything I've got. And if I die, hey, at least I tried."
x x x
He always parked his motorcycle a block or so away from the bar to prevent spiteful damage by the victims he pounded that night. The bars weren't exactly his scene these days—sober for a couple months and already he'd been able to fix most aspects of his life—but the street fights were something he refused to quit.
It gave him an adrenaline rush every time someone had the balls to stand up to him; even more so when they hit the ground with the telltale thwack of defeat. He'd stopped collecting money for the fights, settling for the satisfaction of seeing a punk's head get caved in. It was well worth it, too; got rid of a lot of his excess energy, seeing as how his muscles were used to a tournament schedule.
He doubted if there'd ever be a sixth one, which brought both relief and sadness to the table.
If he never got to see any of the other fighters again, he'd miss some of them, sure. Of course, he didn't like to talk about it, and would most likely deny it if confronted.
"Hey, what the hell's going on?" he snarled in annoyance, bringing his motorcycle to a halt.
He had been cruising along the city streets of Japan only minutes before, warm wind catching his hair and buzzing signs slipping past him. The traffic was completely backed up as far as he could see. In the distance he could vaguely make out the orange glow of traffic cones reflecting in the moonlight.
What's this? They're blocking off the street?
The driver beside him, a flashy middle-aged businessman, got out of his car, not bothering to shut the door behind him.
"You know what's happening up there, man?" Hwoarang asked him.
The man shot him an exasperated look. "Word on the street is Mishima's sending armored trucks to the airport. His men must be blocking off the route."
Hwoarang raised a brow. "Armored trucks, huh?"
"He's doing a mass-transport of all his artifacts and whatnot, precious items," the man answered, "Just got a storage house in America. Lucky bastard. My company's been trying to claim purchase over there for years now."
The last few lines were murmured, but Hwoarang still picked them up.
"Shit," he mumbled, "You don't happen to know if he's got any rare stones in those trucks, do you?"
The man shrugged.
"You might not know," Hwoarang muttered to himself, turning his attention to the rumble of the armored trucks, "But I know someone who will."
x x x
"He-ey! Good morning, sunshine!"
"What the hell do you want?"
Hwoarang made a face at the receiver. "Ooh, touchy. I forgot; ladies need their beauty sleep."
A groan came from the other end, followed by the faint rustling of sheets.
"Are you going to tell me what you decided to wake me up at three in the morning for," a groggy Jin snapped, "Or do I have to come over there and beat it out of you?"
"Whoa, princess. We already tried the fighting approach, remember? Didn't work out too well," Hwoarang retorted, "Anyway, I've got a question for you. Heard old man Heihachi's got himself a storage house in America, and he's shipping all this tacky shit over there right now."
"Mhm," Jin mumbled, stifling a yawn, "What of it?"
"Well, I need to know if he's got any stones in those trucks of his," Hwoarang said.
"I cannot believe you woke me up for this," came Jin's disgruntled response, "Yeah, I think he's got one. What do you want with it?"
"It's not what I want, per say." He sighed. "Look, I'm in some trouble."
"Must be a nice change of pace for you," Jin snorted.
One detailed story and a few disbelieving curses later, Hwoarang sucked in a deep breath. "I think those guys are gonna try to steal the stone when it gets to the storage house."
"No way," Jin replied, "They can't be that dumb. The place practically has its own gravitational pull with all that electronic security equipment he's got running through there. They'd never make it out alive."
"All's I'm saying is they looked pretty serious about it," Hwoarang pointed out.
Jin shuffled around. "And anyway, the stone will be there by tomorrow. They said three days, right? Why are they waiting?"
Hwoarang frowned. "I think we need to have a little chat with the old man."
"Hey, wait a second! There's no we," Jin protested stubbornly, "I never said I'd help save your ass again."
"Don't be a dick, Kazama," Hwoarang spat, "You know you don't want an ally's death on your conscience."
Silence.
"Fuck you," Jin seethed.
Then; "Give me ten minutes."