A warm gust of wind ruffled the leaves lying on the massive grassy hill two storeys below. Not phased in the slightest by the raven locks of hair blowing in his face, Kazuya Mishima stood leaning over the balcony of the Mishima mansion silently, as still as a statue besides the slight rise and fall of his chest from beneath his business suit. It was a beautiful day indeed; warm weather, cloudless skies…but the beauty was wasted on such a cold soul.
His mind was ordered almost as much as a computer, and equally efficient. Over the last few months he'd begun to change the Mishima Zaibatsu from the most powerful in Japan, to something so much more. And he'd found the job relatively easy too. He never let anything distract him. No one would get in his way any longer. And lately he'd been oddly at peace. Those feelings of hatred, fear, anger…they seemed to have dissolved into nothingness. Of course they were still there, deep down, but they were never called upon. There was no need for them. Instead, there was just the soothing cool of his own calm, with the constant company of the Devil spirit that fed off his soul.
But lately, something had been bothering him. Something had been nagging at the back of his mind, pulling concentration and attention away from his rather important work to itself. And he had no idea what it was, though it was oddly familiar. One thing he knew, the Devil spirit did not like it.
When he felt that feeling, it was around people. He noticed it most when he saw others, and others saw him. It only seemed to be around certain groups of people too, and he couldn't figure out what it was.
The feeling made him think of his painful past. When he shut it out, as he so often did, it left him in peace for a little while, but left him feeling slightly stung, as if by rejection. When he listened to it, he thought of times before the pain began. Times of peace and happiness.
Today, this fine day, he had time to spare. Time to spare on himself, which was an activity he rarely participated in. Everything he'd ever thought about had little to do with his own well-being, his own feelings. Ever since he was betrayed by his own father, nearly twenty years ago, he'd thought of nothing but serving him the same meal. Or so many believed. He'd thought more about being someone else. No one knew this, but he'd kept record of his dreams. As another soft gust of wind blew over the balcony, he remembered a small book of lined paper with artistically written stories and poems scrawled through it in childish writing; fantasy stories, tales of a brave hero that vanquished all those who would betray the trust of a loved one, poems about a boy who was loved by his whole family. Tales of people he would love to have been. He was the only person who knew of this book's existence. He would be the only one ever to know.
As he thought of the book, he thought of what life was like before he decided to create it once again. There were long since unused muscles in his face which had so often been put to work in his younger days which he remembered now with such clarity; his mother had always told him what a lovely smile he had. His mother had played games with him, hugged him when he felt sad, kissed his bruises better…and oddly enough, the magic had always worked, and the pain seemed to fade away with the touch of her lips.
It was a pity she had to die.
For the first time, he moved slightly. He felt his head droop just a little, and his eyes closed. He remembered that fateful day he was thrown off that cliff so well, the scar might as well have never healed, and still be bleeding today. That massive rip across his chest may have healed and faded slightly, but the wound in his mind was still wide-open flesh. Despite the fact that revenge had been served, finally, after all those years of torment, it still hurt.
And there's that feeling again.
He thought of his mother again, and the feeling grew stronger. It was something resurfacing from so long ago he couldn't even begin to put his finger on it. But before he had the chance to even do that, his attention was caught by something black and white moving on the grass.
He opened his eyes completely again and looked down at the figure. It was a woman. What was she doing here? He squinted slightly, and realised he recognised her face. A completely different feeling washed over him, and he felt like someone kicked his knees out from under him. She disappeared from sight.
Grasping the banister of the balcony firmly in his large hands, he regained his composure, only to realise he was breathing heavily. What was wrong with him? Then the feeling returned, just to confuse him even more. But this time it seemed to mingle with that terrible feeling that made his head spin. The two became one.
He growled deeply in his throat and shook his head. Maybe he just needed some sleep. Oh well, might as well go and investigate the matter of the intruder. He turned and headed off the balcony, and downstairs, to find out exactly what that woman was doing here. He remembered who she was now; that agent from 3WF, Jun Kazama. Great, looks like she's back to get another piece of him. No matter how many times he'd told her otherwise, she was still convinced the Zaibatsu had illegally imported exotic animals at one time or another, and since he was the new CEO, he was responsible for whatever went on, in the past or present.
He saw her wandering around the front of the mansion almost aimlessly, and lightly pushed one of the servants aside as they tried to step in front of the door before he could. Swinging the massive wooden door aside, he simply folded his arms over his chest and raised a brow at Kazama questioningly, ignoring the alarm bells going off in his head for some bizarre reason.