Degrees
Everyone can recognize the sound of shattering.
Anna
The pane of glass just a step in front of her exploded into dazzling shards.
She instinctively raised her arms to protect herself from the onslaught of crystal daggers. Their soft undersides ignited with the sting of thin gashes. The translucent particles ravaged her hair, dress, stockings—her very skin. The gentle clattering of the slivers of glass against tile was almost entirely drowned out by a relentless ringing in her ears.
Slowly lowering her fleshy armor, she surveyed her surroundings furiously. Her glare concentrated on the other end of the corridor, where she presumed the shot to have originated. It was empty, but she knew better.
"You missed, dear. Now come on out and we'll have ourselves a fair fight. I don't play with cowards."
She sucked in a hasty breath as her hair was wound around a fist and jostled backward. A handgun's silver snout combed a few loose strands over her ear.
"Watch who you call a coward, dear."
The pistol's cool kiss traveled down to her vulnerable neck, where it pressed just hard enough to assert authority.
She closed her eyes with a smirk. "Do you really think it wise to be here instead of in Kazama's lap?"
"Couldn't keep my little sister waiting." The voice was just as she remembered it, degrading and chilled to perfection.
"No worries, you can crawl back to the brat when I'm finished with you. If you're still conscious, that is."
She reached behind her and grabbed hold of Nina's collar. Bending down, she hoisted her sister over her head. Nina skillfully contorted her body in midair and landed on her feet with only a soft thud, gun tucked safely in the holster against her thigh.
A grin crept upon Nina's lips, and suddenly the two of them were swinging as high as they could, mocking the gravitational vibrations passing through the chains and glancing at each other and giggling.
It didn't take long for the smile to sink to the pit of her stomach.
It never did.
"Still entertaining your fantasy of defeating me, I see. As pathetic as that is, I guess I should give you some credit for believing in yourself. Even our father gave up on you."
Manicured nails dug into the palms of her hands, creating crescent indents along her life line. She shifted into her fighting stance, stilettos puncturing a carpet of glass.
And each shimmering face reflected one of seething hatred.
"Speaking of neglected children, how is my precious nephew these days?"
The punch was executed with such agility and force, blocking was impossible. Her lace garters slouched to her knees as she slid across the smooth floor.
As the back of her head made contact with a marble pillar, she heard her neck emit a sickening crack.
Baek
As his leg descended in a perfect arc, he heard his bones groan in protest.
Hwoarang shrunk back and evaded the blow quite easily. He feinted right, then spun and countered with a low kick. It was the beginning of a new combination he'd taught him.
"Pick up the pace."
He warded off each of his student's assaults with outstretched palms, but the speed at which they were executed made the task impressively challenging. One kick flew past his guard, and a sharp breeze tore across his cheek as the foot lashed above his shoulder, just barely missing its target.
He channeled all of his effort into a reversal, although it was executed with a lot less gusto than he'd intended.
Simple moves that he used to be able to do in his sleep had become incredibly draining. Fatigue was a familiar virus, and the pathogen clung to his marrow with a dire grip. He'd only been sparring for about fifteen minutes, and already his forehead had become host to a glistening belt of perspiration.
Hwoarang hadn't noticed, or else he would have made an underhanded remark or two about old age.
In theory.
How shocking it had been when Hwoarang turned to him, bandages unable to conceal his damaged pride, and begged to become stronger—and even more so when he'd actually followed through on the request. In the week since his release from the hospital, his pupil was never late to practice. He no longer complained when asked to repeat a kick.
He no longer said much of anything.
He felt compelled at times to fill the gaping silence that now resided where the former punk's jokes and apathy had been.
"Very good. A tremendous improvement, Hwoarang. You're almost as good as I was at your age."
A phantom smirk quickly ducked behind the corners of the young man's mouth. "Thank you, Master, but can we start over? I flubbed the damn landing on that last part."
He'd been monitoring his disciple's footwork during the entire chain, and the ending was flawless. However, he gave a nod and adjusted his stance, straightening his posture to the best of his ability.
He'd given Hwoarang his word, and he had no intention of letting him down again, even if it was the last thing he did.
Asuka
She'd broken a promise, the only one worth keeping, and let her father down.
"Vitamins. Minerals. Yum."
She brandished the cup in his line of vision. He eyed the concoction warily.
"Please drink it. For me."
The middle-aged man drained the glass of lumpy liquid with a scrunched nose.
"Now that's not so bad, is it?"
He swallowed and pushed his tongue between his teeth dramatically.
"You'll thank me later." She relieved him of the mug. "Can I get you anything else?"
He offered the young girl at his bedside a tired grin and eased his eyes shut. "I'm feeling much better. You don't have to wait on me, Asuka."
She returned his smile, but fidgeted apprehensively with the empty cup. "I know. I just—Tell me if you need something, alright?"
"Sure."
With a final smile, she backed out of her father's bedroom.
She lingered in the doorway for a moment, watching as a flash of anguish passed across the gaunt paleness that had claimed his countenance. He shifted uncomfortably beneath the bundles of blankets she'd wrapped around him.
She tensed, then relaxed when he did.
Her trip back down the dark hall was a long and tediously quiet one. She found herself stopping short every once and a while, exceedingly attentive to each echo of a ticking clock and creak of a floorboard.
She stood at the sink and placed the glass on the counter. The angry howl of the faucet jarred her, even though she'd been expecting it. She hastily twisted the knob to stifle the stream.
She allowed the frothing waterfall to run gently over her fingers, her wrists. Her thumbs slipped over the smooth surface of the cup as she held it under the spigot. The downpour was almost painfully scalding, but it did nothing to cleanse her conscience.
She should have been there.
For someone who so proudly devoted the majority of her time to interfering with the lives of others, she had failed to help the person who mattered most. She was too busy trying to save the world, ignorant to the fact her own was crashing down.
And worse, she had sworn to seek retribution, to catch the jerk responsible and balance the weight of grief, only to return empty-handed.
She could suddenly taste tears. The droplets mingled with the faucet, whose flood swallowed them whole without much remorse.
She allowed her numbness to encase the glass until it was crushed into glittering shards.