Tekken Rhapsody

Disclaimer: I own nothing except for my OCs

Chapter 1

Hallenstadion, City of Zurich, Zurich, Switzerland - 27 June 1987

British-based Chiptune prog-rock group Enlightenment had been playing together since their college days, when they had shared their mutual affection for video game music. Right now, they were performing before an audience of 13,000 nerds and music lovers, mainly German speakers. They were nearing the end of what was meant to be their last show on their current tour in support of their album Generations of Duality, characterised by each of the three keyboardists taking turns in playing a piece of classical music individually. The audience applauded and the show concluded as the trio Sandro Peseta, Yakov Skulachev and Hans von Braun headed backstage after they what believed to be their last concert on their European tour. They had yet to break the US. A man with dark hair, a moustache and an odd diagonal hairline Heihachi Mishima was in attendance as he followed the band backstage. Sandro, the eldest and tallest of the three, 22 going on 23, was still high from the energy delivered during the performance. "YES!" He shouted out. "I was on fucking fire tonight. WE were on fucking fire!" He laughed as he took a swig of vodka to calm down; his friend Yakov the middle musician, 22 years old, remained calm like a stoic samurai.

"Personally, I thought the audience was quite placid compared to the more rowdy folks we played to a few days ago." Yakov spoke up, the Soviet musician observing his friend's behaviour as he sighed while muttering something in Russian.

"Oh, you mean those fucking garlic-chomping rod-sparers in the Parc des Princes in Paris? What about the arse-spraying drug-probers at the Groenoordhallen in Leiden who booed the shit out of us until I had to give them a piece of my mind like a Venetian version of Superman?" Sandro retorted as the booze began to take effect, followed by the Italian keyboardist cursing in his native language as Heihachi slowly made his way through the rather lax security, as the band did not believe in bodyguards.

"Europe's great, but we've still got to break America. I mean, we've done two albums and we've only toured Europe. We were lucky to play in Budapest, man. Hell, I think Munich was our best gig as a whole." Hans, the youngest of the three (younger by only a mere fortnight than Yakov) spoke up. The three electro-pianists began contemplating work for their next album as Heihachi reached them, dressed in a suit and necktie, accompanied by a guardian.

"Boys, that was a unique show you put on. I am impressed." He smiled as a slightly drunk Sandro squinted at him, the musician sitting up as his addled memory became clear once more. I've got an offer for you: You play a show for me and my fighters and I'll help you break America."

"Fighters? What are you talking about?" Sandro asked, the normally abrasive and outspoken young man rather polite and civilised for a change. Heihachi handed the trio some plane tickets.

"All expenses paid - the Tournament is in the coming days, so I suggest you get some sleep and leave tomorrow." Heihachi replied with a slight smirk on his face. "Good day, boys." With those words, the Mishima chairman left. Sandro looked at the ticket as the booze began to leave his body, his eyes widening slightly as the realisation set in.

"Guys, look at this! The King of Iron Fist Tournament sponsored by the Mishima Zaibatsu in Tokyo! Tokyo - fucking Japan! They LOVE our shit there!" He said jubilantly.

"What do we do?" Yakov asked curiously. "We can't just turn down this offer, right?"

"Damn right, Yak!" Sandro replied as he looked up to the Heavens. "Our prayers have been answered." He turned to some of the roadies. "One more show: The Mishima Zaibatsu Arena in Tokyo, Japan!" There was a clamour of voices from the roadies.

"I hear there are going to be some pretty stiff fighters there." Hans surmised - he was not too sure if he liked the sound of this gig.

"Yes, I heard that the Irish assassin Nina Williams will be there. The blonde bitch with a thing for purple tight-fitting Lycra catsuits, endlessly straddling her opponents as she beats them and throws them into submission while breaking their shinbones and giving them sexy but deadly looks." Yakov mused. "What do you think, San?" He turned to face Sandro, his eyes widening slightly as he stared out into Space. "Sandro?" Yakov waved his hand in front of Sandro, a look of worry evident on his face. "Hans, I think the booze went to his head too soon." Hans just sighed in disbelief and cursed in German before Sandro finally spoke up.

"I m not drunk, Yak. I was just thinking about what you were saying." With those words, he just crossed his legs as he wiped the image of him being straddled by the famous Nina away from his mind. He turned to his friends. "One more gig and then this tour is definitely over." With those words, the trio headed back to their hotel in the centre of the City of Zurich and into their bedrooms. Sandro lay on his bed, trying to sleep... but all he could think of was Nina straddling him on top of his keyboard.