The White Rainbow
A Tekken fan fiction
Chapter 2
Mishima Zaibatsu Arena, Tokyo, Japan – 23 October 1989
I found myself on the stage – podium – of a very familiar-looking indoor arena, about the size of the Hallenstadion in Zurich, Switzerland. Standing before me were my beloved synthesisers, and looking to either side of me, I was able to see two other individuals – a fair-haired drummer with a goatee beard and a rather energetic guitarist-vocalist with dark hair. You're back in the past… Hans and Yakov – your old friends and bandmates. I thought to myself as the reality eventually settled in. I had no idea at the time that this particular gig would be the end of our live career, and it was largely my fault. As our signature show-stopping medley came to a close, we were met with raucous cheering (and some drunken whooping, mainly thanks to two individuals named Paul Phoenix and Marshall Law, who took the liberty of getting to the venue early after their disqualifications) as the three of us left the stage… for the last time. Knebworth Park, eat your heart out. I thought to myself, high as a kite at the time. After a VERY special encore, the show ended and we were on our way to an after party – well, two of us were. Can you guess who the odd one out was? That is right. It was I! I spent about 10 minutes there before leaving, unable to take the social partying a second longer as I headed for the Zaibatsu bar, downing wine and vodka as I sighed, muttering to myself in Italian. I was snapped out of my semi-incoherent musings by a familiar sultry voice, strong and feminine at the same time, almost hypnotic in quality. "Not celebrating with your famous friends, Sandro?" I knew that voice. As I swilled down my last bottle of vodka, I turned around to face the Purple Shamrock herself, clad in the same old black Lycra catsuit she wore on most of her missions. "I thought you rockers always hung out with your own kind."
"I'm not an ordinary rocker, Nina. I'm just a bloody heretic." I laughed at the self-referential irony. "Why the cheap sci-fi get-up?" I asked in a lighter tone of voice.
"I'm going on a mission – to take out my target… Kazuya Mishima." My eyes widened slightly.
"You mean… my promoter? The guy who got me the gig here…?" I asked as I shook my head in disbelief. "Talk about being an ungrateful bastard." I replied before calling her out in Italian. However, this did not prepare me for the worst turn of events – a turn that would ultimately seal my fate.
"You're coming with me, Sandro Peseta." I turned to face her with a look of utter shock and horror.
"WHAT!?" I asked as my voice rose by several octaves – my usual bass-baritone C going into a borderline alto falsetto G.
"You are coming with me. You said you would do anything for me, since we're friends." She replied semi-sarcastically.
"But to kill somebody…!? You're insane. The guy knows my weak spot! All he has to do is play the guitar solo from Brighton Rock and I'll be playing along like the Man with the Curly Hair!" I replied in a squeaky tone. Before the Purple Shamrock could reply, I heard whooping noises followed by their owners – a pissed-looking Paul Phoenix and an even-more-pissed-looking Marshall Law, the two of them returning from the American equivalent to lager frenzy.
"Good show!" Paul called out to me as Law let out a high-pitched laugh before the inseparable pair waltzed off into the shadows. Nina coughed, and I turned to face her once more.
"Well?" She asked. I looked at what I was wearing – a rare 1st Edition Red Dwarf T-shirt on top of a black turtleneck sweater and some grey trousers with sneakers. My eyes met hers, and despite my better judgement, I simply nodded wordlessly. "Good boy." She said before leaving. I sat at the bar for a moment, trying to think what the hell I had just committed myself to, removing my spectacles.
You stupid… fucking… bastard, Sandro. You should have just said no, but looks like your friend Yakov was right: You'll do anything to please the birds, won't you? My mind admonished me, doing almost nothing for my virtually non-existent self-esteem. Without another word, I got up and left, swearing in French.
Mishima Zaibatsu, Tokyo, Japan – 23 October 1989
I found myself outside the grand edifice of the Mishima Zaibatsu on a bloody suicide mission. Why I agreed to do this, I will never, ever know, other than I had befriended a beautiful but deadly killer. Now wearing a black Blake's 7 T-shirt, which elegantly showcased the show's logo in full colour, I awaited the arrival of the Purple Shamrock as I, the White Rainbow, sighed in mild annoyance. It's like going out on a date in Nazi Germany. I thought to myself in another mental rant. I felt a tap on my shoulder and I turned around – there she was, in a similar Lycra catsuit to before, but in purple with a nice yellow belt around the waist. "Come on. Let's go." With those words, I followed her silently, thinking of the after-show party I was missing because of this extreme form of sibling rivalry. Nina and I silently entered the facility and stealthily made our way through the ventilation shafts, eventually entering the building itself via a basement of sorts. Not even bothering to speak, I looked at her with a single raised eyebrow, as if asking her what the next course of action was. She indicated by moving her head towards a door, opening it quickly and quietly as she took out a guard with relative ease. Eventually reaching the CEO's office – in this case, the angular spiked demon Kazuya Mishima – Nina drew her sniper rifle – the H&K PSG1 – and aimed down the sights. She never moved a single muscle or nerve during her whole time on the rifle… but just as the deadly finger closed around the trigger, there was a silenced blow to the back of her head. She grunted wordlessly and fell to the floor, out cold. Having witnessed this, I could do nothing but sit back in confusion and mild panic, my monochromatic clothing helping me blend in with the scenery. Thinking quickly, I turned away and walked quickly and quietly, eventually breaking into a run, my presence remaining unnoticed by the guards surrounding the unconscious blonde assassin. This isn't going to end well. I thought as the mood shifted from light and humorous to dark and serious, almost frighteningly serious. Little did I know at the time that those thoughts would be 100% accurate and correct – so accurate and correct, that not even the best fortune-teller would have been able to predict my next action. Why? I'm unpredictable.
Author's Note: This will be a multi-perspective story, with the OC being in 1st-Person and the other characters in 3rd-Person. Read and review, please. :)