Disclaimer: Characters featured in the Tekken series are owned by Namco (obviously). Rated T due to some language, violence and alcohol use.

Author's Notes: Thanks for the reviews; it's always encouraging to have feed back. I hope readers will enjoy chapter two despite the fact it seems to wander about quite a lot. Enjoy!

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Chapter 2

The small convoy of minibuses had left the retirement home fairly early in the morning. On board, the residents who wished to attend Heihachi Mishima's funeral, accompanied by a small number of staff, were on their way to check-in at the island's only airport.

The bus in which Kazuya sat slowed to a stop in a convenient disabled space. Directly opposite was the large entrance that led inside the cavernous terminal. The doors of the minibus slid open, and those able to walk or hobble disembarked from the vehicle and began their slow progress towards the entrance. It was a rather pitiful sight; the straggly, waif like and dishevelled figures dressed in an assortment of charcoals, black and the occasional mauve, spilling onto the immaculate pavement like an oil slick.

/How the mighty have fallen!/ crooned a familiar voice between intermittent bursts of harsh laughter, silken and scathing. This was a voice that spoke within the confines of Kazuya's mind. He could feel it reverberating inside his skull, skittering like a stone across the ocean of his consciousness. It was a voice that only one other person would ever be privy to.

Kazuya, still wearing his faithful, purple suit (cleaned and ironed at Nurse Saunders' insistence) came to a halt just in front of the building and turned around to survey those walking behind him. Craig Marduk's hunched figure loomed silently like a gargoyle over the wheelchair he was pushing, in which sat a slumped King threatening to fall out at any given moment. Marshall Law struggled helplessly with the mobile phone clutched in his right hand, smashing its digits with his thumb and causing it to emit disapproving, high pitched beeps. With his other hand he held tightly onto the wrist of Paul Phoenix, who straggled after him like a scolded and bewildered toddler. Meanwhile Anna Williams, in her black, veiled hat and pencil skirt, teetered along on stalk thin legs atop four inch heels, nearly embedding her face in the ground when she unexpectedly walked over an uneven paving slab.

/The finest warriors of their art, the crème de la crème, Kings of the Iron Fist,/ the voice managed to splutter out mockingly before descending into further debauched laughter. /Oh, how I love time. It fucks them all over in the end!/ To that, Kazuya felt his face crease into a familiar smirk which he was powerless to stop.

Nurse Saunders hopped down from a second minibus and began to fuss around her charges like a brooding mother hen. Reminding them for what was probably the tenth time, how they were going to negotiate the airport, rendezvous points and times, what to do if they got separated. With her usual finesse she conducted everything with military precision. But in contrast to her usual spotless, white uniform, she was shrouded in black, an event akin to witnessing a lunar eclipse

/Oh, mortal coil,/ the voice chimed jubilantly. /You just don't know how entertaining it all is unless you're looking at it from here. What was it the Frenchman, Voltaire said? 'God is a comedian playing to an audience too afraid to laugh.' He was right you know. I found that one immensely entertaining. He went straight to hell of course. I mean he was too good for anywhere else. But then he was French./

Would it be far beyond your presumably infinitesimal demonic faculties to cease this inane stream of telepathic diarrhoea? Kazuya interjected.

/Well it's nice to speak to you too, little one. You do realise though, that all verbal diarrhoea, telepathic or otherwise, is by its nature inane?/

Kazuya sighed, rolling his eyes irritably. He couldn't deny that hearing the voice of the demon that was for the most part silent these days was somewhat soothing. But as far as he was concerned, their 'partnership' was defunct now. His ignorant and interfering son had defeated him and effectively siphoned off the greater portion of Kazuya's demonic shadow. Ever since, he was left with nothing but a scornful, disembodied voice that would occasionally cut through his thoughts like a caustic and withering blade. He was no longer able to harness the transcendental powers that the entity had once offered, and now the voice merely served as a reminder of what he had lost.

What do you want? he asked, eventually.

/I wanted to see how you were coping. You're daddy's dead, after all./ The demon paused, as if in thought. /You're in denial aren't you? It's just all been too painful hasn't it? Oh, little one,/ the voice almost cracked with theatrical concern, /we'll get through this together, okay?/

"Stop patronising me and get to the point", Kazuya hissed aloud through gritted teeth. Even after a veritable lifetime the demon still knew how to aggravate him with practiced ease.

"Mishima-san, are you okay?" Nurse Saunders was apparently standing in front of Kazuya, giving him the appraising look that she often favoured when observing individuals of questionable mental stability.

/What? A demon can't show concern for its favourite, most precious mortal?/ the entity said with its best vocalisation of a pout. /Anyway, I can see you have company, we needn't talk now. On the plane, yes? I shall return, little one./

Nurse Saunders expression was gradually transforming from one of appraisal to concern. "It's the voices again, isn't it Mishima-san?" she spoke softly, wrapping her arms around him. "I know this situation is painful, but we'll get through this together, okay?"

Kazuya nearly ground his false teeth into dust, a demonic cackle echoing through his skull.

---

Craig dutifully pushed King's chair into the slightly crowed confines of the spacious airport building, while Bruce Irvin zipped about like a mosquito, in his motorized wheelchair, trying to thwart any unauthorised photography or autograph requests by potential King enthusiasts. It was something of a welcome distraction. Bruce hated airports and he hated planes even more. If just one more plane crashed while he was onboard, he would resort taking ferries, he had decided.

After suitably scolding a middle aged woman brandishing a pen, Bruce looked around only to be faced with more problems. "Aww hell!" A group of tourists were arming themselves with cameras and training them dangerously in King's general direction.

"No goddamn pictures!" shouted Bruce, furiously. Then, seeing his words go unheeded turned his chair around to face parallel to a line of four camera wielding tourists. With a flick of the joystick on the arm of his chair, he sent it whirring and hurtling forward, crushing four pairs of sandal clad feet. "I said, no pictures!"

There were shouts of protest; an "Asshole," some indeterminate grumblings, and the clatter of a camera hitting the hard floor. But there was no sound of clicking shutters, leaving Bruce in a trancelike state of Zen. Though it ended abruptly in the next second, when there was a momentary flash of white light.

A few feet in front of King stood a small girl holding a camera phone with a gleeful expression etched across her face. Bruce felt a growl building at the back of his throat as his hand clawed over the joystick of his chair, ready to run the insolent, little shit down and smear her blood all over the spotless floor tiles of the airport.

King's Cubs member no. 41253, hit a few buttons on her pink camera phone, confirming that she wished to save the photograph of her idol that she had just taken. She beamed happily while she slid her phone back into her pocket, but when she looked up again, she saw an elderly, black man in a wheelchair, bearing down upon her at speed. His face was a malevolent mask of fury covered in innumerable moles, and his bared teeth glinted gold in the sunlight. She could only let loose a panic stricken shriek as she watched the distance between them dwindle till it seemed he would collide with her, full force.

She would pay. No one, especially an insolent, little girl with a tacky, pink phone would take unauthorised pictures of King and steal potential profits from under Bruce's nose. He was almost upon her, and the look on her face was a treat, only to be followed by an even better terrified shriek. Yes, he thought to himself, I am your worst nightm... The thought never quite reached its conclusion as Bruce felt himself collide with something solid.

Upon discovering that she had in fact not been mashed to a bloody pulp by the paraplegic with the maniacal gleam in his eyes, Cub no. 41253 bolted as quickly as her shaking legs could carry her, towards the escalators, the least hospitable place for wheelchairs she could think of.

Bruce was aware that he was still seated in his chair, he felt like the air had been knocked right out of him and there was an immense pressure on his chest. But something else was also amiss that he couldn't quite put his finger on. And then it struck him. He had been rotated ninety degrees and was now lying on his back, staring at the ceiling, a large, booted foot planted firmly on his chest. The foot's owner stooped forward and glared at him.

"Marduk?" Bruce rasped, recognising the craggy features and bald pate of the giant. "…You crazy motherfucker! Get the fuck off me!" He squirmed weakly before Craig unhurriedly complied, proceeding to stand silently next the toppled wheelchair, arms crossed.

For the next few minutes, Bruce tried without avail to right his fallen position while Craig looked on indifferently. It was hopeless, he knew. But he was determined he was not going to ask that Aussie bastard for help.

Bruce came into the world with nothing. He lived on the streets, where every day was a scrape for survival, where it had been a good day if he could go to sleep without an empty stomach. But things were different now. He had money and he had power, paid for in sweat, blood and toil, and with those he should have had respect. Or at least he tried to remind himself of that every time he was being peered down upon derisively by a grizzly, Australian ex-con. The contempt Craig bore towards Bruce was almost tangible, and it infuriated him. What right did an obnoxious murderer have to judge him?

Of course, Bruce could fathom the cause of Craig's hatred, and it came down to an individual they were both familiar with, King. Craig obviously felt some form of loyalty to his former rival and felt he was being exploited. Bruce was perfectly aware of his own actions; he used King as a cash cow, or cash jaguar as it were. But as far as Bruce was concerned, after all the hard work and funding he had poured into realising King's dream, he was entitled to the wealth that resulted. And in King's vegetative state, he was hardly going to complain.

Bruce heard the taunting sound of camera shutters clicking away like cruel laughter. When he tilted his head back to identify the source of the sound, he saw it was the same tourists he had tried to cripple before, not one of them having the thought or consideration to help him out of his predicament. This was just a little too humiliating.

Bruce turned his gaze reluctantly towards Craig, who wore a smirk. "What the fuck! Why you just standing there? Help me up, you moron!"

Craig slowly knelt down, and with surprising strength for a man his age, lifted both the chair and Bruce to an upright position.

Bruce shot the snap happy tourists a murderous glare before turning once again to Craig. "Don't think for a second that I'm going to forget about this, Marduk," he hissed venomously, before gliding off in his chair towards the check in desks. "And push that goddamn chair!" he said, jabbing a finger towards King, who had barely moved during the whole incident.

---

After waiting in a short queue, the three reached the desk to check in for their three and a half hour flight to Tokyo International. Bruce had just placed the tickets and passports on the desk. "We're at Mishima Meadows, the luggage is being checked in separately for us."

The desk clerk confirmed this, hitting a few keys on her keyboard.

"Hi Irv." Bruce looked to up to see Anna standing at an adjacent desk.

"Hey Anna."

It had been a while since the two former associates had spoken. Bruce, ever the entrepreneur, was constantly preoccupied with his business dealings. And Anna had her own business to deal with, the most pressing being; how best to scuff the nauseating sheen of respectability that was accumulating around Nina.

"You keep some lousy company, Irv," Anna remarked when she noticed Craig. She admonished herself for not having considered the likelihood of him being there. Where there was Bruce there was King, and where there was King there was usually Craig. Biographer my pert, little ass, where the fuck is the biography? That ape probably can't even hold a pen.

Bruce looked over his shoulder to where Craig stood sentry over King. "Tell me about it."

"Are you…alright with the…?" Anna waved her hand around indicating the airport.

Bruce grinned. "Oh, sure girl, I got over that a long time ago. I had to. It's gonna take a hundred plane crashes to kill me," he said, almost proudly.

"Where's the fat musketeer?"

"Ganryu? He's still under; you know how he gets when someone even mentions the name Chang. It's going to be at least two weeks before they can bring his heart rate down and get him into any kind of normal state." His brow furrowed. "Whatever normal is for him."

"You're looking good, Anna," said Craig, cutting through the repartee between Anna and Bruce like a knife.

That asshole. That fucking asshole! Anna could feel the papers she held between her gloved fingers crumple and distort under sudden, intense pressure. She wrestled with her veil of nonchalance and indifference, feeling her lips curl into a sneer that was more for her benefit than Craig's. "About as enticing as a bunch of bananas I should imagine," she quipped flatly, not looking at him. Piece of Neanderthal shit.

"Sir?" The woman behind the desk was holding a passport and looking questioningly at Bruce. "The gentleman there with the mask on, is that a Mr Diego Octavio Rodriguez Szczepanski?"

Anna's anger was suddenly forgotten as she nearly creased double in raucous laughter. "You've got to be kidding," she said incredulously, though the look in Bruce's eyes told her otherwise. "No wonder the poor bastard never married!"

Bruce nodded in affirmation to the desk clerk's query.

"Could you ask him to remove his mask please?"

"Aww hell!" Bruce looked ready to explode. "Goddamn it woman, do you know who this man is? Asking him to remove his mask is like asking Jesus to remove his halo!"

Meanwhile, further back in the queue, Marshall had finally managed to reach his mysteriously absent wife over the phone.

"The plane's taking off in just over an hour, where are you?" Marshall's gaze drifted over the floor tiles while he listened to the response. "Sl…slow down, honey. Of course I don't have…" he felt as if he were about to commit a crime by saying the next word, and cupped his hand around the phone, "herpes." Marshall's eyes went wide as he listened to what his wife said next. "What the hell is that supposed to mean!?" he barked at the phone. "Oh, so now I'm the one with loose morals! Last I checked it was you who'd been sleeping with the chiropodist!"

Marshall was at this point gaining an audience who were all too glad to have a distraction from standing around waiting to be served. "No honey, I do not find foie gras more exciting than you… For God's sake honey, you are not in competetion with my cruisine!" He was forced to hold the phone a few inches from his ear as a stream of invective poured from the speaker. "I can't believe you just said that," he gasped. There was a 'click'. "Honey…honey?"

Marshall snapped his phone shut and moved off hastily to find someone to take him back to the retirement home. Paul, who had been trying with determination for the last few minutes to perform an origami miracle on the silk handkerchief from his pocket, was grabbed by the lapel of his jacket as Marshall sped past.

"…and that's why we can't remove his mask," Bruce finished explaining.

"Ohhh," drawled the desk clerk, with a sparkle of enlightenment in her eyes. She hit a few more keys before announcing, "Everything's in order, Mr Irvin. Passengers with wheelchairs will be boarding at gate seven."

Anna was already checked in and had been waiting patiently with Bruce for the last few minutes. "Um, Irv, I'm going to head off to the departure lounge. I don't know what the little nurse was thinking of with a schedule like this, but I intend to make full use of the duty free stuff." She shuddered when her gaze drifted over Craig. "I'll see you later."

"Yeah, see ya," said Bruce, reclaiming their passports and holding tightly onto Craig's while the enormous hand closed over it to take it from his grip. "'You're looking good, Anna,'" he simpered in an imitation that was about as close to Craig's bass tones as the Sun from Neptune.

Craig growled, nearly crushing Bruce's hand in his grip as he took back his passport.

---

Having finally managed to hail a taxi outside of the airport, Marshall had been about to give the driver directions when Paul had decided to divulge his latest theory on taxi drivers being the propagators of the extra terrestrial oppression currently being imposed on Earth. Afterwards he refused to ride in the taxi, claiming that he would simply wait at the airport till Heihachi picked him up on his way back from the funeral.

And so, Marshall now pulled Paul after him as he looked about desperately for anyone who could accompany his companion through the airport, confident that Paul would not be able to meet this challenge alone, being the 'toughest in the universe' aside. He nearly jumped when he spotted the upswept, golden mane of Nurse Saunders, who was accompanied by the even more icily stoic than usual, Kazuya, if such a thing were possible.

The nurse turned around at the tap on her shoulder. "Oh, hello Marshall." She looked over his shoulder and then over Paul's, as if expecting to see someone else. "Where's your wife?"

Marshall took a breath and opened his mouth to speak, but the nurse interjected with her usual foresight. "Another argument?"

Marshall nodded mutely.

"Need someone to 'escort' Mr Phoenix?"

Marshall nodded again.

Nurse Saunders' eyes flitted about like captive humming birds for a moment. "Well there's not much time. I need to ensure that Mrs McKinney's guinea pig is being transported correctly and then I need to supervise Mr Wulong." Her eyes slowly came to settle on the purple clad Kazuya. "Mishima-san, do you think…" she started brightly but didn't bother to finish her sentence. Icy or not, there was a raging inferno behind Kazuya's eyes at that moment. "Right."

Marshall held Nurse Saunders' gaze pleadingly for a moment before she broke away, shouting towards a passing figure, "Nina!"

---

Christie waited patiently at the entrance of the security check area, absentmindedly rotating the bangles around her wrist. She hoped he hadn't somehow discovered the packages she'd planted. It would only complicate matters, and she wasn't in the mood for more complications right now. The success of the next operation would have some very serious implications. She wanted to be able to monitor it without unnecessary distractions.

She inhaled deeply, closing her eyes for a moment to calm her nerves. When she opened them again the person she least wanted to see was heading in her direction, arm linked with Paul Phoenix. As usual, Paul looked unhinged or inebriated, which of the two she couldn't tell, but it usually didn't make much difference. She really wished she could pretend she hadn't seen the woman and look away, but she just couldn't take the risk. Even a drunkard like Phoenix might notice something amiss.

"Hi Nina," she piped in the chirpiest voice she could muster. "Are you and Paul here an item now?" Paul gave her a highly suspicious glance that immediately set her heart racing. For God's sake Christie, calm down. The man probably doesn't even know who you are, let alone where you're putting your money.

Nina looked at Christie, something glacial shifting in the depths of those sapphire eyes. Her face was uncertain for a moment before opting for a weak smile. "No Christie, Paul's just accompanying me so I don't get lost."

Paul was glancing suspiciously again, this time at Nina.

"Oh, ever the gentleman, huh?" said Christie, before forcing out one her patented giggles that always made her wish she were twenty again.

"Yes, of course," Nina agreed, gently squeezing Paul's arm. "Anyway, we should be off. If you're waiting for Bruce, I think I just saw him a little way behind us. See you later," she said, before she and Paul continued on.

"Oh, thanks Nina," said Christie with a smile that instantly dissolved as soon as she looked away. She took another breath. Nina was the loose end that Christie had never anticipated. Seeing her again when she had first arrived at Mishima Meadows was almost enough to make her consider leaving. She knew it was unlikely that Nina would divulge to anyone the details of the contract they both signed all those years ago, but it was still enough to set her on edge whenever she laid eyes on the former assassin.

"Hey girl."

It was Bruce, and as usual he was with the mute Mexican and the almost as mute Marduk, Christie noted. Show time. She lunged forward enthusiastically, arms extended. "Hi sweetie."

"You ready to fly, girl?" he said, grinning suggestively.

Oh, dear God, she thought, mentally cringing. She was sure she'd just seen Marduk's eyes roll at the comment as well. "I know I am, are you, sweetie?"

Bruce chuckled hoarsely and threw an arm around her less than slender hips before they moved through to the checkpoint.

King was wheeled through the scanning device by a security guard. Then Craig stooped through, Christie, and finally, Bruce.

"Ever since President Bush was assassinated," Bruce remarked, "it's always been a pain in the ass to get through airport security. Guess we got lucky today."

Christie picked up her handbag from a conveyor belt and smiled to mask her frustration. Fuck! This wasn't supposed to happen. She started rummaging through her bag as if she'd lost something, stalling. Still nothing. Bruce draped his arm around her hips again, and before she knew it they were moving. Moving away from the checkpoint. Find it. Find it. Find it. Find it. Find it….

"Sir!" a male voice called out from behind them. Christie had to stop herself from sighing with relief. They were all still moving, but the voice called out again, more insistently this time. "Sir!" They all turned around, Christie doing her utmost to look surprised. "Could you step aside here please, sir?"

Bruce looked at the security guard quizzically. "Me?"

"Yes, you sir."

"Aww hell!" he exclaimed, gliding over in his chair to the security guard. "What is this? I'm going to be late for the funeral of a dear friend of mine. A funeral, man! What is it? What's the problem?"

"We'll need to take a look at your chair, sir," said the security guard, interrupting Bruce.

Christie stood next to Craig and King, watching the scene unfold in front of her, a smile blossoming on her lips.

The security guard removed one of the plastic casings on the arm of Bruce's chair, revealing nothing.

"This is discrimination!" Bruce bawled, incensed.

The guard moved patiently to the other arm of the chair and removed an identical casing. He scrutinized the opening a moment. Christie held her breath. He reached into the cavity with his fingers and a few seconds later withdrew several suspicious looking plastic wrapped packages of what appeared to be fine, white powder.

Bruce's eyes almost jumped out of their sockets. "Th…the hell!? This is a set up! I'm being framed!"

And…show time. Christie stormed over to the completely dumbfounded Bruce. "Bruce, what is all this, answer me!"

Bruce looked at her, wide-eyed and aghast. "Christie…baby…I…you gotta believe me."

"What are those packages, Bruce? Explain it to me."

Bruce was too stunned to even answer.

"You'll have to come with us, sir," the guard stated before turning to address Christie. "Are you his wife, miss?"

Christie shook her head slowly, dramatically, while forcing tears into her eyes. "I thought you were better than this, Bruce," she whispered, staring at him accusingly.

She turned on her heel and swept past Craig, who had been watching the whole incident with a malicious grin pasted to his face. Something her agent had once said to her suddenly replayed itself in her head. 'Stick to the modelling, Christie, you're not cut out for acting.' Yeah, right.

Kazuya watched as Bruce was ushered away down a long corridor. What has that greedy ignoramus done this time? He just hoped the security guard wasn't the contact he himself needed to meet.

He treaded slowly, now sans-Nurse Saunders, towards the scanning device, before stepping through the archway unhurriedly. He expected some form of response, a buzzer, a siren, something. There was nothing. Kazuya had no choice but to continue walking, slowly. But in the next moment a face popped up from behind the security desk and a burly guard stepped out and walked purposefully towards Kazuya.

The security guard came to a stop in front of him. "Are you familiar with the Bush Act of 2008, sir?"

Kazuya nodded, that was the code phrase.

"We run a random search policy at this airport, and you have been randomly selected sir," he stated.

He began to pat lightly down Kazuya's legs, his arms and then… The guard thrust his hand into the inner pocket of Kazuya's suit jacket and withdrew it again. "You're free to go sir."

Kazuya smiled and began to head off to the departure lounge, feeling the extra weight of the gun in his pocket pulling the jacket to one side slightly. This was an arrangement Kazuya had in place ever since leaving Japan several years ago. If he was going back to his native soil, he was not going to do so without a gun. It would be suicide to do otherwise.

---

Nina dragged Paul after her as she walked along the aisle of the plane, looking for their seats. Paul seemed to spot them first and unceremoniously threw himself down next to someone. Nina guessed - judging from the veiled hat - that it was a woman, though the rest of her was obscured. She walked over to take the seat next to Paul but stopped when she realised who the stranger actually was.

"Hello Anna."

Anna looked up from the magazine she was reading and blinked. "Nina?"

Nina waved, smiling. I knew there was a reason I was putting up with Phoenix. God works in mysterious ways.

"This is first class. You've obviously taken a wrong turn somewhere," Anna said, glancing down the aisle of the plane, "though I have no idea how." Nina raised a thin brow. "If you go that way I'm sure you'll find the steerage much more to your liking."

Nina ignored the barb and sat down, sinking comfortably into the plush chair.

Anna glared at her. "What? Are you deaf now too? Get your wrinkly fucking ass out of that first class chair and take your friend with you, bitch!"

"First of all, Anna, this is my chair. Marshall and his wife couldn't make it, so my 'friend' and I," she indicated Paul, "were upgraded. Second," she said coolly, "there is no steerage on planes, that's on ships, dear."

Anna's nails sank into the arms of her chair; it was all she could do to stop herself from hyperventilating.

Paul began to stare intensely at the bags at Anna's feet, where the neck of a bottle of vodka poked out tantalisingly. He began to bite his nails, his eyes never leaving the bottle. Eventually he finally worked up some courage and leaned closer to Anna. "Do you think maybe I could…"

Anna looked at him and followed his gaze to the duty free bottles she had just purchased.

"Just a sip," Paul hissed beginning to tremble.

She reached down into the bag and all but threw the bottle at Paul. "Sure, knock yourself out," she cried cheerily, "this company couldn't possibly get any worse."

---

Kazuya mounted the last step of the stairway leading up to the plane feeling light headed. Why did everything have to be so challenging when you reached this age? He entered the plane and the stewardess directed him towards his seat. When he was halfway there a kafuffle seemed to erupt just ahead of him in the aisle. A few of the passengers complained loudly as they where thrown sideways onto chairs. The source of the human avalanche revealed itself to be Lei Wulong, travelling hastily towards him, contra flow to the rest of the traffic.

Kazuya was pushed aside roughly as Lei sped past. He only just managed to grab at a chair to prevent himself from falling to the floor, and suddenly felt the urge to pull out his gun and retire the ex-cop in a more permanent manner, but he was suddenly chilled by a worrying thought. What if he took the gun? Senile or not, the cop couldn't be trusted. Even at his considerable age, when arthritis was an inevitability, he still had deft hands, and it wasn't uncommon for pick pocketing thievery to occur while Lei was around.

He quickly found his seat before reaching into his pocket, relieved to feel the smooth, cold metal of the gun beneath his fingers. Thank God for that.

/God's more of a pacifist these days. I wouldn't credit him with that./

I wouldn't credit you with much either, thought Kazuya, crossing his arms.

/We have much to discuss, little one,/ said the demon, solemnly.

How about, you talk and I listen, then?

/Of course, little one./

---

Two hours into the flight, Paul slumped forward in his chair, still grasping a second empty bottle of vodka in his hand.

"Woo, he can pack 'em," Anna slurred, refilling her cup with something that smelled suspiciously like turpentine.

"May I?" asked Nina, holding out a cup she'd just been drinking tea from. She would never have asked under normal circumstances unless she wanted Anna to blow up, but drinking this much usually made her less volatile, so she thought she'd take the chance.

Anna looked at her sister, swaying slightly. "Sure, why not? If it gives you something else to repent for then I'm happy, right?" She started pouring the noxious fluid into Nina's cup, but found herself becoming distracted. "What the hell are you wearing?" she said flatly, eyeing Nina's grey pinafore with disdain.

Nina pulled her cup back to her lap. "This?" she said, brushing out a few creases with her fingers. "Well we are about to attend a funeral."

Anna's face crumpled into a spectacularly unattractive grimace. "It's like a fucking funeral everyday with you. I mean, first it's the purple camouflage bin bags and now this. Christ Nina, I wouldn't wear that to my funeral. And the answer is no, before you bother asking, an early menopause is not an excuse for looking like shit."

Nina shot Anna a look so rife with murderous intent she could see her visibly recoil. She downed the whole cup of liquid - which was of considerable size - in one go, and shot her arm out towards Anna. "Give me another one."