If We Could Be Heroes
A King of Fighters fanfiction
"If you want to make peace,
you don't talk to your friends.
You talk to your enemies."
Mother Teresa
1. Of Thieves & Beggars
Water is growing in my beer glass.
He lifted the shot glass to the dim light and took a deep breath, which ate several millimeters off his cigarette butt.
The barman flipped the brown, moist cloth over his shoulder and paused, holding a jug and a frown. "Water ain't growing, Yagami-kun. That's the ice melting."
Iori Yagami suppressed the urge to glare at him, since Mr. Barman was one of the few people in his severely limited social circle. Behind him a scuffle began, by some random thugs, talking about some random thing. People gambling and drinking always ended up brawling.
What was new in Southtown? Nothing.
Iori brushed a few strands of red from his half-closed eyes, and slumped forward, chin on forearm.
Fuck, I have stubble.
Someone, somewhere said something like, "I never have stubble. Not even in 1994."
But then you never lost your flames either.
…
He retched.
"IT'S 50 BUCKS, GIVE IT HERE!" someone hollered, above the din. It was a feminine voice, on the deep side, the kind found commonly in fighting tournaments…
There was guffawing, chairs being pushed back, and without lifting his head, Iori knew there were probably about four, no five, men advancing on the poor girl who was likely to get her just desserts for being in such a place at this time. He heard the obligatory grunt of the fat man exerting too much effort throwing his arm back, aiming for a punch to her face. He felt another lunge forward, the air whistling through his dry throat. Another one going in for a frontal kick – there was an audible crack of the pelvic bone characteristic of a usually sedate person who had suddenly decided to move his legs.
The barman tapped the table, kindly informing him that his cigarette was about to burn holes through his lips if he didn't let it go.
Nodding in appreciation, Iori threw it into the ash tray, leaning back and gazing at the calendar.
3 months. He never thought he'd last so long. His sanity, that is.
Here was a secret Iori would never admit to anyone, hell there were a lot of them but this was one of the worst: he'd never felt more sane than now. The logic behind such an emotion was simple. With the Yasakani no Magatama and his flames, purple or otherwise, absent from his care, he was altogether a very normal person. As long as Orochi wasn't near. The feeling was nothing special. It was only like cutting the bloodline short.
The truth was that Iori Yagami was tired of being the "sole descendant of the cursed clan" and needing to babysit the Sacred Treasure, etc etc. The truth was that he was beginning to wonder how long his lifespan really was, considering all the rumours that Yagamis die young. And yes, I'm working hard at the smoking bit too. The seldom pure and never simple truth was that his whole raison d'etre was a farce. He knew it, Kusanagi knew it, hell, everyone knew it.
… Iori stared at his empty glass, watching in its reflection the long-haired woman dodging blows and sending a couple of stout men flying across the room.
He put the glass down.
People live believing in bullshit. It's a defense mechanism, and it's what makes people fit enough to fight.
Throw in the fact that he was burned out being a perpetual participant in that increasingly screwed-up tournament, and noobs kept jumping out every year. Every damn year!
He had been horrified. There was much in his life that had been terrifying and even supernatural. He had been frustrated. But failure never got him down for long. He had been reluctant. But he did what he had to.
Severe depression, Iori now knew, was a downward spiral.
What knocked him out of it, that very moment, was a wooden stool.
While it clattered onto the floor after rebounding off the back of his skull, Iori sat motionlessly. The barman shrank back.
For the first time in a few months, Iori's eyes opened wide. He stood up, and turned around. His vision was blurring, but only slightly.
There was a body count of four men lying on the ground semi-conscious. Two people were still standing: a tall, leather-clad man with curly hair and a tall, leather-clad female with luminous eyes. Both of them were staring at him in complete silence.
Iori waited.
"She did it." The man whimpered, pointing at the woman. She sniffed, rolling her eyes.
Iori turned to look at her.
The girl, who couldn't be older than 23, paused for a moment, enough time for him to give her a good once-over. And another. Lean muscles, considerable cleavage, showgirl legs and thigh-high boots. Iori didn't have a type, but she'd fit it if he did.
"I was aiming it at him, not you," she finally said. Then she shrugged, carelessly. "So what? You want me to pay for your hospital bills? Then I'll need that $50 from this bastard over here."
Iori turned to look at him.
The man winced, dug into his pocket and slammed a note on the table before scrambling out of the bar.
Skipping over in those four-inch heels, she smirked as she reached out for the note. Not unexpectedly, Iori was there first.
The woman kept her eye on the note, lips thinning.
"Compensation," he said.
"I want my change," she retorted, pulling herself up to her full height. They were almost eye to eye now. "I don't believe a little scratch on your head will cost 50."
Stupid woman.
"Stupid woman," Iori said. "50 won't cover it. Fool."
In a heartbeat his arm came up, fingers closing around her wrist to stop her right palm from smacking his cheek.
A smile crept across her crimson lips. Up close now, he could see her eyes were a light violet, and glowing with glee. Gripped tightly in her left fist was the note.
Before he could react, she head-butted him, sort of. That was the closest approximation to what she was doing. Cursing, Iori fell back, loosened his grip and she took the opening, sprinting towards the exit. He broke his fall easily, and when he looked up naturally she was gone.
"ARGHH, STUPID WOMAN!!!" he hollered. He would definitely kill her the next time he saw her. Or anyone who looked like her, for that matter.
And that head-butt. Bloody hell. He touched his upper lip, and looked down at the shiny lipstick stain on his fingertips.
WHO THE HELL DOES A HEAD BUTT LIKE THAT?!
He stood up, and stomped out, heading for the nearest drugstore.