A/N: Hey, faithful readers. Sorry for the prolong. It's been months since I've updated this fic, but I've got it all written in my head and predict it will end at either Chapter 10 or 11. Anyone who hasn't given up on it yet may be happy to know I plan to put out at least 4 chapters this month. There's been such a huge gap between this update and the last that I considered writing a brief "previously on" segment, but decided against it in the end. If anyone feels like it would be beneficial for upcoming chapters, feel free to let me know somewhere in your reviews.
Thanks for reading, as always. And also, a HUGE shout-out to LittleMissBadAssid for this extremely late birthday present. :P
Without any further ado, here's the fourth chapter...
Chapter 4 – Devils and Monsters
Jin hated how Xiaoyu dragged him out of his comfort zone and made him enjoy her company. He'd banned himself from social interaction, and strived to uphold that ban for as long as the devil threatened to break free. There was no telling the damage he'd do to anyone and anything around him. As persistent, annoying and pesky as the silly, little girl could be, she didn't deserve the wrath of his bloodthirsty demon. Jin hadn't revealed his darkness to a soul, but he cared enough to consider scaring her off with the truth. The more he wallowed in his own company though, the more he came to appreciate hers. Her entire carefree existence filled him with wonder and envy. Life was supposed to this serious, convoluted mystery everyone tried to solve, dark, gloomy, lonely with sprinkles of contentment, yet there she was, living like a cartoon character on a joy ride. Something about her pout, the way her pigtails drooped when he wasn't interested; it was impossible to say no. And so he found himself in shorts on a tennis court under the glaring sun, asking himself how he got there.
"So how much am I winning by?" she jibed.
He couldn't believe he was losing to her. Granted, the tennis court was one of many luxuries he'd inherited with the Mishima estate and never made use of. "Winning means nothing until you've actually won."
She scratched the side of her head with a finger. "Jin-sama, you're being confusing again!"
"Nevermind," he said, disappointed in himself. He didn't get how this whole 'casual conversation' thing worked. "Just serve."
"Well okay," said Xiaoyu in a warning tone. "You asked for it!" She swiped her fingers across her visor, a juvenile gesture translating to: I mean serious business. She tossed the tennis ball in the air and swung her racket through it, strong but true. The spin caught him flatfooted. He could only watch as the green blur swerved in an unreachable direction and bounced on the service line. "Ace!" she cheered. "Woot, woot!" Her bottom swung left to right in a celebratory dance.
He couldn't tell what was more embarrassing between that and the score line. When he bent over to pick up the ball, a sudden rush exploded in his skull. The throbbing agony knocked him down to one knee. Not this again. Not now. His vision quaked, doubling the ball and the ground beneath him. Xiaoyu's voice sounded twice as far away but her distress was easy to discern. Jin panicked hearing her footsteps grow faster and louder.
"No!" He threw an arm backwards. "Don't . . . don't get any closer." He couldn't afford to lose control now.
"J-Jin, are you okay?" His earshot zoned in and out of whack; one second she was standing atop a mountain and the next he could hear her gulp. "What's happening? Jin-sama!"
He dug nails into his scalp, gnawing his teeth as his heart pounded in his skull. "Go home," he said, voice darker than intended. She couldn't be here to witness this migraine. He didn't know how or why it started, but it always ended the same way. It was only a matter of time before the voices crawled out of hell. What was she doing still standing there? He whipped around and she flinched before he'd opened his mouth.
"I said go home!" Rage and spit flew from his lips.
She looked into his watery, bloodshot eyes and trembled, dropping her racket on the ground, petrified.
Jin covered his face with both hands and growled. If she wasn't going to leave, he'd have to before he lost his cognisance.
He stormed back to the manor. His double vision doubled as he stumbled down the halls, clearing plants and ornaments off their shelves. The voices raided his mind all at once. They spoke no language or reason. Gasps, harrowing screams, dark mantras and twisted chortles. He could feel his nails growing longer and sharper. No, please, he shook his head, trying to overcome the mounting rage. Horns climbed out of his skull. He screwed his eyes shut as crimson and black flashed across his sights. It was a losing battle and he knew it. He wasn't going to make it upstairs to his protective chamber. All he could hope was he'd put enough distance between him and Xiaoyu. He cried out as fire seared his veins.
Jin blacked out.
Well, he should've.
His eyes peeled open and he raised his hands in shock. No claws. He rummaged through his hair. No horns. Everything was . . . normal. That never happened.
The sound of a car pulling up drew him to the window. Jin didn't recognise the battered sedan. As he squinted at the foreign arrival, keen to trigger some memory of it, the headache returned with scorching zest. He leaned an arm against the wall for support, suddenly under siege again. What in the devil's name was going on? When the car drove into the estate and stopped, so too did his hellish fever. If things weren't puzzling enough, Asuka stepped out of the vehicle, looking worse for wear, though he shouldn't be one to talk.
He glanced at the living room clock as she rushed inside. "School ended hours ago," he said. "What took you so long to get back?" She ignored him and hid behind the curtains, peering out the window as if she expected someone at any second. "Why are your clothes all ruffled?" asked Jin. "And whose car is that? Since when do you drive? Do you even have a license?" She continued to ignore him. He lost his patience and swung her about the shoulder. "Hey, I'm talking to you."
"And I heard you!" she hollered back, shrugging him off her shoulder. Her outburst shocked her too. She calmed down and reminded herself whose roof she was living under. In the space of a few years, Jin went from not knowing he had a cousin to offering her a room in his house; it was closer to her school and much cosier than her father's cabin on the outskirts of the city. Jin didn't mind, provided she stayed out of his way, stayed out of trouble and stayed focused on her studies, which for the most part she did. Still, he didn't appreciate her temper, hormonal teenager or not.
"Do you want to try that again?" he asked. "Where were you?"
"Out."
"Why are your clothes all messed up?"
"Gee, Mr Fashionista, you don't look so hot yourself right now."
"Whose car is that?"
"I borrowed it."
"You can drive?"
"Apparently."
"You have a license?"
"Does a license to thrill apply?"
Jin groaned. Never having kids.
"Look," said Asuka. "I'm just trying to figure stuff out, cuz. You don't need to get involved in any of it."
Good. He didn't want to. Battling a devil trying to hijack his body was drama enough. She mumbled something about a shower and took off upstairs. He turned his attention back to the car. The sight of it burned his retinas and drove his migraine into high gear.
Something about that heap of garbage on wheels could manipulate the devil gene. Come to think of it, Asuka hadn't divulged where she 'borrowed' it from. Jin stared at the rage-inducing vehicle and struggled to figure it out. But if he could, maybe, just maybe, he'd unearth a way to conquer his demons and reclaim his life. Through a throbbing head and boiling blood, Jin never stopped staring, pondering and hoping.
. . .
Hwoarang felt hot, itchy blackness against his face, his vision cut off, his oxygen sparse. The bastards left just enough space at the bottom of the bag to keep him alive. Binds glued his wrists and ankles together, limiting his mobility to wriggles while the stuffy air shortened his breath. He felt like a worm trapped in claustrophobic hell. Motion sickness added to his plight. He groaned at every speed bump and pothole. Had to be some shitty gravel road. The driver made a game out of hitting the brakes hard, probably laughing his ass off as the suddenness threw him around the van. Dick. He'd be the first to go, Hwoarang decided. Not much of a threat coming from someone who couldn't scratch his own ass, granted. The itch burned fiercer too as the ride trudged on. It drove him crazy. He was rubbing the side of his ass on the van's floor when it bumped into Steve.
"Watch where you're swinging that thing," said the ill-tempered Brit. "Could do without catching one of your STDs, mate."
"You're a fucking STD," Hwoarang retorted. "Bad shit always happens when I'm fucking around you. I'm probably gonna die all itchy and shit. Fuck!"
"Excuse me, remind me whose bright idea it was to hook up with those birds, why don't you?"
"Mine, Fox. All the bright ideas are fucking mine. I do all the thinking around here."
"With your fucking knob. That's why we're in this bloody mess in the first place, you genital wart."
"Hey, don't get all pissy with me coz you didn't get the job done, alright? I can lead your dick to the pussy but I can't make it fuck."
Steve scoffed. "Well aren't you the poet? Fucking wanker. Instead of being a smartarse, how about you help think of a way to get us out of your shit, eh? Who are these maggots anyway?"
"How the hell should I know?" Hwoarang grunted and growled as he struggled to pull his arms apart. His thoughts returned to the men who had them tied, gagged and dumped them in the back of a van like garbage. All dressed in black, head to toe, masks and all. Fucking ninjas. Cowards afraid to show their mugs. At least when he committed crimes, he owned them. A wayward sensation broke Hwoarang's concentration. He frowned, feeling something round rub against his side. Something that felt suspiciously like an ass. "Dude, what the fuck?"
Steve continued to grind his butt until something beeped. "Got it."
"The fuck? You need to get your ass checked, man."
"Pager," said Steve.
"I don't appreciate all that bumping and grinding action."
"You're one to talk. I heard you did quite a bit of bumping and grinding in the pen."
He heard the smile in Steve's voice and it pissed him off. "The fuck you just say to me, cocksucker?"
"Tsk, tsk. What a filthy mouth you've got there. Oughtta be washed out with soap. Oh . . . I'm sorry, is soap a sore topic, mate?"
"You motherfuck-" Hwoarang's anger mangled his words. "Gonna fuck you up right now!"
Hwoarang did all he could in his constraints to inflict harm. Steve sought to do the same. The two scooted towards the centre of the van in a snail-like collision. Tackle attempts proved no fiercer than wriggles. Head-butts turned to harmless nuzzles. They hurled profanity at each other through the bags, but for all the violence in their tongues, their bodies brushed and rolled about together with little harm. So consumed by their hatred, they failed to realise the van had stopped. When the door slid open, sunlight burst through the darkness, and a silence stilled the air. As Hwoarang lay frozen on top of Steve, he got the distinct impression they were being watched.
"Jesus Christ," said a gruff voice. "You two need a moment?"
The door slid shut.
. . .
Hwoarang stumbled as one of the brutes shoved him in the back.
"Walk faster!"
Maybe he would if he could actually see where the fuck he was going. Nothing about this felt right. The kidnappers' identities grew like an itch in his mind, burning, one he could neither reach nor ignore. Who were these 'maggots' as his partner so delicately put it? Not cops. Wasn't their style. He might've thought they were Miguel's henchmen had they not taken the man by surprise too. Maybe they were ghosts of his past risen to haunt him. Even then, names and faces fell short of his memory. Bastards were best forgotten. Whoever ordered his capture however didn't strike him as the type to forget.
The thugs pushed Hwoarang around, ridicule in their nasty grunts. He heard Steve's accented retorts hushed by blows. The men were unprejudiced in their ruthlessness. Hwoarang deduced the cause of all this must've been a mission he and Steve had carried out together. A mission he couldn't fucking remember if he tried, and now he'd be killed because of it. After all the people he'd taken out in the name of money, he couldn't cry foul play, but the least he hoped for was to look into the eyes of the man who'd carry out his execution. Was that really too much to ask? If this was payback, the fact he and Steve were still breathing scared him more than anything else. These half-witted apes wanted to saviour their impending deaths. It was going to be slow and torturous. He regretted not saving a cigarette for this moment.
Hwoarang and Steve's footsteps, and what sounded like an army marching behind them, echoed down long and winding corridors, the final mile on death row. His breath hung hot and heavy in the bag, darkness suffocating him. He could feel the rope eating into his wrists, and the more he writhed, the itchier it burned. Eventually, his hands hung limp in defeat. His ankle constraints had been loosened to allow only half a step at a time, his captors wary of what his feet could do. And they were right to be. He wondered if he could run given the opportunity. Lumbering in blindness, he tried to sense the amount of space around him. Judging by the sound bouncing off the walls, the arid stench pervading his bag and the ease with which the ruffians moved them about, he guessed they'd been dragged into an abandoned building, just the place if you needed to end someone quick and dirty. He knew from experience.
Hwoarang was pushed through a half-open door and felt Steve bundled in right after him. His thighs crashed into a wooden beam, then unsympathetic mitts clutched his shoulders and piled on weight. "Si' down," the handler groaned. Hwoarang was happy to, his itchy ass sighing against the rub of the seat. He didn't realise until then how bruised his body was. His bones still ached from the confrontation with Miguel's men, and the bumpy van ride hadn't done him any favours. All his muscles sighed in the sitting position, but his relief would be short lived. A rough hand yanked the bag off his face.
After hours of breathing his own recycled air, the dingy atmosphere smelt fresher than daises. With squinty eyes readjusting to light, he glanced to his right where Steve was relieved of his bag too, blond hair puffy and dishevelled from the pull. They had but a moment to meet each other's eyes before the presence on the opposite side of the table commanded their attention.
The poor ambience added to the man's menace, a face sliced diagonally into light and shadows, the visible eye cold and measuring. What could be made of his expression was calm, and yet layered with hard judgement, the lines on his face deep, troubled, aging an otherwise strapping visage. As he leaned forward, moving into the light, the shape of his prominent eyebrows spoke of agitation. "Gentlemen, I don't suppose you know why you're here?"
"Holy shit," said Steve out of the blue. "I know you."
Hwoarang took another look at the man and remained confused. "How?" he asked his partner.
"Coz I fucking read the papers, dipshit."
"What the fuck is that supposed to mean? Saying I can't read?"
"Porn magazines don't count, mug."
"Fuck off. I don't read that filth," said Hwoarang, then a pause. "I only look at the pictures."
One of a dozen henchmen surrounding the table slammed his fist on the surface, forcing them to flinch. "Enough! You'll not disrespect The Boss with your juvenile drivel."
"The B-B-B . . ." Hwoarang's voice failed him. "The B-Boss? As in, The Boss?" He studied the man's features in greater detail.
"Also known as Mr. Rochefort," said Steve. "Multi-millionaire, renowned philanthropist, one of the biggest fat cats in the oil game. And a monster to boot. Heh, should've fucking guessed. Who else could have so much power?"
Rochefort? Hwoarang mused. Why did that sound so familiar?
"I'm a man of many names and many faces," said The Boss. For a man who spent his entire existence hiding his involvement with The Company, Mr. Rochefort seemed awfully undeterred by his identity being openly discussed. It only meant one thing: he had no intention of letting them walk out alive. "There are only two reasons you aren't dead already. One, is because I wanted to watch as it happened. And two," he said, rising from his throne. His suit shone white despite the darkness, crisp, lathered in wealth and prestige, the same glimmer refining his shoulder-length hair and long, thin goatee. "I need to ask you one question." His slow, deliberate walk moved with an air of authority, a sense of privilege far beyond the average man. Hwoarang and Steve were frozen in his aura as he rounded the back of their chairs, fragrance like sweet poison in their nostrils. His hands dropped onto either one of their shoulders, golden glints burning their retinas from 'R' shaped rings. "Now," he said, voice low, cool as ice. "Which one of you gentlemen touched my daughter?"
With the setting imposed upon them, he could've asked any question and received the same dumbfounded expression, but Hwoarang's reaction was genuine, at least until he thought back to his latest conquests. He sucked at remembering names, especially when it came to women, even more so if he'd slept with them already. But Asuka, this Asuka Kazama, had a friend, and he just knew, as was typical of his life, this friend had the last surname you wanted a girl to have under the circumstances. Lili. He remembered. Emilie Rochefort. He bowed his head and muttered, "Fuck my life."
"I'm only going to repeat this once." Mr. Rochefort's grips tensed on their shoulders. He said it slower this time. "Which one of you gentlemen touched my teenage daughter?"
Slowly, Hwoarang's head turned, and he looked at Steve out the corner of his eye, annoyed at his suicidal silence. "Look," said Hwoarang, voice shaky. "S-sir, Mr. Boss, sir, your highness. W-we didn't know she was . . . she was your –"
Hwoarang's face was smashed into the table faster than he could say another word.
Fingers intertwined in his red hair, Mr. Rochefort hauled Hwoarang's head up by the scalp. "Was it fun?"
"I didn't –"
He thrust Hwoarang's face into the table again.
"Sir, I swear I –"
Smash.
"I didn't –"
Smash.
"I didn't fucking touch her!" he screamed.
"No? Then it was this one?" The Boss slammed Steve's face into the table with his other hand. "I'll teach you sick perverts to prey on schoolgirls." He slammed him again. "Not my daughter." Again. "Not my fucking daughter!" Hwoarang's head this time. "You don't get to live with that!" Again. "She's just a kid," Mr. Rochefort cried out, emotion spilling into his fury. "She's just a fucking kid!"
The Boss bounced their heads off the table in each hand, a rabid outpour of hatred, spitting callousness and rage unbefitting of his polished image. He demanded to know their intentions, who hired them and why his daughter was a target, questions he gave them no chance to answer before smashing their teeth into the wood. Not that he'd believe anything they had to say. His rage was blind and deaf, devoid of reason and mercy. The table zoomed in and out of Hwoarang's face repeatedly, the rapid movements disorienting him on their own. He felt sick with dizziness. Bash after bash numbed his face, his nose red and sore. Blood poured, punctuating the broken bridge. And still, the monster banged his face in some more. The taste of metal doused his tongue, gushing from a crooked nose and busted lip. Crimson smeared the surface of the dented table. It dripped off his chin and onto his shirt and lap. And still, the punishment continued, his grunts lost in the swivelling commotion and thumps. The Boss would not be satisfied until his face was as flat as the surface it rammed into. That, or until he drowned in his own blood. Whichever came first.
Mr. Rochefort only stopped when the ache in his arms needed rest.
Steve seized the moment to speak up. "Sir, B-Boss…" His accent sounded even more mangled and fucked up than it usually did. "We get why you're pissed but we really did no harm to your daughter. In fact, if it weren't for us, she'd be dead." The claim brought about an uncomfortable silence. Doubtful minds churned. "I swear on my life," Steve continued. "You saw the carnage back there, the house you picked us up from. She was caught in the crosshairs of a gun battle. You really believe she survived all that by luck?"
Hwoarang chuckled, humourless. "A precious little snob like her? No fucking chance." He spat a knot of blood and saliva.
The Boss swung the back of his fist across the redhead's jaw, leaving a red 'R' imprinted on his cheek. "You are no man to speak ill of my daughter."
"Yeah, would you just shut the fuck up for once?" said Steve.
"I'll say whatever the fuck I want whenever the fuck I want," said Hwoarang.
"And you wonder why no one fucking likes you."
"Your mom liked me pretty good, dickwad."
The Boss struck both of them across the lips, commanding silence at once. "You're worse than a bag of mice." He nursed a developing headache. "I cannot listen to any more of your malarkey and lies," he said, rolling a sleeve up to his elbow. "I've never been a man of violence despite what you may think. This, however, is not violence." He rolled up the other sleeve. "This is a service to the public, a cleaning up of our foul streets. No one will notice you're gone, and those that do, will not miss you." He held out a palm where one servant placed the handle of a knife. "Safe be our schools."
Mr. Rochefort snatched a handful of red hair and dragged back Hwoarang's head, exposing his neck. Fear trudged down his Adam's apple as the icy blade sailed across it. Half an inch away, the tip punctured his flesh, drawing a bright red bead amidst more gulps. The Boss tightened his grip on the handle, ready to deepen the wound and stretch it across his throat. A burst at the door halted him. Hwoarang heard the shuffles of hurried feet, then murmurs being put to The Boss. "You sure?" he muttered back to the messenger. More whispering. The blade stilled while its wielder assessed the news. Seconds felt like hours. Hwoarang couldn't decipher any words but he sensed urgency in the matter. It was important enough for The Boss to delay their slaughter. He trekked back to his desk, one hand on his hip, the other on his head, as if he'd just been sprung the most impossible conundrum of his life. After deliberating silently on his own, he spread his fists on the table and leaned forward, looking down on his prisoners.
"Where's Pandora?"
Hwoarang and Steve exchanged puzzled glances. "Where's who now?"
The Boss didn't buy it. He pointed the knife's tip at them, fist trembling with rage. "No more games. Where is it? Where's the box?" He threatened to lurch forward but stopped himself. "Please. Take them to the dungeons. I cannot be trusted to restrain myself." He regarded the prisoners with steel and venom as he addressed his soldiers. "Do whatever it takes."
. . .
Steve winced as another fist collided with his rib cage. His shirt had been ripped open, bearing no protection, sleeve dangling off its socket. They'd chained his wrists and hung his arms above his head, feet swaying an inch off the ground as Rochefort's brutes carried out a physical interrogation. With one eye swollen, half-closed, and the other murky with blood, he could barely see past the blur of the musclebound thug dishing out the pain. The room was putrid, grimy walls, boarded-up windows, the stench of broken bodies and dried blood left to stir. He hadn't been the first victim here. Not by a long shot.
His muscles twitched in spasms of pain. Every part of him ached. His body learned to tense before each blow but it did little to silence the lasting impact. Slabs of muscle packed his abdomen, trained to withstand strikes in the ring, but former world champion or not, Steve felt the fight draining from his body. Pain numbed the side of his face, arms ready to drop off. The brute roared and hurled all his weight behind a dozen more punches. Each forced the wind out of Steve's lungs, echoing in the dingy walls, chains rustling as he swayed from the impact. The strength of the thumps seemed to ripple through his body and rearrange his organs. He'd been punched black and blue, torso sweltering with bruises, yet the men were no closer to getting their answers than when they started; partly because he was a stubborn prick but mostly because he didn't know the answers.
He braced himself for another punch when the door creaked open.
"Bring him down," said a silky voice. It belonged to a slim man, also hidden behind a mask. He posed authority over the brawny tormentor who raced to undo his chains. Steve knew better than to hope it was over. More likely a game of good thug, bad thug. They'd failed to break him physically. Perhaps now they'd set their targets on his mind.
Steve collapsed in a heap of bruised bones as soon the chains relinquished him. The bigger man hauled him to his feet, bringing him face to mask with the smaller thug.
"Still not talking, huh?"
Steve puffed, dripping sweat and blood. "I told you." His voice was heavy and raspy. "I don't know where the bloody box is." It was the truth. Even so, they hardly gave him motivation to aid their cause. He'd be good as dead as soon they got what they wanted.
"Mhm. Of course, of course. Let's go pay a visit to your friend, shall we?"
"Why?"
The smaller thug ignored the question and started for the door instead while the big man pushed Steve's limp body along. His legs felt like collapsing but his captors wouldn't let them. "You know why I chose you?" said the slim thug, leading him down a corridor with flickering fluorescent tubes. "You seem to be more reasonable than your friend." Speaking of Hwoarang, his voice rained down the hall, booming cries of pain intermingled with what sounded like his own laughter. What the hell? Steve struggled to make sense of what he was hearing. Sounded like Hwoarang had lost it, broken under the torture, albeit not broken enough to give them what they wanted, or they would've both been dead already.
The masked thug led Steve into the room where the redhead's interrogation was being enforced. They'd chained him the same way he had been and two henchmen took turns serving the punishment. A third stood near a stool, watching over the torture. He fired questions between the blows. Steve spotted his gun, pager, and wallet amongst Hwoarang's possessions on the stool.
"See?" said the slim thug. "Your friend's got a death wish."
Rather than cooperate, Hwoarang laughed and mocked the burly men close to incapacitating him. "You mean that's all you got?" He took a punch to the jaw, spat blood, and continued. "I've been hit on harder in gay clubs, motherfucker." A punch to the gut. "That one actually tickled."
Insane, thought Steve. The men were growing tired from the energy they exhausted trying to break him, shaking their fists after striking a beaten and bloodied Hwoarang.
"I'm afraid we've lost our patience with your friend," said the slim thug. "He clearly doesn't give a damn about his life. But maybe you do." The man who'd been standing back and watching suddenly grabbed Steve's gun off the stool. He shot one bullet through the ceiling then pointed the pistol at Hwoarang's head. "So," said the slim thug. "Here's the deal. If you don't talk, we'll blow his brains out. Then we'll blow yours out. You guys think you're indispensable? You think The Boss can't find more dollar-a-day punks to do his bidding? You want to redeem yourselves in The Boss' eyes? This is your chance right here. You only get one." He put a hand on Steve's shoulder. "Show some sense. Don't make me force you to see your friend's brains splattered all over this floor."
Steve looked from one thug to the next, then broke out in laughter. "Are you kidding me?" Aching ribs cut his mirth short. "You think I give a flying fuck about this cunt?" He jabbed a finger at Hwoarang. "He's the fucking reason we're both going to be wasted right here. Fucking piecing of shit – I'll waste his ass my goddamn self." To their amazement, Steve proceeded to punch his friend in the gut as hard as he could. The smartarse redhead only got half an insult out before Steve delivered a stinging uppercut, snapping his jaw shut. He followed up with rib-crushing, body shots and strikes to the face. Stunned, they all watched in bemusement, chuckling at the partnership falling apart. Steve intensified the assault, his rage and frustration boiling over as he finally grabbed his gun from the thug and pressed the barrel against Hwoarang's forehead. "See you in hell, bitch."
He pulled the trigger.
It clicked without incident. He roared and pressed the trigger again, and again, and again. Click, click, click. "Fuck!" Out of bullets. He tossed the gun aside and asked the closest thug for his weapon. Amused, the thug handed it over. Steve cocked the gun and shot the thug square between his eyes.
The whole place hushed. Shock and confusion filled the air.
Suddenly, the thugs caught on to the ploy and reached for their guns. None were quicker than Steve. He blasted the dingbats before any could draw.
After delivering a bitter kick to one of the dead bodies, Steve retrieved a batch of keys from its pocket and worked on Hwoarang's chains.
"Fuck." Hwoarang spat bitterly. "What the fuck was that?"
"Oy, it worked didn't it?"
"You almost fucking blew my brains out."
"It was my gun," said Steve, finally slotting in the right key. "A good man always knows how many rounds he's carrying."
"Fuck that. What if they loaded more bullets after they took it off you?"
It was actually a decent point. Steve shrugged. "A risk I was willing to take."
"Fuck you."
"You're welcome."
Hwoarang exaggerated a sigh of relief, rubbing his free wrists. "Son of a Panda, you didn't need to be so brutal," he said, re-adjusting his jaw. "On the plus side, I can't feel the itch on my ass anymore."
"Hate to break it to you but your ass isn't safe just yet," said Steve, kneeling over a wasted thug. "Let's get the gats off these motherfuckers. Have a feeling we're gonna need them real soon."
"Copy that, fuckface."
It was only a matter of time until the commotion reached the higher ups and they had a whole army of cunts on top of them. Their banged-up bodies worked on adrenaline alone. After scavenging the enemies' weapons and ammo, they stepped out of the room, only for a horde of masked thugs to charge around the corner, a dozen guns aimed at Hwoarang and Steve.
"Shit!"
Shots were fired, but not the shots anyone expected.
The thug at the forefront was sent flying shoulder first into wall beside him. Several follow-up shots blasted the thugs through their sides, all crumpling to the floor in a pile of bodies. Dead silence. Then slow, heavy footsteps echoed from around the corner. Hwoarang and Steve aimed towards the sound, and waited, and waited, sweat dripping, fingers stroking their triggers.
A big, bald-headed, dopey-looking motherfucker emerged from the corner. His head was about a fingertip shy of touching the ceiling, his shoulders as broad as the corridor, and everything beneath his neck was pure grit and muscle. He wore leopard pants and a sleeveless, fur coat over his bulletproof vest. Heavy boots shook the earth with every step as he approached them tapping a shotgun over his shoulder, the weapon a mere fishing rod in his possession. Hwoarang and Steve lowered their weapons, recognising him by his size before his face.
"Ya called?" said Marduk, a statement.
"About time," said Steve.
"You don't look so pretty anymore." It almost seemed to make him smile.
"Sorry, honey, didn't have time to put on my make-up for you. What took you so long? Your big ass stalled the elevator again?"
"Ha. Ha. Funny guy." Marduk grunted at the unappreciative tone. "No. Decided to stop by the salon to get my hair done," said the big, bad baldy.
"Took a course in comedy too by the sounds of it," said Hwoarang.
"They owe you a refund, mate," said Steve.
Loud and sudden gunfire rattled their eardrums, cutting the banter short. The trio ducked out of instinct. Hwoarang and Steve waited a few seconds after the final shot and then turned around to discover a quartet of enemy corpses laid out with fresh bullet holes. A lone woman stood further down the corridor, Uzi in her grasp, barrel smoking from recent fire. She wore tight pants highlighting her athletic legs and a small protective vest leaving her hourglass waist exposed. Handguns were strapped to her thighs, a dagger slotted into the side of her boot, and a utility belt housing several pouches. Her ponytail swung in tandem with her hips when she walked.
"Boss," greeted Christie, tossing Hwoarang a spare Uzi.
"Well aren't you a sight for sore eyes?" He kissed the submachine gun.
"You've looked better, boss," said Christie. It was the Englishman's appearance that caused a slight flicker in her eye. She acknowledged him with a blasé nod. "Steve."
"Christie." He responded in kind.
"Criss," said Hwoarang. "Brought my baby with you?"
"How could I forget?" She handed him a set of keys.
"Where is she?"
"Eastern exit, seven o'clock."
"Sweet." Hwoarang pocketed the keys. "Oh yeah –"
"Got you covered, boss." She slipped a cigarette between his lips and sparked it with her lighter.
As the end burned, they heard a stampede above their heads, then more footsteps approaching from up the corridor, and more still coming hot from the rear. They assumed their positions, back to back to back to back. Hwoarang puffed smoke out the side of his mouth and cocked his gun. "Bring it, bitches."