CHAPTER SEVEN! With Mustard


"First preliminary match: Blue—"

Looks like I'm up first.

"—versus Red."

He watched Jin out of the corner of his eye, somewhat expecting to see a spark of recognition cross his face, but was disappointed.

So I won't be facing Kazama this time. Oh well; whoever I am up against should be an easy win, then.

"Be right back," Hwoarang said, approaching the arena with a nonchalant stride.

x x x

A torrent of air ripped past his head as he dodged a wayward kick.

Left. Right. Left. Jab.

Two minutes into the fight and already Hwoarang had most of his opponent's moves down to a rhythmic pattern.

His opposition was being careless, doing nothing but launching a repetitive offensive—probably thought the less time he had to spend in the ring, the less chance he had of getting hurt.

His thoughtless assaults were almost too easy for Hwoarang to dodge. Avoiding every blow his foe lined up for him, he attacked whenever he detected an opening, a brief moment of unbalance.

Red's all bark and no bite. Poor guy. Should've focused a little more on his defense.

Hwoarang cringed as the rather Baek-like thought crossed his mind, and he had to duck down abruptly to avoid a roundhouse kick that he should've seen coming.

The preliminary match didn't last too much longer. His opponent crumbled to floor of the arena, clutching his side in agony, after only five minutes of fighting.

Hwoarang grinned and, after bowing to his fallen foe respectably, turned to face a cheering crowd, spreading his arms and basking in the sudden approval.

Keen eyes searched the plethora of faces, and a strange and foreign pang gripped him.

First tournament match I've won on my own, without the old man bossing me around.

He could almost see his former master standing near the edge of the ring, aged eyes narrowed as he prepared to give his apprentice a lecture—too much delay between the kicks, incorrect use of elbow hooks.

Damn, six feet under the ground and I can still hear his senile bitching!

Descending from the elevated stone oval, Hwoarang returned to Jin's side.

His raven-haired companion eyed him warily. "You went wide on your elbow hooks, and your kick combinations left you vulnerable."

"I wish you fucking people would stop telling me that," Hwoarang snapped, earning a perturbed look from Jin.

"Second preliminary match: Pink versus Green," came the shrill voice through the speakers, barely reaching Hwoarang's ears over the loud rumbling of his stomach.

"That's me," Jin told him before making his way toward the ring.

"You do that, and I'll just—go over—" Hwoarang trailed off, realizing quite quickly that he didn't know where the refreshments were being sold.

He remembered the stand they'd gone to upon first entering the building and decided to ask the receptionist where he could find them.

"Hey, lady," he said once he'd reached the booth, "Could you—"

The rest of the sentence receded down his throat as he laid eyes on the woman behind the counter. There was no doubt in his mind she was not the same woman that had greeted them earlier that evening, as he was sure he had never been so repulsed at the sight of someone in his life.

Hwoarang coughed loudly, barely restraining himself from spitting out an insult or two, as the new receptionist gave him an expectant look.

She had to be no younger than fifty, yet was dressed like a teenager. Her hair was badly dyed and scraggly. Tacky plastic earrings dangled from her ears.

"Looking for something?" asked the woman who looked as though she'd been in the tanning bed a tad too long.

"Wasn't there another—"

"She's taking a break," the receptionist interrupted him, flashing a rotting smile, "Did you need something?"

A slight murmuring was all his crippled tongue could manage.

"The refreshment stand is over to your right as you pass the restrooms," the woman responded, miraculously able to understand him, "Let me know if you need anything else, sugar."

He exhaled slowly as he walked away.

Whew, that was close; almost lost my appetite.

x x x

"Son of a bitch."

"Hello to you too, precious," Hwoarang replied, throwing a glance over his shoulder at an impatient-looking Jin.

"Had me looking for you all this time because of a damn pretzel."

"With mustard," Hwoarang chimed in defensively, gesturing to the soft pretzel in his hand.

"Which you paid for with our ticket money," Jin shot back.

"Relax," Hwoarang assured him, "This tournament's a piece of pie. The prize is as good as ours."

"Cake."

"What?"

"A piece of cake, not pie."

"Same difference."

"No," Jin argued, "Pie can't replace cake. If there are candles in a cake, it's a party. If there are candles in a pie, somebody's drunk in the kitchen."

Hwoarang took a bite of his pretzel and shrugged. "Good match?"

"For the most part. Speaking of which," Jin answered with a frown, "Are you aware that the preliminaries are over?"

Hwoarang feigned shock. "Are they really?"

"So you watched the rest of the matches?"

"With mustard, Kazama," Hwoarang insisted, waving the last piece of pretzel in front of his companion's face before tossing it into the depths of his mouth, "The fancy kind, too. It's got a little zing to it. You should try it sometime."

"Dumbass," Jin spat, "If you watched the preliminaries, you'd have an idea of who you'll be up against in the semifinals. And, if you committed the colors announced at the beginning of each round to memory, you'd know exactly who you're facing when your match is called."

The Korean raised a brow in amusement.

"Guess I'm lucky I'm fucking awesome then, huh? I'll beat every one of these punks down, even you if I have to. I don't need to know who I'm fighting; the outcome will always be the same. Unless, of course," he added with a smirk, "I'm up against your cousin, and one of my hands happens to slip—"

"Just wait until it's all over," Jin growled.

"If I was wearing boots, I'd be trembling in them. Honestly."

The speakers crackled noisily.

"The semifinal matches will begin now," boomed the announcer, "The first round is Blue versus Orange."

"Sounds like I'm up again," Hwoarang said, lobbing a crumpled napkin into the nearest trash receptacle, "The crowd just can't get enough of me."

He thought he saw Jin shake his head knowingly as he departed for the arena.

x x x

"—might be the first forfeit of the night—"

Hwoarang folded his arms across his chest, eyes fixed on the opposing—and desolate—half of the stone ring.

"—too dignified to face such—"

"Watch it, pal!" Hwoarang shouted to no one in particular.

He'd started to search for the stand the announcer was broadcasting from with an angry glare when the sound of footsteps echoing on concrete reached him. Returning his attention to the other end of the ring almost impatiently, he was surprised by the presence of the hooded fighter, face still masked in shadow.

"Nice of you to show up," Hwoarang scoffed, determined to remain calm despite the knot of dread forming in his throat.

"I thought so, too," his foe replied with an equal dose of sarcasm.

"You were the one who tried to attack me outside the building," they added after a brief pause.

"That's what you get for forgetting your manners," Hwoarang responded, smirking.

"Should've recognized your voice."

Hwoarang regarded the hooded fighter inquisitively.

Voice?

He clenched his fists at his sides.

Come to think of it, their voice sounds different, strained even—like they're forcing it to be deeper or something. Doesn't sound very feminine, though; probably a guy.

"Any chance you feel like telling me who you are and why you think you know me?"

The hooded person fell into a fighting stance.

"You'll figure it out," they replied, amusement evident in their tone, "Let's start now."

Enough about this dude's identity crisis; I've gotta concentrate on his fighting style if I want to beat him. He almost crushed my damn hand earlier, so logically I should watch out for his punches more so than his kicks, as he probably spent more time—

A wave of dizziness swept over Hwoarang.

He blinked slowly, a puzzled look on his face. "What the fuck—"

But there was no time to investigate; his opponent had already charged.

The first punch was a narrow miss—correction, the first three punches. Hwoarang noticed that his reaction time was significantly slower than it had been during his preliminary fight.

Did this guy swallow jet fuel or something? His combinations are coming too fast for me to anticipate, and he keeps moving, pivoting around unpredictably. Hell, I can't even lay a hand on him!

It wasn't long before the inevitable happened; his deflection was off by a fraction of a second, just enough time for his foe's fist to fly forward and connect with his abdomen.

"I expected more from you," sneered the hooded fighter.

Hwoarang frowned at the dull pain twisting through him.

If only I could get some space!

Deciding that strategy was as good as any, he switched to offensive and tried one of his mid-range kicks. It went through, pushing the other combatant back a good distance, but the delay didn't keep his opponent away for long.

"Not gonna give me a break?"

"First rule," the hooded fighter responded, regaining composure and approaching with twice as much speed, "Never let your opposition rest. Stay close. Don't give them a chance to formulate a plan against you."

"I thought the first rule was that you couldn't talk about Fight Club."

His foe stomped down on his left foot and, utilizing the distraction, landed two consecutive blows—one to his upper chest, one to the back of his knee. He stumbled back, and suddenly the unforgiving gray of the arena was rushing up, and all he could hear was—

"The party has arrived!" he shouted into the sunlit dojo, grinning broadly.

A gust of air brushed past his side. A sharp yank on his ear made him grimace.

"Hey! Let me go, damnit!"

Hwoarang looked up at the stern visage of his mentor.

"You," Baek said smoothly, tightening his grip on the sensitive lobe, "Are late. Again."

He reached up and dislodged the older man's hold on him disdainfully. "Overslept."

Baek studied his pupil's disposition carefully.

"Out. Again," he sighed, "What were you doing last night?"

The boastful smirk was difficult to miss. "You know, I can't recall her name."

His mentor snatched his ear once again. "Disrespectful!"

"It was just a joke, old man," he insisted, wrenching free, "Where's your sense of humor?"

"The Iron Fist tournament is approaching, and if you do not train every day, you will lose in the first round," Baek replied solemnly, "You are already behind. If you continue to neglect your martial arts, I will leave you to fend for yourself."

Hwoarang frowned. "All right, all right. I understand."

"Good. Now, since you were undoubtedly up all night partaking in immature mischief—again—your training today will focus on how to fight when you've exhausted most of your energy. This will come into play in the latter rounds of the tournament, when you've dealt many blows and taken even more, and are mentally and physically drained."

He bowed his head. "Yes, master."

"The best way to deal with such a dilemma," Baek went on, "Is to take a hit to the face."

Hwoarang grinned. "So you've finally lost it."

His mentor thumped him on the back of the head with a closed fist. "Do not doubt your master."

"You're certainly violent this morning," he remarked through gritted teeth.

"I am not suggesting, of course, that you let yourself receive a full-fledged hit," Baek told him, "You will lead your opponent to believe you have let your guard down, and they will attempt to come at you."

He raised a fist and brought it increasingly closer to his student's face. "At the last second, you will turn your head to the side slightly. This will cushion the blow enough to keep you conscious."

Hwoarang jerked his head to the right. "And I'm doing this because?"

"The impact will force your senses to snap to attention," Baek answered, "It will not last for the entire fight, but a temporary burst of awareness may be all you need to get your opponent pinned."

His fist grazed his pupil's cheekbone.

Hwoarang backed up a few paces, cradling the side of his face. "Man, you didn't actually have to hit me! I got the basic idea."

His mentor gave him a small grin. "Alert now?"

Hwoarang groaned as he opened his eyes.

He was trapped, next to defenseless while on the floor. The hooded fighter was standing over him and, though he couldn't make out their face, he was willing to bet that they were smirking triumphantly.

"Last words?"

"What about them?" Hwoarang responded, inwardly swearing.

"You always were a funny one."

He tensed.

Here goes nothing.

The hooded fighter wasted no time; their fist flew through the air with dangerous intent.

The Korean waited a few seconds before attempting to put his arms up in defense. Just as he'd expected, his opponent reached through his makeshift barricade with almost no effort.

Swinging his head to the side, he heard his face scream in agony as his chin redirected the rough hit. He felt a jolt seize his mind, and before he knew what was happening he was standing again, having shoved his foe backward onto the cement.

Hwoarang grinned slightly.

If anyone asks, I'm telling them I figured it out on my own, old man.

"Looks like it's my turn now."