I'm so sorry. I've been so busy being insane lately that i haven't done much. I hope this is okay.
Hidden away from a million flashing eyes - the polished silver claws of the paparazzi monster - in a lobby composed entirely of gold leaf and marble, there's this beautiful fairy girl with her fluttery paper hands and eyes the colour of melancholy blue. She's still clutching his war-torn knuckles in her grasp. Pink pearl lips praying her rapid poetry, diamond eyes fixed on floor tiles and footsteps. Her panic, her pressure and paranoia bleeding through her pores, a latent explosion pooling between their palms.
This girl is so many dimensions, and his mind is spinning attempting to fold her into the negative stereotype, the 2-dimsional typecast he has developed for Emilie De Rochefort.
She's smiling, this bare hint of muscular movement that holds no influence across the rest of her features. And she struggles for eye contact, peering out from behind her vacant porcelain mask, all pastels and purity; her eyes speak of mental battlefields and the emotional scars gained within. She says, 'You'll help me, right?' in her sugar-coated tones, her tiny, jewel-encrusted fingers pressing for new bruises along the line of his palm, the sharp silver, each tiny gem stone cutting delicate red curves into his skin, and this girl will leave her mark on him yet.
And she starts to speak again, eyes wandering across the faceless, the shameless, and they're already fabricating fantastical fairytales about the new boy with the broken knuckles and the broken heart, and he watches her speak, studies her mouth too closely, thinks maybe she looks better shaping broad vowel sounds, like his name was made for her lips. But her sinister whispering speaks of hate that shouldn't belong to her, she's saying, 'I hate', eyes raking across Mishima like her sharp glare could devastate the good-looks that keep those flickering bulbs trained on his face. But her breath hitches, lips seal to suffocate as punishment for her almost private admission of hate, the word alarming to her own ears more so than his.
He is a boy familiar with hate, feels it pulsing through his veins as his tunnel vision finally settles focus on the hunched, crumbling figure of the Mishima heir. And while his personal hostility wreaks havoc on his body, it is intense, and passionate, and this china doll girl deserves something just as powerful to shade over her love-starved eyes.
And Hwoarang with a brutal twinge to his riot child eyes, he thinks maybe he'd rather watch the Mishima empire crumble around the ankles of a boy designed to die, rather than meet the eyes of the fairytale princess hopelessly lost on her childish search for love.
But eye contact with Jin Kazama is black electricity shooting down his spine, addictive and despairing and he can't look away.
He's heard the theory, about how the stars die. How they leave these devastating black holes in their wake, empty black spaces that consume their surroundings. A stretch of cold tile between them, a lobby of beautiful strangers and artful liars, it's like a learning experience. Another star dying, collapsing in on itself.
Jin Mishima will not just vanish without tearing the world apart to leave his scars.
His own personal black hole, and eyes to match.
His gaze is fucking smothering, and Hwoarang's gripping Emilie's pretty little fingers like a lifeline, 'cause maybe he's drowning beneath eyes the colour of bad trips and those early hours of the morning where they all wear loneliness like a fucking second skin.
She feels him tense in her hand, the sudden lock of bone, the pull of tendons, counts the subtle ticks in his jaw, can't hear his breathing over the sound of grinding teeth. So she trails her eyes to the floor once more.
The lady on the phone had spoken of street-kids, spoken of an inferior breed of human being, their unshakable confidence, all attitudes and reputations and bones and bruises. But this boy beside her, warm and soft in her hand. He's too human and that realisation shakes her to her tiny hardening heart. He was to be her hero, strong-willed and dangerous, but tremors through his hands, the hitch of his breath, she prays they are his clever camouflage, an attempt to lure these cotton-wool wrapped child stars into some soothing sense of security. But she needs the vicious street fighter, the dangerous animal the lady with the liquid gold voice had warned her about. So she'll adjust, settle into her role of the wealthy daughter, looking like the seventh sin, hands of platinum and plastic subconsciously brushing across the devastated bone of his ring finger, inspiring these conspiring smiles across her pink frosted lips, and she'll just pray that he will too.
Emilie leads this boy through the glitter of flash photography, bloodstains on his knees, eyes like natural disaster, rings and rings of red and romantics, and he is the personification of every word she cannot say. This boy is her holy trinity with his wild fire eyes; her revolution, her rebellion, her redemption. She's sneaking glances through lashes heavy with glitter, gazing up at their downfall.
A boy with the promise of destruction carved into his skin, hands made to dismantle the world, a heart composed entirely of reasons to do so.
And she's recalling those stories her mother spun, fairytales of beautiful princesses, fair skin and pink chiffon, their rugged heroes, tearing worlds apart for love and life and their obstacles. Their villains of dark eyes and shady intentions. And she's following Hwoarang's gaze across the lobby. Jin Mishima is a masterpiece, a mockery of cubism, lines so severe, so sharp, discomforting to look at.
He is her villain.
But for tonight, forevermore, she'll fall in love with him.
On a strictly business level ofcourse.
'Jin,' she greets on an exhausted exhale, her voice laced with sugar and fucking arsenic, subconsciously refusing to release Hwoarang's shattered hand, because she may be a young girl, naïve and immature, or so her public prefers to portray her, but above all, true to herself, she is a cunning business woman and as such, she rarely finds herself without a plan.
Her fingers easily linking between those of the street urchin, whose own subconscious strides towards existentialism continue to leave him seeking acceptance enough to rub these tiny circles against the back of her hand, the callous fingerprint spirals turning her skin a dirty shade of pink. But the paparazzi monster with it's million blinking bulb eyes, its fangs of glitter and gold, it does not miss his ministrations, the comfort he seeks within her palms, an understandable solution for a boy pulled from his black alleys and graffitied bible verse street corners.
Just one picture, one blurred moment, their prolonged contact, their desperate hold on each other, the front page photograph she needs to free herself from Jin Mishima.
'Emilie,' comes the world weary response, his nicotine stained fingers tangled in the black strands sticking to his temples, sweat soaked skin glittering like sugar under the harsh surgery lighting of the lobby. His pupil's blown out like supernovas, red thread capillaries shattered in the whites of his eyes. Biting down on the urge to lick his teeth, the effort visible in the strain of the chords in his throat. Strung out as fuck, even the roll of his eyes relayed to them in slow-motion, a lazy smile twisting his lips, eyes magnetised towards their clasped hands. But he's too far gone for logical thought, for trailing sentences and the formalities beat into him in finishing school.
He's taking in the poster-child for a wasted generation, trailing his eyes across bandaged knuckles and broken ribs, barely holding eye contact with the dangerous street-boy, all shades of red and purple.
He does not belong in their perfect little world.
He cannot stay here
'Nina' his tone a little sharper, angled to match harsh features, his prickly attitude. A voice box filled with gravel and broken glass, the audible struggle to articulate beneath an obvious drug-fuelled haze. His mouth is sluggish and awkward around the syllables, some vague gesture, lethargic and loose, his hand moving by his side.
There's a woman, lingering by the darker corners, arms folded across her chest, her security earpiece glinting in the light, her brow climbing at the mention of her name, a smirk curving tight lips, vague interest on her features. The blonde slinks her way through suits and silk, pours herself through pockets of people, curves and curls, sleek and sexy and almost disguising the animalistic tint to hard features.
Hwoarang recognises her posture, her movements, from a past life. He's seeing black and white re-runs, flashbacks of his sixteen year old self, wasted on a mouthful of vodka stolen from some pretty girl's mouth and a fistful of painkillers, attempting to sneak into the seedier nightclubs of the downtown back alleys. The neon street signs singing their siren calls into the night, embracing him in arms riddled with rope burns and track marks. He's recalling the whiplash of being dragged out back by men with fists like slabs of meat, dark shades despite the late hours, cuff links and pressed suits.
He is familiar with the look of a bodyguard.
'A woman?' he questions under his breath, and yet despite the noise, the repetitive click of cameras, the whisper of words is enough to capture Emilie's attentions once again.
'A warrior,' she clarifies, eyes retreating to the safety of artificial cracks in floor tiles, because she's heard the myths and legends of Medusa's fatal gaze, and while Nina Williams' professional reputation is one built entirely on the foundation of sinister industry rumours, she has no doubt in the woman's ability to reduce her foes to rubble with her suffocating stare.
'Nina, it's seems security out front is a little slack,' he's growling in a voice choked by cigarette smoke and late night powder parties, a slight nod in Hwoarang's direction. She's leveling her dirty, industrial coloured stare on the subject of her bosses' apprehension.
Emilie De Rochefort, a sacrifice to the starlight, a fading moon, an empty threat regardless of the hopeful flickers in her eyes. But this new boy, she had seen him through the crowd, his hair inked violent with blood, eyes like open wounds. The pink-pulp mess of his knuckles, the distortion of his fingers, the unnatural angles between each. She easily identifies them as the hands of a fighter, a boy familiar with reckless offense/defense, pristine bandages hinting at fresh injuries.
'A bodyguard, perhaps?' she's purring, eyes fixated and cataloguing, estimating weight and height and the precision she'd require to fell some unstoppable, frustrated, 'wronged' teenager seeking his revenge on the world.
But she is slick, confident in herself and competent in her line of work, her tone of voice being enough to placate the Mishima prince, she's exercising an almost maternal control she holds over the heir, that boy's head too caught up in the clouds to register the defiance in her words.
She figures maybe she should be more concerned, a little more wary of the graceless little wretch, awkward arrogance in leather and jeans, tight jawed, grime-lined fingernails.
Street chic.
This is her career, Jin Mishima placed specifically under her protection, and yet, she compulsively flirts with disaster, with their ruin, threats to her profession, threats to his life, and that knowledge in itself keeps that mute smirk tugging at her lips.
This boy is anonymous, no background as far as she's concerned. No reason for infiltrating their gold-plated little bubble of money and misery. And yet, here he stands, staring her down with tired eyes and attitude issues. He's endangering the likelihood of a union between Rochefort's father and the Mishima Empire by simply holding her hand, effectively smothering any potential rumours of a budding relationship between her and Jin. She knows how this will look to the public's enquiring eye, spread out like a death sentence across their glossy gossip magazines. Mishima too will be featured in these no doubt front-page photos, engaged in conversation with Emilie De Rochefort, despite the gloss of his latest chemical cocktail dulling the typically vicious shades from his eyes. People will count the feet between them, conscious of the determination with which Emilie links her fingers through those of the poverty stricken street boy. Christie Monteiro's reputation will survive unharmed, her relationship with the Mishima heir untouchable to even the polished platinum fingers of a girl like Emilie. But perhaps the critics and investigators will overlook Jin's latest failed stint in rehab, his apparent inability to communicate with the girl intended to parade as a replacement for Monteiro, in favour of identifying the striking red-head with the carved features and shattered knuckles.
But men with low voices and dark suits move throughout the crowd disrupting her wandering trail of thought as they struggle for some semblance of order among the throng, ushering the masses along in their sceptical tones, agitated hand motions gesturing towards the towering doors entering the arena. And Jin is already turning away, once again folding back in on himself, a star collapsing, eager to move along, having been reluctant to make an appearance earlier in the evening and showing no qualms with regards to voicing his opinions on the matter, although Nina held her suspicions that the promise of a particular heavy encounter with a new batch of blow was intended to keep her subject sprawled on his bathroom tiles for the night.
However, Heihachi had summoned his grandson in his thunderous tones, expecting Jin's appearance at the event, despite the whelp's rapidly deflating protests. And already there was glitter on his face, dried blood crusting beneath his nose. A cry for help? Or a promise of worse to come. Heihachi had made no comment, overlooking the display of cowardice unfamiliar to their strong bloodline, Jin's obsession with chemical escapism, the secret that maybe he doesn't want to keep.
'You've got your father's strong features,' he'd said, shuffling papers, avoiding eye contact, consciously eluding the evident comparisons between Jin and his mother.
'Why don't you put yourself to some use, boy.'
Heihachi Mishima had developed quite a name for himself as a man passionate about gambling, 'Passionate about winning,' he would often correct, smiling his way through interviews, cleverly avoiding the topic of broken kneecaps and fixed fights, precautionary measures to ensure Heihachi Mishima getting his way in the long run. Be it wagers on prize fighters, or shady business contracts, leaving life and limb vulnerable at the risk of failure. Tonight, as the paparazzi prophecy tells it, Heihachi himself has a small fortune, no doubt a majority percentage of Jin's inheritance, placed on the head of one Steve Fox, a young man proving himself a juggernaut among the ranks of the boxing elite, and Jin's providing his disinclined company, at the order of his grandfather, to collect the winnings.
Emilie gradually disentangles her fingers from between Hwoarang's bandaged hands, reluctant to remain exposed to the heated tension flaring between her ally, and the assassin. She's slipping away in a flash storm of silk folds and pink pearls. And he thinks maybe his eyes should follow her, all blonde and blue, that wholesome beauty boys like him should follow, but this woman, wrapped up in layers of leather and loathing, she's lingering a little too close, leaning, and her lips are moving, sinister words that hardly belong to her pretty face bleeding out across their red carpet.
She says, 'Boy, you're no bodyguard,' her tone light and casual, eyes carving trails in to the marble, mimicking the movement of Jin's awkward drag across the lobby, stumbling along like a scene from a horror movie, red-rimmed eyes and Armani suits.
A contradiction in himself.
She flicks the bandage of a mangled fist, some silent, underhanded comment to the sloppiness of his technique, but he can't hear her over the electric blue that rushes through his nerves with the contact, the roar of white noise in his ears, his skin still a raw, sensitive mess, a torn canvas of skin inspiring nurses to shake their heads and whisper words of reconstructive surgery and permanent deformities. And it's a knee-jerk reaction, some animalistic automatic response that has the blonde pinned to the wall, a small smile secured across her lips despite the sudden aggression, an expression he ignores in favour of maintaining his ignorance to the secrets she's hiding.
And to her credit, she barely flinches to the sounds of her wrist shattering beneath his iron grasp.
Blood and bone and the pulp of skin between his fingers, and she sighs like these minor inconveniences occur too frequently for her liking.
'You should step back,' she's suggesting in deceptively sweet tones, her gaze wandering over his shoulder, scanning the lobby for potential interference.
Potential witnesses.
There's a reason she was assigned the role of bodyguard to Jin Mishima.
Boys like Jin seek out disaster and she cannot afford to be anything short of bulletproof if she is to collect the next week's pay cheque.
Cradling her ruined wrist in her good hand, he watches her massage the bone, the tiny fragments grinding beneath her skin, and with a look of vague disinterest, testing him with her 'Is that all you've got?' expression, a raised eyebrow, the quirk of her lips. And this woman is science fiction, robotic, some modern day immortal, and he's watching with his breath caught in his throat as her shredded skin seems to knit itself back together. Bones rebuilding their faithful structure beneath the surface of her skin. And she is untouched as she wipes away the smudges of blood dotted in fingerprint shaped blotches along her arm. She's saying, 'Do you believe in magic, little boy?'
Making that devastating eye contact, a curious smile on her lips saying, 'I know why you're here.'
