"So," Johnny Cage began. "Some hot, otherworldly chick broke into you room, busted you ass, and then she just walked out?"

"She didn't bust my ass Johnny, she got the jump on me that's all," I said defensively. "Okay, fine. She had the upper hand-"

"That's one way to put it," laughed Liu Kang. "You said you only landed one hit on her before you forced her to a draw with your little knife."

"Like I said," I continued, shooting him a glance. "She was skilled, and we agreed to call it a tie."

"You agreed to call it a tie before or after you got her number?" Johnny asked in a very serious tone before turning to the rest of us, who were staring with disbelief. "What? This is serious business!"

Welcome to the morning of day three here on the island. After a tall glass of water and an ice pack of two, I fell back asleep. Liu woke me bright and early by taking a pounding out on my door, and was a little pissed that I didn't get up on my own.

After only two solid days, I was surprised at how much I had learned about him. I could tell that he had a much more strict and structured routine that I did; He woke up at the same time every day, just before dawn if I were to venture a guess, and he worked out in the morning before breakfast. Morning calisthenics and some spiritual health-based exercises, followed by a high protein breakfast.

And for someone who was in the same tournament as him, not to be as well-prepared was a bit of an insult. I vowed not to make any trouble for him tomorrow and be up by a reasonable hour.

But after I had explained what happened, he suddenly understood. And five minutes after I retold the story, the jokes started a-coming.

Until Raiden came in and addressed the group. Even Johnny Cage was silent.

"Listen, we may be laughing about this now, but if Chacon had been killed, I doubt any of us would be in such a boisterous mood," he said in his deep, commanding voice. He cut the laughter short, and everyone listened up for instructions.

"Those of you who have fought already can ease your nerves; you will not be moving ahead in the bracket until all of the preliminary rounds are complete. But for the rest of you, be on your guard. Shang Tsung's fighters are dirty, and you must be ready to face them, because they are certainly ready for you. Let us begin."

Just because I had the day off didn't mean I was off the hook.

I volunteered to spar with Kenshi and Liu Kang for practice. We got out the oversized padding from the wide array of gear Shang Tsung had so kindly stocked and went to work. And by "went to work", I mean I pretty much let them both practice striking and their favorite attacks on me just to make sure that they could use them when the fighting actually started.

"Alright gentlemen, lets go over some basic rules," I made a point to say this before getting into the ring with them. "No shots to the face or groin, no breaks or dislocations, and absolutely nobody kick me in the goddamn shin! I've had enough of that."

They burst into laughter.

"What? I'm not joking!" I shouted over them. I was putting more weight on my left leg than my right for good reason, and ironically Kenshi was the first to notice.

The swordsman put his hand on my shoulder. "I'll do my best, but no promises."

Liu Kang nodded. "Fair enough, and I'll try not to hurt you too bad."

"Mm-hm, thanks," I said, rolling my eyes. "You know it's so good to have friends."

Kenshi snickered and tossed me a padded vest. "Here, put this on. I think you'll need it."

And I most certainly did.

Liu Kang was first up, bouncing up and down on the sparring floor to get his blood flowing. From the opposite side of the room I could tell he was pumped up. All we needed was some Irish fighting music, and the mood would be set perfectly.

He closed the 30-foot gap like none other, dashing toward me in short sprints and lunges, letting out a high-pitched yelp every time he did so. In less than five seconds, he was on top of me.

Defying physics as I knew them, he leapt up in the air and kicked me repeatedly in the chest, once hitting my face on accident. My upper chest screamed at me to do something about it, but this was about technique, and I had to serve only as a punching bag for now.

I would later find out that this move was affectionately named the Bicycle Kick.

I hit the mat hard. The vest had prevented any of my ribs from being cracked or broken, but it hadn't exactly made the attack any less enjoyable. I soon realized that I was fortunate because I could still breathe properly.

Liu Kang offered a hand, and I accepted it, jumping back onto my feet.

"That was amazing!" I exclaimed, realizing the gravity of what he had done. The acrobatic and muscle training must have taken years to complete. "How did you do that?"

"Practice," he said simply. "Lots and lots of practice. But I'm concerned. I fell away from you a kick short, if memory serves me correctly."

"Huh, I wouldn't have noticed," I said honestly. "It was awesome all the same."

Liu Kang turned to the sideline, where Kenshi was sharpening his blade. "Hey, Kenshi! How did that look from over there?"

The swordsman promptly gave him the middle finger.

The next half hour was spent shadow boxing in different corners of the room. All of us went through the motions of our unique fighting styles, giving each other ample distance. Kenshi had a scary-long range with his hologram-looking apparition, using the power generated from his sword to do, punches, kicks, and downward strikes with a Katana. After one or two forms, he said that he had a headache and needed a minute to sit down.

Liu Kang was the fastest by a longshot, using his closed fists like most people would use a machine gun. He gave the heavy bag a tremendous beating, shaking the entire floor as he went.

Kenshi was not very fast at all, or so it seemed. He began practicing strikes and forms very slowly, making use of the engrained muscle memory he had built up when he could see. But soon his hits got faster, and he mixed in punches and throws with strikes and swings of his blade.

Soon he was almost as speedy as Liu Kang, and perhaps even more dangerous.

When he was finished, he bowed his head and released the sword, moving his hands slowly to his temples. Instead of clattering to the floor, it remained where he had held it with his hands, free floating in the air while facing toward the ground. The divine blade resembled a slightly crooked cross, and the device remained perfectly level with seemingly nothing holding it up.

The supernatural weapon had been encased by a blue aura and began to turn over in place, slowly, like the gear of an old machine willed back to life. The blade swished through the air like a lawnmower, making distinct whipping noise when it swung.

Soon the no-handed swings became erratic, and moved with such speed that keeping track of them only gave me a headache. I looked over at Kenshi, who was massaging his temples with his thumb and forefinger. After a few seconds I began to notice a pattern.

He was controlling the sword like a joy stick!

After the demonstration, he extended his arms and Sento moved into his grip. Kenshi was out of breath, and perspiration darkened the red blindfold tied around his eyes.

After a moment of rest, he began to speak. The words weren't directed at either one of us in particular, but rather just thoughts said aloud. We let him finish.

He told us a little about Tai Chi, the martial art he predominately used, and how it was both a fighting method and an ancient form of medicine.

"Tai Chi," he said as he slid Sento into the scabbard across his back, "has kept me healthy when food and shelter have neglected my body. It is a fine thing, really. However, it works best when I am not angry."

Liu and I exchanged a glance. That was some hardcore irony right there. The man was obsessed with revenge, and had spent years conditioning his body for the impossible task of defeating Shang Tsung while blind, yet he claimed to fight in a very soft and calm manner.

Whatever was said next had to be done with the utmost sensitivity, as not to offend the passionate swordsman.

"And this training you have done," Liu Kang spoke carefully, knowing that he was dancing on glass. "This has not at all assuaged your appetite for revenge?"

"I wish I could say that," he admitted. "I really do, but revenge is really all I can do now."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"I mean that I had my eyesight ripped out of me, Chacon. The trauma of the event still gives me nightmares. And now…" he shook his head. "Now the only thing good I can do for this world is destroy the man who had already taken so much from it."

His voice wavered and he sounded close to tears, but the injury left him without tear ducts. This only angered him further. His face contorted into an expression of passionate anger.

"I will live to witness the day when he falls off of his grand throne," Kenshi swore. The tone he took was dangerous. He believed what he was saying. "I know I will never be the same, but justice is balance; and he will pay in full for taking the souls of my ancestors."

MKMKMK

Stryker felt his muscles contract, tightening like a net over his arms as he lifted the tremendous weight up one last time.

He almost yelled as he thrust the bar back onto its cradle. It was over, morning PT was finished.

He sighed and sat up on the edge of the bench press, wiping his face with a towel. He felt overheated, and took in deep breaths for a solid minute to get his heart rate back down to its normal tempo.

His arms felt several sizes too big, and not in a good way. Unlike some experienced officers he knew, Stryker maintained a religious fitness routine; two hours every day, whether it be weights or combat training, just so long as he was doing something.

He took a deep breath, followed by a long pull of his water bottle. He shouldn't have been this tired out, but he was wiped after an hour of morning fitness.

It's just the nerves, he told himself. There's a lot riding on this tournament, and if we mess up, then innocent people will be paying for it.

He shook his head and rose up to his full height, a broad 6'1", and started to leave the dojo.

"Hey!"

The voice made him freeze, and his right hand fell to his waist, instinctively grabbing the handle of his Beretta. He turned around quickly and faced the threat.

Sonya Blade approached, taking long and graceful strides on her way across the dojo. She was unfazed by Stryker's reaction, and didn't make a comment as he slid the Beretta back into its place on his gunbelt.

She was dressed in a rather… interesting fashion for someone who was Special Forces. Loose fitting black cargo pants and an unbuttoned flak vest over a white t-shirt were not standard issue, but then again she was not an average soldier.

"Hey, you're Special Forces, right? Kurtis Stryker, NYPD," he extended a hand, and she took it with a firm grip.

"Sonya Blade, 3-1 company, Anti-arms proliferation detachment," she nodded. "I read your service jacket, it's quite impressive."

"Yeah, and I'll bet yours is classified," Stryker laughed.

"Until at least 2035," she confirmed.

"Uh-huh, right. What's going on here exactly? When are we going to start fighting?" he asked, folding his arms across his chest.

"Soon. Say, have you seen the man that Chacon fought last night, the guy who had the mechanical eye and the combat knives?" she asked. To anyone else the question would have appeared nonchalant, but Stryker saw through her thin guise. She was desperate. The way she twirled her thin blonde hair in between her fingers when she made eye contact told him all he needed to know.

She wanted information, and she wanted it now.

"Kano?" he decided to play along for the moment. "Nope, he got beat up pretty bad, so you might want to check the infirmary… or the gutter. I don't think Shang Tsung has a lot of tolerance for failure."

"Yeah, but please keep me posted if his name comes up," she straightened up, and her posture was considerably better.

Now she was being honest. She wanted help, but was unsure of how to ask for it.

"Alright, ma'am. I'll keep an eye out."

With that she was gone, and Stryker heard footsteps behind him. He decided not to overreact and draw his weapon this time, as no Outworld warriors were allowed in the barracks.

That was a mistake.

As he wheeled around, he saw what at first glance looked to be a man. But the jaw was considerably too thick, and the skin on his bare, muscular arms was a thick and wrinkly hide. Where his eyebrows should have been, the skin on his forehead was pulled into a thick rim above his eyes. A set of pointed ears sat too far back on his head, and the cartilage seemed to meld with the flesh around his skull, making his ears only partially stick out from his bald head.

"What the hell is your problem?" Stryker demanded.

"I challenge you, human!" he yelled in a raspy voice. Stryker had heard chain smokers with clearer voices than his. When he spoke, his lips pulled back to reveal a nasty set of fangs in place of teeth; a rotten yellow set of stalagmites that were much larger than those of any animal Stryker had come in contact with.

"You and me, in Mortal Kombat!" he yelled, taking up a fighting stance in front of Stryker. "The winner advances into the next round, but the loser…" he shook his head in mock pity. "Will wish that he was never born!"

Stryker nodded, trying to appear unfazed. "You got it, pal."

He pulled his weapon fast, putting the abomination in the crosshairs in an instant. His finger tightened around the trigger, but Baraka was ready for him.

The Tarkatan held out a muscular arm and a blade sprung out, the point of which reaching almost three feet in front of his bony claws. It a thick, metallic stabbing weapon. That thing had always been in his arm, and he most certainly knew hot to use it.

He quickly extended the other and, just as the pistol left Stryker's holster, ran it across the opposite blade in a simple and practiced motion, resembling a much larger version of igniting a lighter. The friction shot a wayward spark forward and struck the barrel of the weapon.

Stryker yelped as the heat seared the slide of his pistol. He released his grip, letting the burnt out piece slide across the floor.

"Alright, then." Stryker drew a pair of nightsticks from his belt, spinning them end over end in his hands before facing Baraka again. "Let's dance."

Happy weekend everbody! I tried to upload this earlier but apparently the site was having some sort of trouble, or my computer was just being a jerk... again.

And thank you all for the reviews, more fights are coming soon. The preliminary rounds of the tournament are underway...