Paul Phoenix was no stranger to being stuck in traffic.

Hailing from one of the most populated cities on the West Coast of the United States, the martial artist often found himself in bumper-to-bumper situations that even his trusty motorcycle couldn't maneuver its way out of. Sometimes the traffic jams were caused by accidents that happened further up the road, other times because of road construction, and other times due to the sheer number of cars on the road at a specific time. Frustrated with not being able to go wherever they want to go at their leisure, drivers caught in these traffic jams would honk their horn or curse in the comfort of their cars. Paul, on the other hand, would just turn on the radio and enter his own little world, being that whenever he drove, it was at his own convenience and for the love of the rove.

On this late afternoon in the mind-numbingly busy highways of Tokyo, however, the blonde American was beginning to discover the wonders of venting his frustrations verbally. Due to him oversleeping thanks to a late-night training binge, Paul woke up to the sound of his identification pin harshly telling him the time and location of his next fight. Upon receiving the information, Paul leisurely went through his usual morning breakfast and training regimen, thinking that he would have plenty of time to get there. He found it peculiar that Marshall did not wish to go with him and watch his fight, instead wanting to keep in touch with Paul via a headset radio, but he didn't think too much about it.

Once he got on the road, Paul figured out why Marshall was so hesitant to go with him. While the location was not particularly far in terms of actual distance, it was situated in a part of the city that was notorious for its traffic jams and congestion, especially at the hour chosen for his fight. As soon as he left his hotel and pulled onto the freeway, he entered a mass of metal and gasoline fumes that moved about as fast as molasses falling from its bottle. Every minute that passed by only made Paul move a few meters, bringing him a little bit closer to the fight, and closer still to being disqualified due to being late.

"Come on, come on," Paul begged to no one in particular as he looked at his watch to see that he only had twenty minutes left to arrive at a location that was fifteen minutes away in a traffic-free zone. "Can't you people go any faster? What the hell is holding you people up, anyway!?" Pressing a button on his headset radio and waiting to hear the static that notified him that it was on, Paul turned a knob over his head until he heard the familiar sound of silence. "Hey, Marshall, how is finding that map coming along? Isn't there an alternative way I can get there?"

"Sorry, old friend," Marshall's voice apologized. "Every map I'm looking at tells me that the fastest way to get there would have been the freeway you're on now. If you got off at the next exit, which is about three miles away from you, it would take you about twenty additional minutes to get to the fight location. From what you've described the traffic to be like, it sounds like you're going to be stuck there unless the miraculous happens."

"That's not the answer I wanted to hear," Paul groaned, smacking his palm against his face in exasperation. "The right to face that bastard Kazuya is right in front of me, and I'm going to lose it because of this stupid traffic jam! Why can't these people learn to use what they have: not only do they have a subway system to take them across the city, but they have bullet trains, too! Why are there so many cars despite that!?"

"Tokyo is one of the largest cities in the world, Paul," Marshall explained as Paul started to become jittery waiting for any type of productive movement. "There aren't just people living in the city on that highway, but people from the surrounding communities, as well. On top of that, you're on the busiest freeway in the city, and possibly in the entire world. The fact that there's a hugely-publicized tournament going on doesn't help matters, either…."

"Well, turn on the TV and keep an eye out for any traffic reports," Paul commanded before being honked at from the car behind him. Turning around and shaking his fist angrily, the young man went back to his conversation with Marshall. "If you hear anything involving this part of the highway I'm on, let me know. It's better than just sitting here on my butt watching as the minutes tick by and bringing me closer to disqualification!"

"Paul, please calm down," Marshall responded, taking note of the anger in Paul's voice. "Getting upset about it isn't going to make it better. If you throw a fit, all you'll do is cause a scene and make the situation worse." Clearing his throat before continuing, Marshall offered an alternative to freaking out. "While I look for any news reports on the traffic clog, how about we talk about what you're going to do when you win the tournament?"

"Well, first I'm going to find Nina and get that date she promised me," Paul replied with a grin as he took his mind off of the traffic. "I'll take her on a worldwide tour of the biggest cities in the world with all of the best fighters and we'll have our date via beating the tar out of anyone who dares challenge us. Hell, I'll have so much money, I'll be able to take you and your family along with me!"

"I look forward to it," Marshall answered. "How about after all that is done? Are you going to pop the question to her or something like that?"

"What, are you kidding me?" Paul asked, surprised by Marshall's question. "Spousal fights would be an absolute nightmare with that lady: she'll go right for the nuts, and then make me pass out with those crazy holds she has. It would be kinky at first, but afterwards it would become a pain!" Clearing his throat as he heard Marshall's amused laughter, Paul continued. "No, after that I think I'm going to start a dojo of my own. People are going to want to train with the best and pay top-dollar for it, and I won't have anything left to prove after I win, so why not?"

"It sounds like you've got it all figured out," Marshall replied as Paul smiled proudly at his plans for the future. "Hopefully when you become rich and famous, you'll still have enough time to step down from your pedestal and visit my family. I'll be more than happy to make you my soon-to-be-world-famous dim sum!"

"Don't worry, old buddy: I won't forget what I came from," Paul assured his friend while he looked up to see that he could drive up a few more meters up the road, bringing him just a little bit closer to his semifinal battle. "No matter how much all of that money will distract me with all of the good food, hot girls, and awesome parties that'll come with it…I'll always be your pal, and I'll always be a fighter!"

"I'm glad to hear-…hey, Paul," Marshall trailed off and called out to his friend, causing Paul's smile to disappear and his eyes to widen in anticipation. "There was a car crash a couple of hundred meters up ahead. The TV is saying that the road crews are having trouble getting their equipment over to move it due to the heavy traffic. I think taking the next exit might be the best option, after all."

"How big is the car?" Paul asked as he suddenly pulled over onto the side of the highway and began driving down its narrow path.

"Looks like one of those compact Japanese cars that have the really good gas mileage," Marshall replied nonchalantly. After a brief pause, the Chinese-American's tone of voice changed from calm to concerned. "Hey, Paul, what is that rumbling sound I hear in the background…are you driving up the side of the road again? What if a cop pulls you over? Get back on the road and go for that exit!"

"No can do, buddy," Paul replied as he saw the police cars in front of him, along with a car that looked as if someone had dropkicked it in its face. "There are people here who want to get out of this traffic jam just as badly as I do! It's my duty as a warrior to make sure that they don't wait any longer! How can I turn my backs on all of these people in the same boat that I am!"

"No, you're just being impatient," Marshall protested. "Get back on the road right now before-"

"Sorry, Marshall: talk to you after my match," Paul interrupted before turning the radio off. Finally pulling up to the scene of the crash, Paul parked his motorcycle and approached the nearest police officer: an Asian man wearing a white shirt and black suspenders with a deep tan and his black hair going down to his neck. Tapping the man on the shoulder, Paul's eyes widened in surprise as the officer turned around and showed his full face for Paul to see. "Hey, I know you: weren't you competing in the tournament this week!"

"Um, yes," the man nodded his head before outstretching his hand. "I'm Detective Lei Wulong of Interpol, and you're Paul Phoenix." Looking over Paul's shoulder to see his motorcycle parked, Lei's voice suddenly switched from friendly to authoritative. "Mr. Phoenix, I have to ask that you remove your motorcycle from the curb and return to the road. A road maintenance vehicle is driving down that side as we speak and with your motorcycle parked there, you'll just be holding it up."

"I'll move it as soon as that other car is moved," Paul responded as he pointed to the small silver car with its grill crushed inward. Cracking his knuckles and walking towards it, the American shooed away the other people surrounding the vehicle before standing in at its side and planting his feet. Once there, he inhaled and exhaled deeply and closed his eyes as if to enter a deep trance.

"What are you doing?" Lei asked as Paul suddenly opened his eyes and puts his hands on the door of the car. "That car isn't going to move until the maintenance vehicle gets here, and for that to happen, you need to move your-"

*UUUNK*

To the astonishment of everyone watching, with the exception of the man doing the work, Paul grit his teeth as he somehow began pushing the car towards the side of the road. "Ughhhhhh…can't let this stop me," Paul said with a strained voice as he continued making progress, gradually pushing the car aside despite how the wheels were only acting against him due to how they were positioned. "I've got a tournament to win…if I let this car stop me, then I might as well quit here and now."

"That is incredible," Lei whispered as he watched his fellow King of Iron Fist competitor push a car across the road using nothing but his bare hands. "It's a good thing I didn't run into this guy in the tournament: I don't think even my handcuffs would have been able to hold this guy." Walking over to where Paul was pushing the car, Lei joined the American in his Herculean effort and pushed along with him. "S-sorry that I asked you to pull over like that," Lei said with the strain on his voice evident thanks to pushing the heavy vehicle alongside Paul. "I guess I shouldn't have underestimated the power of the martial arts!"

"Yeah….UGH," Paul grunted as he finished his task, planting the car right next to the highway divider and dusting off his hands. "I guest you shouldn't have underestimated the power of the marital arts. Maybe if you come on over to my place, I can teach you how to push cars just like this." Giving the policeman a pat on the back, Paul ran over to his motorcycle and revved the motor. "Now, tell these cars to get moving so that I can get moving!"

As soon as he got back onto the road, Paul smiled when he saw the cars move at a more reasonable rate: slowly at first, but after three minutes the congestion cleared up and the cars once again returned to moving at a more reasonable rate for a freeway. "Now that's what I'm talking about," Paul said with a smile as he happily sped up after what seemed like an eternity of waiting. "Now to see how much time I've got left until I have to be at the…fight…CRAP!"

Upon looking at his watch, Paul's smile vanished as he eyes widened in horror: he now had only ten minutes left to arrive at the designated fight location when it would take him thirteen minutes to get there. Revving his motor up, Paul accelerated as fast as he could, hoping and praying that he wouldn't get pulled over. "Come on, baby," Paul begged his motorcycle as they sped along the highway. "Don't fail me now…DON'T FAIL ME NOW!"

-----------

Fourteen minutes later…

"How much longer do I have to wait?" Heihachi grumbled as he tapped his foot impatiently, turning to his limousine driver who had accompanied him to the designated fight location. "I have been standing here for almost a full hour. My fists are beginning to grow restless: as a Mishima, the least I expect from my opponents is the decency to show up to our match on time!"

"According to my watch, he still has one more minute left until his grace period expired," the limousine driver looked down at his wrist to check the time before cracking a confident smile. "I thought you would be happy, sir. Now you do not have to expend your energy fighting your opponent and you can go straight to the final round fresh and well-rested!"

"Hmph! That would be a coward's victory," the elder karateka scoffed at the notion, looking down at his fist and lifting to his face. "I must prove to myself that I am still worthy of carrying the title 'King of the Iron Fists,' and to do so I must crush anyone that stands in my way." Once he lowered his fist, Heihachi turned around to see the city far below him move around with life. "Perhaps that is just me being old-fashioned, but as a warrior I thrive on the feeling of working for my victories. However, if I must be forced to suffer a technical one, so be it."

Being that the designated fight location was atop of a large hill that oversaw most of the city, Heihachi had expected both himself and his opponent to have an easy time finding it. For whatever reason, however, Heihachi's opponent had yet to arrive. Perhaps it was an inability to manage time that kept Heihachi away from his foe, or even simple incompetence. The fact remained that Heihachi Mishima was about to advance through the tournament much easier than he would have preferred.

"Thirty more seconds, Heihachi," the driver reminded the martial arts master. "It looks like we'll be able to get out of here in time to have a relaxing dinner. Perhaps we can get Kuma a treat on our way back: I know how much you love making that bear happy. We can celebrate your victory together."

"I suppose," Heihachi said with a sigh before turning around and heading to his limousine. "Let's get ready to leave. If my opponent hasn't shown up now, then he will not show up at-…" Heihachi's voice trailed off as he looked westward, sensing a considerably powerful ki signature heading his way. "Hmph, so he finally arrives," Heihachi scoffed as he turned to the direction he sensed the energy and crossed his arms. "It is a pity that he has arrived too little, too late."

"Fifteen seconds," the limo driver pointed out as he and Heihachi watched a man with distinct blonde hair drive into view and hastily park his motorcycle. "Fourteen, thirteen, twelve, eleven, ten…"

"H-hold up," the man's voice shouted as he ran as fast as he could, hoping to catch up with Heihachi. "Hold up, goddamnit! Paul Phoenix has to kick your ass so that I can-"

"Three, two, one!"

As soon as Paul stopped running to put up his fists, the pin situated on his leather jacket exploded in a mess of circuitry and smoke, startling him and causing him to jump. "What the hell?" he said out loud as he looked at the smoking nub that used to be his identification pin. "What happened to my identification pin? The fight hasn't even started yet, and yet it just exploded on me like I lost or something!"

"You are late," Heihachi said harshly as he stepped away from the limousine and folded his arms. "I have been waiting here for over an hour, waiting for you to arrive so that I can move on in the tournament. Unfortunately for the both of us, I will have to conserve my fighting spirit until the final match tomorrow: not only did you not arrive on time, but your five minute grace period expired. Next time, try being more time-efficient so that you won't-"

"No," Paul said quietly, repeating the word over and over getting louder each time while shaking his head. "No, no, no, no, NO!" Lifting his fist and charging Heihachi, the American let out an angered shout as he went for broke. "I'm not going to accept that! I'll kick your ass right now that I can go on to the finals and face Kazuya just like I'm supposed to!"

Without even unfolding his arms, Heihachi stepped to the side and extended his foot, causing Paul to trip over it and stumble forwards. Flailing his arms wildly to keep balance, the American barely kept himself from falling over the edge of the hill and rolling down several feets of dirt and rocks. "Don't waste your time," Heihachi said as Paul turned his head around to glare at him. "As much as I would have liked to trade fists with you, the tournament rules are quite clear about fighting outside of designated areas. If I fought you, then I run the risk of losing my tournament spot."

"Then put your spot on the line," Paul spat back as he once again lifted his fists and charged Heihachi. Once he was within striking distance, the hot-blooded martial artist thrusted his palm forward and attacked to bring the older man down with a Rubber Band attack. This time, Heihachi lifted his arms to block the attack, and was pushed back a couple of inches from the impact. "There's a witness right there: it can me versus you, and whoever wins gets to go to the finals!"

"A tempting offer," Heihachi said with an amused smirk before rearing back his head, "but one that I shall deny!" Bringing his head forward, Heihachi gave Paul a devastating headbutt that knocked him off of his feet and onto his shoulders with his legs sticking up into the air. Before Paul could even lift his body off the ground, the former King of the Iron Fists planted his foot onto the young man's chest. "Since you are here, that means that Kazuya is fighting someone else in this tournament. I have no doubt in my mind that he shall emerge victorious, so I must be there to make sure that he falls!"

"I am so sick of hearing about that," Paul shouted as he grabbed onto Heihachi's foot and gave it a sharp twist to spin Heihachi onto his stomach. Standing back up with the foot still in tow, Paul twisted the old man's foot to place him in an ankle lock, waiting for the old man to scream in defeat. "It's always 'Mishima this' and 'Mishima that.' This tournament is supposed to decide the best of the best, not see which member of your family is crazier!"

"How can someone like you possibly understand?" Heihachi growled as he turned over onto his back and used his free foot to kick Paul away. Standing back up and dusting his karate gi off, the King of Iron Fists clenched his fists as he watched his would-be opponent stand back and assume his fighting stance. "You are only an outsider who seeks to prove yourself as the best in the world. How can you understand the burden that I must bear as a Mishima?"

"How the hell am I supposed to know?" Paul retorted. "From what I've seen, the Mishima Zaibatsu causes nothing but trouble. Everyone was afraid of you before the last tournament, saying that you were madman who wanted to bring an army to overthrow the world's governments and take over the planet. Then when Kazuya beat you, people thought they were safe…only for that bastard to bring a whole new wave of terror and make everyone mutter about stuff like nuclear Armageddon or worldwide fascism!" Lowering his fists just for a moment, Paul pointed an accusing finger at Heihachi. "What makes you Mishimas think that you can just do whatever the hell you please…and why do you have these tournaments if it's just so you guys can jack off to your egos!"

"…things were not always like that," Heihachi lowered his voice and folded his arms, preparing to explain his side of the story. "The Mishima bloodline has long been associated with powerful warriors, each generation becoming stronger than the next. Whether it be through the martial arts arena or the political one, our family has been a driving force in Japan's history. My father, Jinpachi, founded the Mishima Zaibatsu to ensure that our family would become an even greater force not just in Japan, but in the world…but his ideals were flawed."

"I can't imagine them being any crazier than what the current generation of you yahoos has come up with," Paul commented with his disdain none-too-subtle.

"My father was hailed as the strongest warrior of his time, but when you are the undisputed champion and there is no one to challenge you, you cannot help but become complacent," Heihachi continued, ignoring the young man's snide remark. "Rather than use the power of the Zaibatsu to make a true impact, he desired to make the Zaibatsu a charitable organization, freely donating supplies and money to those less fortunate than ourselves. While that would normally be an admirable ambition, he made the foolish decision to do it without any show of force. People willingly took advantage of the Zaibatsu's generosity and gave us nothing in return…and my father allowed this to happen, expecting the Zaibatsu's resources to be abundant enough for this sort of charity. Of course, he was wrong, and the Zaibatsu often found itself underfunded for its overambitious ideals."

"Let me guess," Paul interjected as he folded his arms. "I bet you and your dad didn't see eye-to-eye."

"I was able to assume control of the Zaibatsu, as a gift from my father," Heihachi rolled past Paul's observation, refusing to acknowledge how lightly the young man was taking the matter. "When I became its leader, I immediately knew what had to be done to save it. Using what was left of the Zaibatsu's wealth and combining it with my grand designs, I began to drive our ambitions towards military technology, simultaneously lessening our charity work. My father valued world peace, but he was much too soft to do what had to be done to achieve this goal. I believe one of your Presidents said 'speak softly and carry a big stick,' and it was my goal to carry the biggest stick of all to make sure that no tyrant or mad dictator would oppose me and my goal to a unified utopia. Unfortunately, my father had other ideas: he thought that my ideals were deluded and tainted with evil, and decided that something had to be done about me. He arranged a coup in an attempt to seize back control of the Zaibatsu…but I was not willingly to give it up. Something had to be done about him…"

"So you got rid of your own father?" Paul asked to confirm what Heihachi had said. "That is just sick, man!"

"I made sure that he would never be a threat to my Zaibatsu again, yes," Heihachi nodded his head. "By that time, I had already become a widow, so Kazuya was the only family I had left. Kazuya was very much like his grandfather and mother: peaceful and soft. This might have been acceptable for any other parent, but I expected Kazuya to succeed me as the head of the Zaibatsu, and there was no place for gentleness until the world was finally at peace. Rather than wait until Kazuya reached the same age I reached when I was first subjected to the more advanced stages of training, I subjected him to the harsher training regimens right after my father had been dealt with. I could not risk my son suffering from the same complacency that consumed my father: I wanted my son to be strong and firm, so that he could do what had to be done to bring the world at peace. I even went so far as to adopt a second son, Lee Chaolan, to remind Kazuya that there would be no hand-me-downs when it came to the Zaibatsu's leadership."

"Pfft! Yeah, and that turned out real well," Paul said with a scoff. "Your boy wound up becoming an even bigger asshole than you are…fun to trade fists with, though."

"Once Kazuya and Lee had completed their training, I opened the inaugural King of Iron Fist Tournament. The next generation was going to need strong warriors to defend the pride of the unified utopia that my son would create once he ruled the Zaibatsu, so the tournament was going to serve the purpose of discovering the most powerful martial artists in the world and deciding which of them would be worthy. When Kazuya succeeded in making it to the finals and challenged me, I was prepared to step down from the Zaibatsu and enjoy retirement as Kazuya led the world into a new tomorrow…but something happened that disqualified him in my eyes. He unveiled a power that he couldn't possibly have attained via training: he had literally sold his soul to a demon to become stronger, betraying my trust in him and taking me off-guard. After leaving me for dead, Kazuya seized control of the Zaibatsu just as my father had attempted to do. As I recovered from my injuries, I watched angrily as that treacherous whelp perverted my dreams of an utopia by leading the world into disarray." Heihachi clenched his fist in anger and held it up to his face while his body crackled with electricity. "I do not know why he has decided to hold this tournament: perhaps he simply wishes to prove his strength once again, or maybe it's for the same purpose I held mine in trying to find the strongest fighters in the world. What is clear to me, however, is that I must stop that whelp before he does irreparable harm to the world and drag the Zaibatsu's name into the mud even more than he already has! I shall beat him within an inch of his life, and then beat him some more: if he tries to cheat again, I'll make sure that NEVER fights again!"

"…listen, it sounds like you've got family issues," Paul said after a moment's pause, making sure that Heihachi was finished with his monologue. "I admit, I honestly had no idea what you were talking about up until you got to the part about the tournament…but what gives you the right to drag the rest of us fighters into your problems?"

"What do you mean by that?" Heihachi asked with a raised eyebrow.

"When I signed up for the first King of Iron Fist Tournament, it wasn't because I cared about becoming some soldier to usher in some new world order," Paul explained before pointing into the sky. "It was because of the promise that the best fighters in the world were going to be there! All my life, it's been my dream to become the number one fighter in the world, even better than my hero Willy Williams. It was a tournament of champions, to decide the champion of champions…and what better way to meet new people who shared my dream by facing them in battle?" Lowering his hand, Paul's voice lowered with seriousness. "That is what the King of Iron Fist tournament should be about. It shouldn't be about power plays and global domination: it should be about the gathering of the best of the best, to determine the who's the best at that given time. If you too are a fighter, then isn't that what you want, as well?"

"You speak with wisdom beyond your intelligence," Heihachi said with a smirk before turning around and walking towards his limousine. "Perhaps after all of this is over, I can make the King of Iron Fist Tournament more towards your liking, where it is the strong facing the strong and nothing more. Until then, you'll just have to wait until I win this tournament."

"What!? I sat through your story because I thought I would get a title shot out of it," Paul shouted as he charged Heihachi. "Come back here and fight me: if you won't do it for your spot, at least do it for pride!"

As soon as Heihachi turned around, he received a swift fist to the face that caused even him to stagger. Seeing that he had made a statement, Paul entered his fighting stance thinking that he finally coaxed Heihachi to fight him. The former King of the Iron Fists looked at Paul with eyes not of rage, but of amusement, with red blood dripping from his lip. "Nice punch," Heihachi said with a smile before walking over to Paul and giving him a pat on the back. "After the tournament is over, you are welcome to seek to me out. I am sure that it will be a great battle."

"But…but," Paul tried to find a counter to what Heihachi had said, but he couldn't find anything to say as Heihachi entered his limousine and drove off. It wasn't until a full thirty seconds after Heihachi had driven out of view that Paul lowered his fists and realized that he would not be advancing through the tournament like he had planned. "Goddamnit," he grumbled as he walked over to his motorcycle. "What am I going to tell Marshall?"