Tekken: Kings and Queens
Stage 13
The opening ceremony of the tournament was full of pomp, though had very little of anything else.
If there was one thing Kazuya had to admit, his father was quite the performer given the right platform, even if the words spewed from his mouth were about as inspiring as having horse manure jammed between his ears. The crowd watched as Heihachi made his usual spiel about the honor and strength of the warrior, the privilege to host such a grand tournament with so many fighters of all nations joining together in the spirit of the fight, the rich history and tradition of the Iron Fist Tournament itself rooted through the spirit of the late Jinpachi Mishima ("********!" Kazuya coughed), the whole blurb about grace, sportsmanship, and respect for each martial artist, the tear jerking tragedies of those who had fallen in the past few days, and the old, tired line of pushing forward to the future and not looking back. Hearing the same basic speech over and over, Kazuya wanted to roll his eyes and crawl in a corner to sleep.
The crowd, on the other hand, ate up Heihachi's words. The vast majority looked up at the master with heartfelt awe. They were absolutely swooned by his charisma, the words resonating to their hearts. Then they cheered in unison as the speech came to an end. Those who knew the history of the Iron Fist Tournament, and those who knew what Heihachi was like, they were the only ones who saw through the colorful words and realized the emptiness in his speech. Of course, with so many fighters having been purged especially in the last two nights before the ceremony, such people were of the minority.
A few more choice words, some wine and dine, and a bit of sparse entertainment later, the ceremony came to a close. While most of the soon-to-be competitors lingered around for the festivities, Kazuya chose to make his leave.
Evening came swiftly as Kazuya made his way to his suite.
"To what do I owe the pleasure… brother?" Kazuya glowered.
From out of the corner of the corridor, Lars stepped out into the open, his hands folded across his chest.
"Don't call me that," Lars seethed.
Kazuya snickered at his half brother, though declined to make any further comment. The idea he even had a sibling still disgusted him to this day; the fact that Lars was the offspring of a different mother only amplified that disgust tenfold. Still, Kazuya had to admit, from time to time he found some pleasure in Lars' torment over their Mishima blood. It was the one form of entertainment he had since his 'rivalry' with his foster brother, Lee Chaolan…
"Do you have something you wish to speak to me, or do we simply stand in this hall and continue our staring contest?" Kazuya asked.
"I will find out," Lars said mirthlessly.
The two siblings continued their quiet standoff.
"Find out… what?" Kazuya sighed.
"You know precisely what it is," Lars answered.
"And why do people insist I know something?" Kazuya grandiosely threw his arms in the air. "Actually, do not answer that," he interjected. "It was a rhetorical question. Please, enlighten me as to what I 'precisely know what it is'."
The Swede tightened his jaw at his half brother's remark.
"I will find out," he stated. "And when I do, I will hunt both you and Heihachi down, and make you both pay with your blood."
Kazuya roared with sadistic laughter. "How Mishima of you," he cracked a smile. "Truly, the family's blood runs thick within you!"
Lars took a threatening step forward, his hands balled into angry fists.
"Uh-uh-uh," Kazuya retorted with a finger. "Temper, brother," then added with a whisper, "It runs in the family, you know."
The Swede stopped in his tracks, mere inches short of pummeling his demonic half brother, seething between gritted teeth yet did nothing else.
"Make no mistake, we will have it out once and for all," Lars growled. "What happened with the fighters, what you and Heihachi did with Lee, I will also find out. And then you will both pay."
"Will you go through with the threat this time," Kazuya goaded, "or will you continue to bore me with your speeches? That seems to be a tradition every tournament we have." You sound almost as repetitive as that annoying whelp… he thought to himself; it was an all too familiar threat he had heard countless times from his son, Jin, in the past (and in the present, for that matter).
"Laugh while you can… brother," Lars countered. "When all is said and done, our… curse will end."
With determined steps, the Swede walked passed his half brother, taking care to bump him in his stride, and disappeared down the corridor.
The first day of the tournament was equally as eventful as the opening ceremony. Fifty percent noise, forty nine percent pomp, and one percent everything else.
Sitting uncomfortably in his cushioned leather seat, Kazuya watched the matches with a combination of disinterest and utter disdain.
What is wrong with that old man? Kazuya thought to himself ruefully. This tournament is full of… amateurs!
Indeed, given the audience from the opening ceremony, many of the supposed fighters showed plenty of swagger and ego and very little in the way of actual skill in the ring. A number of the competitors came across as nothing more than dumb muscle, hardly worth the time it took to even breathe in the same space, let alone do battle. It seemed that Heihachi took more of the quantity over quality approach, and that in itself made Kazuya sick.
Match after match, fight after fight, Kazuya became more and more weary, though the crowd didn't seem to mind. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, some familiar faces showed up to take their place in the ring…
He was known by throughout the fighting world as the hot blooded fighter.
Indeed, aside from his ridiculous haircut ('broom head' as some would refer to him), he was known for both his prowess and his aggressiveness in a match. Never one to hold back his fearsome strength, and never one to back down from a challenge, he would attack his opponents with the ferocity of a wild animal. So aggressive was his Judo style that even the strength of a Mishima would be hard pressed to hold him back.
Whether it be man, woman, bear, god, demon, or alien, all would feel his burning might and all would eventually acknowledge that he truly is the greatest fighter in the universe.
Such were the ways of Paul Phoenix.
Today, however, was different.
"HIYAH!"
The passion was still there; that much was evident just by the twinkle in his eyes. The fighting spirit was still there, as evident by the flaming aura he exuded with each step he took in the ring.
"ORYAHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"
SMASH!
"OOF!"
And most certainly the strength was still there, as Paul demonstrated on his hapless opponent with one gargantuan fist to the midsection. Death Fist, Phoenix Smasher, whatever the move was called, it mattered little what one chose to call it in the end. All the opponent could do was flail his arms as he was sent flying back like a piece of refuse caught in a hurricane.
CRUNCH! CRUNCH! CRUNCH! CRUNCH! CRUNCH!
…nor could he put up much defense as Paul pummeled his face repeatedly with lefts and rights.
As Paul watched his opponent crumble in his hands, the crowd rose to their feet, cheering and chanting with each blow he landed. The audience was practically floored by his awesome strength, captivated by his skill and tenacity. Paul had them in the palm of his hand…
…and yet, for the first time, he did not acknowledge them.
THUMP!
"The winner!" the ring announcer declared, his voice completely drowned out by the raucous cries and cheers before he even announced Paul's name.
Paul swiped his nose with his hand and walked out of the ring with determined steps.
The man was on a mission; that much also hadn't changed. What did change, however, was the mission itself.
I will find the ones who did this to you… Paul thought to himself. He clenched his right fist tightly till his knuckles cracked. For the first time, there was something far greater than proving the world… or even the universe… of his skill in the ring. He just hadn't realized it till now. The grizzled fighter turned and spat on the ground before leaving his adoring fans.
The mission to show the world he is the greatest fighter in the universe was momentarily put on hold.
Sit tight, Marshall… we are coming.
It was rather funny the way life worked to say the least.
It seemed almost like yesterday that he was some mere punk brought up in an orphanage with little to nothing to offer to the world. When he did try to do something, he was defeated, stomped, and humiliated again and again.
Such was the legacy of a poor man…
Then, fate would smile upon him one day, as what can only be described as an old acquaintance stumbled upon him. Admiring his tenacity, and also out of respect for an old friend, he took him under his wing, trained him, beating him into his body not only moves, but also the harsh teachings of both life in and out of the wrestling ring. Years later, he became a man worthy of carrying a legacy, as opponent after opponent fell to his feet.
Regardless of the fame he gained, whether inside the ropes, or inside a virtual blood fest as the Iron Fist Tournament, he never forgot where he came from. He was brought up an orphan by a man in a jaguar mask who sacrificed himself day in and day out to ensure all the children had more than simply food and bed. The only thing greater than his wrestling prowess was the heart he had for the orphanage; all the masked man wanted was to make the children happy, no matter what it took.
When that man died, the young orphan was crushed. That man was as close to a father figure he ever had, and his life was taken from him. Thus he did the only thing he could do to repay that debt. Thus he fought in the ring to raise money for the orphanage as the masked man did.
Thus he carried on the legacy of the masked man known as King.
Now the weight of that legacy became even heavier, as he stepped into the ring. A weight much heavier than what his opponent was about to receive…
SMACK!
The opponent could do little as he received a backhand fully to the chest. Even a simple slap across the chest caused the opponent to stagger on his feet.
POW!
The opponent felt himself lifted into the air as the masked man connected with a quick uppercut with the right hand. Unusually quick, given the stature of the masked man, three hundred pounds strong.
CRACK!
Once again, the opponent fell to another of the masked man's blows as he was on the receiving end of a lariat from the left arm. Soon, the world would fade as he felt a pair of muscular forearms wrap around his throat, putting him into a choke hold…
CRUNCH!
…followed by a back suplex…
CRUNCH!
…followed by a German suplex…
CRACK!
…then a power bomb, and then, with both legs locked in the masked man's arms…
SWISH! SWISH! SWISH! SWOOOSH! SLAM!
…a giant swing.
"The winner!" the announcer declared.
The crowd roared again, giving the masked man a loud standing ovation as he exited the ring. Even with the confidence of the audience, the man who was once known as King the Second still felt the burden of living up to a legacy. Now, as he adjusted the spiked pauldrons on his shoulders, that very weight suddenly doubled.
Life was very funny.
Now, instead of one legacy, the orphan carried with him two legacies.
…and above all else, there was still the orphanage.
…and his partner, and 'brother-in-arms', Craig Marduk.
When he heard about what happened to Craig, a part of him snapped. The burly man, once renowned for his brutality, became one of the most respected men in the world of mixed martial arts. To think they were once hated rivals, their battles in the Iron Fist tournament quickly garnered respect for one another, and soon the two became partners and the best of friends. Eventually, Craig began to train others in his vale tudo style, which eventually attracted many students. Then the news came of the disappearances of many fighters, and his name was on that list…
Indeed, the weight was heavy, and not just because of the plate armor he now donned with the jaguar mask. Now, so many people relied on him, and with the strength of the enchanted mask, he knew he could make a difference in the world. At the same time, he felt the world suffocating him.
Still, he held his head high in victory, and though the pressure was hard, he welcomed the challenge. So long as the orphanage remained, every weight he had placed on his shoulders was well worth it.
As the masked man walked out, the last thing he heard was the roar of his adoring fans, all chanting his name:
"Armor King! Armor King! Armor King! Armor King!"
The legacy of the Kings now lived in him, and no matter what happens next, Armor King the Third will live up to their names…
Julia Chang knelt down on one knee and prayed to the spirits for their protection, as was her custom before every match.
Once again, the half Chinese, half Native American found herself competing in the blood sport known as the King of Iron Fist Tournament, and once again she found herself on another quest.
Only now, she was truly alone.
For the past few years, Julia was on a mission to save her native forests in Arizona, burying herself in books, occupying herself in research, all in the hopes of saving her homeland. No matter the difficulties, her adopted mother, Michelle Chang, was always behind her, be it in person or in spirit.
Now, however, all she had guiding her were the spirits as she approached her opponent. The referee raised his arm, and the match began.
Ducking and weaving, Julia had to admit this particular opponent had some skills as she barely managed to avoid a kick to the face. The young native felt herself stagger back as she blocked a hard blow with her arm, feeling the strength in his attack.
Not bad, she thought.
Still, she noted, he was a little too slow and he had a few openings in his attacks. Small openings for most, but gaping holes for someone of Julia's caliber. All she had to do was wait, bide her time, and then…
CRUNCH!
Julia seized her opportunity and landed an elbow to her opponent's gut.
The opponent reeled as Julia spun on the ground to deliver a kick, then immediately exploded back on her feet and delivered an uppercut. A few successive punches later, the opponent found himself landing hard on the ground. Moments later, he slowly picked himself up from the ground, clearly dazed from the beating he took.
POW!
One hard blow to the midsection later, he was back on the ground, this time for good.
"The winner!" the announcer declared.
The crowd rose to their feet, giving Julia a standing ovation. The Native American smiled to the audience, acknowledging their cheers, then tilted her head towards the sky and let out a sigh.
The last time Michelle went missing was back in the third tournament, during the Ogre incident. Michelle had wanted to visit Heihachi Mishima in regards to the pendant that now adorned Julia's neck. Of course, she ended up captured for her transgressions against the Zaibatsu, and Julia took it upon herself to search for her adopted mother as well as stop the evil Ogre's path of destruction. Even during that time, however, Julia knew in her heart that her mother was still alive, and that she had faith that she would see her again.
This time, she wasn't so certain anymore.
Adjusting the feathered headband, Julia looked to the skies once more, tuning out the rest of the world, and prayed to the spirits once more.
"Michelle…" Julia mouthed her mother's name. "Where are you?"
Hwoarang wasted absolutely no time against his opponent.
WHACK!
The moment the match started, the young taekwondo practitioner plunged himself into the fight, launching a flurry of kicks at his victim, and never looked back.
CRUNCH!
Meanwhile, his opponent didn't even know what hit him.
CRACK!
One moment, he was trash talking to the Korean before the match, the next he found himself being pounded to the gravel. It was a miracle that he was still standing, considering the fact that his leg was broken courtesy of a kick to the shin.
CRACK!
Along with several cracked ribs courtesy of another blow to the chest.
And several more kicks to the head.
WHACK! WHACK! CRUNCH!
Outside of hustling, there was no better thrill for the young Korean than to pummel any idiot that dared look down on him. Once upon a time, Hwoarang was once a part of a biker gang who used to swindle hapless fools of their money through fixed matches. Many a gangster looked down upon his gang as nothing more than a bunch of young punks, and it suited Hwoarang just fine. It made collecting all the more easier…
CRUNCH! CRUNCH! CRUNCH! CRACK!
All of that ceased the moment he met a certain man during one of his typical fights. The match was fixed just like all the others, and the stakes were high.
CRUNCH! CRUNCH! CRUNCH! CRUNCH!
The match started, and the young Korean found himself in the fight of his life.
WHACK! CRUNCH! SMACK!
The man he fought was good. Very good. Though the red haired biker was able to defend himself admirably, Hwoarang found it difficult to muster any offence of his own. Minutes passed, the two men trading blows with each other, and after all that… the only thing he could muster out of that match was a draw.
A draw!
How dare he mar his perfect record with a draw!
He eventually discovered the very source of power used against him, which only made his blood boil…
CRUNCH! CRUNCH! CRUNCH! CRACK!
In mere seconds, Hwoarang's opponent went down in a heap, unable to even lift a finger against him. As for the biker himself, he didn't even break a sweat.
"The winner!"
The crowd was momentarily stunned by his aggressive display, still trying to absorb what just went on in that ring. Finally, the audience roared in unison in a standing ovation that practically shook the stadium.
"Tch…"
Thumbing his nose, the red headed man took one more look at his defeated opponent, and walked towards the exit.
It didn't matter where he had to go, or who he had to go through to get there. Hwoarang came to this tournament for one reason, and one reason only. To find the one man who managed to see through his hustling and fight him to a draw, and summarily humiliate him in front of his gang. It had been the only purpose he had ever since the two men had first fought, and after countless tournaments, what started off as mere revenge became an obsession.
Hwoarang turned and looked back at the ring.
"Jin Kazama," Hwoarang smirked to himself. "You better be ready."
Another match passed, as did another, and yet another…
…and another…
…and Kazuya, unable to stomach any more of these 'fights', abruptly got up from his seat and left.
And as he stepped out, the crowd roared in unison. Kazuya scoffed at the crowd and made his exit.
Steve Fox folded his hands behind his head and laid quietly on the luxurious bed.
What was it that constantly attracted the boxer to these tournaments, he wasn't quite sure. Truth be told, the well chiseled Brit at times found himself at odds when it came to his participation, a part of him excited to test his mettle against the best the world had to offer, another part wishing he had never heard of the words, 'Iron Fist', in the first place. Certainly, Steve had reason to join this tournament, with Marshall being missing and Paul pleading with the boxer to join forces once more.
As, for lack of a better word, 'uncivilized' as Paul and Marshall may be, there was no way Steve could say no to Paul's plea. In a twisted way, they were a fun bunch to be around (even though he still had to repay Marshall for the laxatives he put in his food). Their initial alliance during the sixth Iron Fist tournament didn't quite pan out the way they had hoped, but it was the beginning of a rather odd, sometimes awkward, other times embarrassing, yet overall very fruitful friendship…
The Englishman felt the scars in his right forearm tingle. Unable to get comfortable, Steve quickly jumped off the bed and left the room.
And as soon as he opened the door, from across the hallway, Nina was there.
"Holy sh – " he nearly swore.
Amongst the things that made Steve uneasy about the tournament, seeing his biological mother ranked fairly high up in the list. The thought of his mother being both a skilled assassin and a highly proficient fighter was impressive enough. What made his hair stand on end was the memory of the Irish woman being hired by his former employer to put a hit on him back during the fourth tournament. Granted, the mob that once employed him had since been taken down, and Nina herself seemingly lost interest in going through with the hit and had left him alone since, but he felt uneasy around her nevertheless.
Of course, even with those thoughts in mind, the young Brit felt his wariness exponentially heightened.
"Uh…" he scratched the back of his neck.
A closer examination into the Irish woman's eyes told him everything he needed to know. Cold, listless, completely devoid of emotion. The Nina he knew can be cold and calculated at times (probably all part of her job description), yet even in those situations there was a fiery blaze found deep within her blue eyes (especially when it came to her rivalry with Anna… another woman that made him uneasy). What he just saw before him was someone that resembled Nina in form, and nothing else. Just a mere shell of the woman known as the Silent Assassin…
Out of nowhere, the quiet sounds of bells and chants echoed the hall. Her expression still emotionless, her body shifted in response to the chants, seemingly mesmerized by the song.
Steve wanted to approach the blonde woman, yet a sudden chill in the atmosphere kept the boxer from taking a single step. From out of the corner of his eye, a small entourage of hooded men and women in ceremonial white robes drifted in the hall, some playing simple instruments, some holding rosaries in their hands seemingly in prayer, all of them chanting a monotonous, yet hypnotic tune. From within the eerie procession, an elderly man dressed in a gray robe lead the entourage, his low, raspy voice heard above the rest of the melodies. Judging by the outfit and the cleanly shaved scalp, a Chinese monk, Steve surmised, yet something about the blissful expression in his face seemed rather out of place…
As the robed men and women began to walk past Nina, the monk slowly turned his head to the boxer and, without stopping his song, smiled warmly and bowed his head in acknowledgment. Taken aback by the monk's gesture, Steve nodded back out of courtesy as the group continued their march. Then, all of a sudden, the entourage vanished, along with the Silent Assassin.
"What the…" the Englishman muttered as he finally took his first step into the hall. Steve looked to his left and right, scrambling to make sense of what he just saw. Scratching his neatly combed blonde hair, the boxer took a couple of steps towards his left in the direction the procession marched, then stopped in his tracks.
"Weird…" was the only word that came out of his mouth.
Anna rubbed the soreness from her neck as she made her preparations for her upcoming match.
Thus far, she saw many different faces in the tournament, some familiar, others new. There were plenty of fighters on attendance, but overall, competition in the first day, had been less than stellar… and not much in the way of strapping, handsome young men, either.
The brunette sighed.
"Let's just get this over with," she said impatiently.
Dressed in a long, dark overcoat, Anna sat cross-legged on her seat, counting down the matches before it was her turn to fight.
Amongst the familiar face, so far, she watched the Russian soldier… Dragunov, or some such name… break his opponent down piece by piece, the airheaded rich girl, Lili, beat the living the tar out of what Anna could only describe as a jack***, the nosy detective, Lei Wulong, practically waltzed through his match, and that android, Black Jack, frighten and humiliate his opponent in his… Anna wasn't even sure what to call it. That man practically fainted and crapped in his pants the moment he laid eyes on the droid, and she could tell that Jack was none too pleased, though she had to admit, it was kind of funny to watch.
The brunette sighed again.
As much as she liked easy matches, Anna hoped that her opponent would put up some semblance of a fight. Watching most of these fights practically bored her to death, and the only reason why she managed to stay awake all this time was the bothersome crowd getting a little too hyped over these matches. As much as she wanted to get these matches over with, this was a little too pathetic.
Indeed, her opponent better put up a good fight, or she'd be insulted.
"Anna Williams," she heard her name being called. "You're up next."
Flicking a lock of her brown hair, Anna gracefully stood up from her seat, and walked out towards the ring.
The brunette dazzled the crowd the moment she stepped to the ring.
Whether it be man or woman, no one could deny the buxom beauty's ability to make an entrance, and that was just the way she liked it as she winked to her adoring fans and blew a sultry kiss to the air.
The crowd, especially from the male audience, whistled and hollered at Anna, the sheer volume drowning out the announcer's voice.
Adoring the attention showered upon her, she looked up at the crowd, pointing her finger lustily at the audience while quietly mouthing the words, "You want more?"
To the brunette's satisfaction, the crowd pleaded to Anna, practically begging for the Irish woman for 'more', a request which Anna simply could not refuse. Seductively tracing her finger over the buckle on her waist, she slowly, achingly loosened the belt and torturously unbuttoned her overcoat. Then, with a hypnotic shake, she allowed the jacket to slide off her body, revealing one of her trademark cocktail dresses hugging tightly around her perfectly sculpted figure.
The crowd bellowed out a roar of approval as Anna sashayed on the ring, posing for her adoring fans.
"Let's get this party started already," she said to herself, folding her arms on her chest and waited.
It didn't take long for the party to begin, as her opponent strolled into the ring. Ruffled mass of brown hair, light stubble around his face, and a fairly light complexion, especially from one who was distinctly Spanish. The outfit he wore practically screamed 'bullfighter', from the neatly pressed white dress shirt with gold trimmings to the red, silk sash around his waist, to the dark, almost knee high leather boots. In spite of his elegant choice of fashion, he exuded a raw, rugged aura about him, a strength that was very distinct compared to the many opponents Anna had seen.
Plus, he was a far better to sight to look at compared to a number of men she had seen… if some of them could be called men.
This match was definitely going to be different…
"Miguel Caballero Rojo," Anna smirked.
The Spaniard ignored the roar of the audience, cracking his knuckles as he approached his opponent.
"Anna Williams," Miguel sneered, his voice rather light for someone of his physique and temperament. "As much as I would like to stay and chat with a lady like you, I have some family business to take care of…" The brawler raised his arms and dropped to his fighting stance as he added, "Don't take it personal, my dear."
Anna raised her hands and fell to her familiar fighting stance.
"Don't worry," she purred. "I most definitely won't."
The referee raised his arm in the air, as the crowd leaned forward in anticipation for this next battle.
"Fight!"