Mission 09 ~ Truth Bleeding
It was a late night, the moonlight pouring over the city. Chinatown was always rowdy, it didn't matter what happened. Drugs weren't going to sell themselves. In a place like this, you either knew the streets or you didn't, there wasn't any time to dilly dally. A man stepped off the subway train with only one destination on his mind, Yang's place. How many years had it been since that day? Seven? Eight? He couldn't remember anymore. When that victory came, life sort of dimmed. Waking up and training didn't hold the same pleasure it used to bring, his feet felt heavy and dragged on him, walking to the gym was an absolute slog, and the more he saw of this city, the less he found joy. How he stayed in shape was anyone's guess.
Seemed like every day was just . . . easy. Always easy. Every fight felt unchallenging. It never got better than that day.
The crowd chanting his name, the blood and sweat, the years he'd spent coming to that moment. And everything after just fell short.
He found himself walking the sidewalk now, passing a movie theater showing 'Iron Saw,' the latest superhero blockbuster. He didn't feel like watching anything these days. Walking on, he came to a strip mall of thrift stores, most of 'em empty or closed. Guess nothing much was open this time of night. Eventually, he found the bar he sought. Alcohol was a good friend these days. The lines in his face kept getting harder, he wasn't fooling anyone anymore. Inside he went.
It was dark inside, no surprise there. The lights above on the black ceiling fans were dimmed just the right amount to hide a girl's real face when she was making the rounds. Fitting then that the place was empty. After hours was always dead. Red-lit signs inside with Chinese characters lowly hummed under the music, some obscure kind of instrumental band. Yang dug that sort of thing.
The old man himself stood behind the bar with that knowing face, as he always did. The man came and sat at the bar beside another customer, who kept a hood over their head.
"Same as always?" the bartender said.
"Yeah," the man replied, signing his hand with a two fingers.
"Alrighty," Yang said, and he served the man shots of sake. He flopped a towel over his shoulder and walked off in back.
The regular drank one down. Warm and crisp, sweet and savory, a mild bitterness coming over the tongue after a few moments. It was a good drink, balanced and calm. Down the hatch went the second one, that delicate equilibrium of flavor washing placid over his taste. Warmth filled out his chest and the back of his neck quite well. A third gulp and he found relaxation at last. He exhaled softly and took a breath through his mouth.
Looking toward his right hand, he closed his eyes and merely exhaled slowly.
"You've had a hard fall," the hooded customer beside him said.
"'Scuse me?" The man asked.
"The great Jann Lee, reduced to playing bars in ol' Chinatown," he said.
Lee glared at him, angered. "What do you know about it? Do I know you? Do you know me?"
"Oh yes," the man replied, and stared back at him. "Yes, we know each other."
Tension struck a chord up his back. Lee knew that face. It was that man he'd fought so long ago now, at another time, in another life almost. The last loss he ever had.
Rig.
"You . . ."
"Yeah, me," the man replied.
"What do you want from me?"
"Blood," he growled, and his eyes glowed red.
His right fist came forward fast. Lee barely had any time to react, his fingers jumping to the wrist. He managed to catch the strike, deflecting it past his face a mere inch. Rig launched his other hand, aimed at Lee's ribs. The man countered with a slap, batting it away. They stood instantly and a knee barreled into Jann's mid-section and forced him back, Rig pouncing with two punches to his sternum and another kick to the outside of his other leg. Knocked off balance, Lee stumbled, trying to catch himself on a table as Rig charged forward with a Superman-punch overhead at his cheek.
The man crashed through two sets of table and chairs.
"Gah!" He yelped, chucking spit.
He kicked up to his feet and ducked below a haymaker, hands cupped together to block the oncoming knee rising into his face. He popped back up and tapped away more jabs till Rig stomped down on his foot and clocked him three times in the face. The man grabbed his left shoulder and shoved him forward past him, delivering another fast knee into the small of his back that sent him careening into the counter. The wind knocked out of his lungs, Lee grasped the bar to keep himself upright. He heard prowling footsteps behind him and quickly rolled out of the way as Rigs foot crashed through the wood partition where he'd been standing.
Yang returned and pumped his defense, yelling, "Hey!"
Rig turned towards him, shotgun pointed at his face.
"Get out," the bartender told him.
In a second, the man's hand grasped the barrel and pushed upward. The gun went off and struck the ceiling.
Debris fell lightly and Rig grasped a beer bottle he'd been drinking and bashed Yang across the head with it.
The man fell down unconscious and bleeding and Rig dropped the firearm on the counter.
He turned his attention back to Lee and saw chair legs just before they cracked him across the face and chest. They snapped easily, Lee throwing away the seat leftover as Rig fell back into the wall, taken off-guard. The man held his arms up in front of his face, but Lee kicked his stomach savagely with his heel. He struck with his foot twice more lightning-quick, pounding gut with boot.
The man grunted and his back hit the pictures hung behind him. The glass cracked and several fell as he came away.
Lee threw a double jab at his chin, striking the man twice within a second, and he plunged the other fist forward. His knuckle-plowed through Rig's cheek, and sent him staggering off left.
He threw out more, rapping his fists like a maniac at the briefly dazed man with reckless abandon, till he felt good and ready for the final swing. He twisted on his heels and built power in his right fist as he lashed out with a vicious backhand.
"Wata!" he screeched.
Rig flew backward and crashed out the front window onto the streets. Lee followed swiftly, wiping blood from his nose.
Leaping out through the aperture, he landed on the sidewalk to see only the usual nightlife.
Rig's muscular arms grappled him round the neck from behind, and they growled at each other as the man shoved Lee forward into a closed car door. It dented as his back hit the metal, and the man guarded himself against an onslaught of calculated punches with elbows and well-coordinated hands. Through grit teeth, he forced his foot forward and put distance between them as Rig brought his elbow down, trying to strike his shoulder overhead, but missing. He charged forward off the car and tackled the man into the wall. Rig grumbled and pushed him forward, though Lee wouldn't let go, and he dragged the man off his feet with him back to the car, the two toppling over the hood and spilling into the street.
They parted ways, Rig rolling out of the way of a speeding ambulance just as it drove by. The tires barely missed Lee's right hand and he stood immediately, scuffling backwards.
The two stood on opposite sides of the road, separated by traffic.
"I guess this means we'll have to continue another time," Rig said, practically unharmed.
More cars sped on by, unconcerned for anyone.
Huffing and puffing, Lee wiped the sweat from his brow and yelled back, "And when's that gonna be!?"
"There's another tournament coming. You want to beat me? Compete." A malicious grin formed on his face, eyes flashing red briefly one more time.
A truck blistered past them. When it was gone, the man had vanished with it. Lee held his side and scanned the area to no avail.
The man was no longer there.
A wind whispered a word on the hilly land, the sacred poise of Asia
A man in black stood by himself, eyes closed intently. He was lost within deep thought. Hallowed power flowed from his finger tips and his mind felt free from its body. A prism of his own molding, it was but a vessel which he occupied, as all humans did, consciousness trapped in a shell of life. In his left hand was a silver helmet with black drapings. A dark cloth covered his mouth and his black sleeveless Gi rested atop a white short-sleeve cloth shirt. Baggy pants hid the shape of his legs, though his boots were leather-bound and dark brown, up to his upper shins. Wrapped around his right leg was a dark colored strap with two holsters that held keenly sharpened kunai knives.
Black tabi shoes and an old hermits cloak filled him out. A fraying hood laid down behind his shoulders. The coat-tail itself hung down above his knees, low lapels and a button on the short sleeves each sorted out the make of the thing just fine. Black gauntlets adorned his forearms, sleek and protective as always. On his back was a sword of ancient craft. It was old but powerful.
Awakening swiftly from the daze, he held his index and middle fingers of his right hand together in front of his face, straight skyward. There was a flash of aura, darkened, but still blue, and he relaxed himself as his presence shifted to an empty road. He ran his thin fingers through his brown hair and cracked his shoulders back. Fast as a panther, he began following the path. Onward ho he bounded, beside him, a river coming to flow gently, cool mist floating out into the night sky. His travel swiftly ended when he reached an open crossroads. A flock of birds flew overhead, displaced.
Instinctively, he ran his eye his environment, looking for the slightest of things out of place. He readied himself, grasping the fine hilt of his well-crafted katana.
"How many has that blade taken now?" A female voice rang out.
He sensed a new presence hiding in the trees.
Turning on a dime, he held out his hands and, quicker than a hair, there came a tremendous surge of frost him his palms.
The figure jumped free of the branches before the power reached its destination. Soaring above, the figure gracefully swirled as a swan and landed on their feet. Looking up, her auburn hair and peculiar, amber eyes greeted him. She'd tied her locks back in a formal braid, leaving only the bangs hung down. The woman's face was immaculate, beautiful. She was dressed in a black sleeveless bodysuit, one fashioned modernistic of practical protective leather, a black cowl draped over her head with a blue ribbon tied around her neck and armored gauntlets and greaves strapped tightly to her limbs.
On her waist was the wakizashi of her choice, a shortened blade, but no less effective than a ninjato or full katana.
"What are you doing here?" He calmly asked.
"Just a friendly visit. I must keep my friends safe," she said.
"I need no protection, Kasumi," he said.
"Ryu . . ." she replied. "These are uncertain times we live in. You must acknowledge that two ninja are better than one."
Their relationship had become eminently tense. Twenty-five years old and changed all the more. Seems she'd had an extra spurt of growth physically as well, shortly after the last time he'd seen her, when she was only nineteen. Her height was maximized, five-foot-five now, one-hundred-twenty-four pounds. That formerly childlike face had become devoid of the innocent teenager she'd once been. It hadn't dampened her spirit any bit, as the woman was vivacious as ever.
"How does that relate to us?" He asked her. He himself had turned thirty-one just recently, not that it mattered much.
"I'm here to ask you for help," she told him.
"Oh? I'm somewhat busy at the moment," he said in his typical baritone.
"It doesn't look like it," she said. "But you know that I wouldn't come to you, still hunted as I am, if it wasn't urgent."
There was long silence.
"What do you need, old friend?" The enthusiasm was half-hearted, but she'd take it.
"Across the sea, in the United States, something awoke and has upset the balance of things, something far beyond natural," she said.
His eyes widened.
"In America?" he replied. "What happened?"
"A being of great power emerged and brought down fire on countless city blocks of Edgemere, a place on the eastern coast. One of my own allies was affected by the attack and after we reestablished contact, she explained to me what she saw and . . . well, it's almost unbelievable. A fiend of incredible proportions is responsible. It spilled rivers of molten blood and destroyed buildings with a mere wisp of its arms, and then it disappeared after a flash of light that rose from the ruins."
"Do you know who raised it?" The ninja asked.
"No."
He focused on himself alone for a moment. The scale was something he needed to understand first. Perplexed didn't begin to cover it.
"Curious," he said. "What's been done about it so far?"
"Insofar as investigating, nothing," she explained. "It occurred not too long ago, the authorities are flummoxed and confused, still organizing. They do not have details."
"So, you require my aid investigating." He was only guessing.
Slightly, she nodded.
"Do we have any preliminary theories?" He asked.
"I suspect that either MIST or DOATEC has a hand in it."
He scoffed at himself and closed his eyes. A peaceful, self-imposed exile does not a good world make. The life he lived had been quiet since then, his role slowly traded off toward the others he was often aided by. To think, he'd lost touch to such an extent that even Kasumi was more astute than he. Still . . . he knew that if it warranted his involvement, it was a cause worthy of global fear.
"I must warn you," she said. "Much has changed about the world since last you were involved in it."
"You'll have much to share with me, then," he replied, and he turned towards her. "If the world has changed, then I must adapt myself to it again."
She smiled at him softly. "I'm glad to hear that."
"What's the plan?" Ryu asked, his own eyebrows pridefully raised.
"Come with me to America. We need to investigate the site before anything else, and when we get hold of the scent, we must be quick and decisive." She was always the optimistic one.
In truth, she was simply happy to be near a friend again.
He chuckled at that enthusiasm. "Let's go then."
And away they travelled through the night sky.
Minutes turned to hours as deliberations carried on within the darkened office
Rig was an impatient man. Every single thing about him felt constrained by time. He hated its every convention, its inherent control over the universe, and the natural laws of dominance that it held reign over, across all nature. He sat back in his chair and grumbled aloud as the air grew chilled and stagnant. Waiting felt like losing in slow-motion. He disliked it so stridently, and so far, all the meetings he'd taken that day were of ones with his paltry subordinates, and nothing of character or much worth.
The man above was late.
He leaned forward again and rested his elbows on the desk, hands steepled together under his chin. He was looking at the digital clock on his desk. 11:05 AM.
Cooled ashes sat dismally in a glass tray beside a cigar butt. He had to pass the time somehow.
Only then did his superior make himself apparent. The temperature froze and a distortion in the space around him warped his vision. Rig stared at it contently. It grew to the darkest sickness, aversive strands of blue cosmic-flow emerging and soon growing around an umbra of abhorrence, darkness washing over the suite without care till from its confines stepped out a figure in black, glowing pale eyes peering out at the man most familiar a frost-bitten shade of sapphire. The distortion faded and there stood a deathly stranger of haughty hunger.
"So," it spoke to him, deep and smooth. "You've enlisted the one named Jann Lee."
"Yes," Rig said. "He would do anything for a rematch, it was as easy as snapping a bird's neck."
The figure smirked.
"Others will come, just as they always do," the man explained. "You won't have to worry about capturing the interest of any ninja."
"They will come regardless," it replied. "They'll be strong. Just what I need. But the one named Rachel. I've seen her."
"Yes, she's a half-breed," Rig said. "The product of a blood-curse so far as we can tell. My father kept many files—"
"I desire her. Her form is pleasing. Her power is unique."
Rig stared at the pallid face that spoke and thought often of the power those brimming eyes held. Austerity was the entity's pride and joy, always, and he spoke of great things, of futures and of outcomes brightly gleaming, the purity of power through loss and of the crafting he was capable of. Rig understood but a fraction of the divine plan laid out. His own role would come soon enough, to serve under the being's great power and his future in a life beyond human limitations.
"What of Dante?" the figure asked.
Rig took in a deep breath, "He took the bait."
Vergil smiled and ran a hand through his silver hair, "You're so sure."
"Last we checked, he was in New York, as predicted."
"I've known him a long, long time . . ." the slayer said. "Long enough to know that he should never be underestimated. By now, I'm certain he's come to see your ploy for what it is truly is, whether he knows the whole truth or not. He isn't as brainless a clod as you may think him to be, however puerile his tastes are."
The man's lungs quickened and he found himself beginning to sweat. Before him, the slayer drew to him the suffering of another, and so came another distortion, reality bending to suit his needs, trickling, trickling, trickling till the blackened soul returned to him as a head, a severed thing of horrid design, straps pulling upon its flesh to smile, head cracked in two, and the eyes dead and glassy. It soon woke, floating aloft above its summoner's hand a disembodied creation at the behest of its master.
It rasped horribly and spat pain of teeth intermittently, eyes growing cognizant and clear.
"Are we awake?" Vergil asked.
It grumbled aloud, "I— I was defeated."
"Yes. I shall have to remake you now," the master said, troubled by the setback. "Seems he left you worse for wear."
"Dante . . ." it growled, and its eyes fluttered. "He found the center, just as you predicted. But, Helena Douglas still draws breath."
"So it seems your precious Christie has failed," he then said, staring at the man behind the desk.
Rig grumbled, his own eyes becoming red with rage.
"Do not despair, I anticipated this," the master said, calming the man. "You cannot afford to pull your punches with Dante. He has a habit of throwing a wrench in your plans."
"Forgive me . . ." was all the man could say.
"It matters not. A small adaptation is all we need. Competing was never the true goal, my brother is much too . . . shall we say, 'modest' to truly invest in something as banal as a martial arts competition. It's what's inside of him that we need. He merely requires a push in the right direction and he'll be within my hands once more. That whore you insisted upon sending," Vergil said. "She stinks of him still."
The man grumbled to himself in that chair, hands tightening, his thoughts disorganized and lacking in diversity.
The head had grown silent, floating about still within the grasp of its dark lord.
"Yes . . ." Rig replied. "She used seduction as her key tactic."
"Send her again," the master said.
"What?" Rig replied, incredulous.
"Send her again," the words repeated, gravelly and further stern.
"But . . . he knows of her."
"Yes," the master said. "Send her. Again."
"As-" Rig stumbled. ". . . As you wish."
"He wants to play detective, then we'll give him a mystery to solve. The right mystery. Come hell or high water, even if the world crumbles into oblivion before my time, he will know my name again."
And where Vergil went, his corrosive touch followed with him
Rachel walked through the alleyway, her power naturally stunning. She was looking for her contact, a man named Riley.
They were scheduled to meet here five minutes ago, and he was late. Bad timing on his part, she supposed. These days as a mercenary were growing tiresome and boring. Fiend-hunting was the true passion, if only fiends themselves still existed on this plane. It seemed to be that sometime ago, they'd long since evaporated from the public discourse. In that time, she found her mission somehow completed, a lifelong task taken and ended. It ought to be that way, but she thought it was much too soon, a far cry from the time she thought it might even occur at all. In the back of her mind, she always felt as though the task itself would likely never come to fruition. And yet . . .
That wasn't to say she had no remaining life in her, the girl had a mighty constitution and a healthy appetite for destruction, that was something to still be put to use, the only trouble in her mind was the simple absence of reason. A purpose? She had none left. It was simply gone with the time of that old era, a golden period lost from her tremulous footing in the modern epoch. The age of normalcy.
The power within her still remained. It was a curse unlikely ever to fade, banishing her from mankind's traditional occurrences.
Now, you were either part of them, or you weren't, and Rachel never quite belonged in the first place.
Minutes went by as she waited. Patience was a key virtue to any warrior's mindset that she was well-versed in, if needing a brief refresher. Waiting for Riley was a thing best done in solitude, but many a thing had begun to grate on her now. The rattling of the city itself around her was caustic and unnerving. She sought very much to leave it behind. A return to the wilderness would suit her just fine.
The hours had passed in the day rendered the sky a beautiful orange, almost spectral. She admired the sunset and its old qualities, burning brightly in the sky for inconceivably long.
But light, for all its hard reason, cast deep shadows that day. The alleyway itself had become dim, dimmer than it was when she first walked down its cobbled road. The world itself tended to become quite different during the night. What once had defined shapes and logic became suddenly loose and unknown, seeming to lose that definition altogether. She wasn't one to fear a world of darkness, she was already quite suited to it. The darkness swiftly seemed to overcome her, gathering as if pulled by an odd wind, regardless of physical possibilities. In that gloaming waiting, cascading, feeling, as though always there and always watching, he came into existence, eyes beaming perversities that had yet to be shared.
It most certainly wasn't Riley.
The entity that swiftly appeared lacked all sense of empathy or wonting. He was altogether gloomy and seemed to make himself at home there in this spot designated for meeting.
In sternness, she drew her fists into her familiar stance and called out to him, "Who goes there?"
The man smirked at her as his features hardened and became corporeal, his body seeming to come together on the spot as he walked out of that shadow, walking cooly, calmly, untroubled.
He held his hands behind his back and stood tall, and he spoke to her then, "Only I go. I go here and I say hello."
"And who would you be?" She asked him.
His words only served himself. "I am a kindred spirit, of sorts. We share many commonalities."
"I find that unlikely," the woman said, her fists tightening as he approached.
What she felt from him was a sinisterness she couldn't quite describe, as though the air itself around him were corrupt and unbreathable. Her stance remained strong and she prepared herself to attack him, although in the back of her mind, she questioned if she could at all take him. He seemed possessed of strength beyond her. What sort of being was he?
"Trust that I would speak no lies to you, young one," he replied, sighing aloud. "You seem hell-bound to squander that gift given to your blood."
"What do you know about it?" she yelled back. "Where's Riley?"
"He is nowhere," the man replied. "He crossed my path and got lost."
He came to stand a mere few feet from her.
And she squared herself up, eyes confident. "Come no closer."
"So weak and simple-minded," what he spoke seemed knowing, predestined for her ears. "Such a lonely child, basking in self-loathing. I will run through you a devil's heart and show you sweetness in suffering. Of the day's regrets, your companionship shall not be one of them. I find you to be exquisite. Like life, I suppose. The beauty in patterns and shapes, curves and ardorous passion. You will feel unlife pulse through you, let it flow about and crash upon your soul as a wave. And then, you will be mine . . . much too special to waste upon a fruit's thorn."
Darkness welled around them till only his glowing eyes remained, staring into her soul like daggers. The Devil found himself well that night.
The wind blew south as they drove back to the outlet
Dante lost all sense of time. He slid inside his doors, Lady heading off for parts unknown to inform her client of what they'd found. That was her whole, he supposed, though she was insisting on her staying involved in his own mystery, the new demon-maker, the building of the bridge anew. Was it a crime to want to put that off? Probably. He decided he'd call the curious bounty hunter in the morning to go over what they knew if he didn't get busy. T'was a serious storm brewing and he was none too pleased.
By the time he'd returned to his front doors, the sun had set once more. It was a long day, certainly. He felt sapped of energy, high and dry.
Tomorrow would be a damn slog. Investigation wasn't just mandatory, there simply weren't any seconds to squander. The thing he'd killed spoke of a man outside, set apart from himself and the others, and a master that would lead them 'to a bright and glorious future.' Whatever that meant. Tomorrow, he'd likely pay a visit to another old friend, maybe grab some answers that way. He doubted Helena knew anything more, and if anything, he didn't want to be beholden to that woman's orders whatsoever. All demons on-site had been exterminated. Whatever else remained could be left up to the cops, lord knows they were already militarized enough.
The tired soul took off his torn and dirtied wears and threw them into the washing machine. Why do today what you could put off for tomorrow?
Retrieving from a cabinet another glowing vial of Ambrosia, he downed the green substance heartily. The aching in his back lessened and he felt good as new, though he wasn't any less tired.
He limped briefly into his bathroom. As he took a shower, he cleaned his hair out, which had grown slightly gray in all the dirt and dust that'd been kicked into the air. Soon enough it returned to its original silvery white and he was happy. Afterward, he double checked all the doors to make sure they were locked tight, a usual precautionary measurement he took, and he climbed into his bed.
He closed his eyes, senses dampened as the pull of sleep came. Then, something moved in his room.
It sounded like a piece of paper hitting the floor; subtle, but his hearing caught it anyway.
A new sensation overcame his body, but he couldn't quite figure out what.
Opening his eyes, he looked up to see Christie on top of him, a gun in hand with a silencer attached and pointed at his forehead.
"The end to a perfect day," he said as she smirked and slowly pressed on the trigger.
To Be Continued