Different Animals

A Tekken story

"A man delivered can never make his way in darkness

I know tonight will end but I won't give this life away again

A man surrendered can never find his own forgiveness

I know my life will end but I won't give tonight away."

Corey Taylor

1993

1

Sometimes it does worry him how he can be so detached in these situations. It's not that he cannot feel any emotions, he is not foolish enough to claim that. He does wish it sometimes… but, he would not claim it.

Moreso, it is that his emotions are faraway. Distance, fleeting trails in the back of his mind somewhere. He can summon them when he needs to. But, only in these situations. 21 hours of every day, the times where he must do all of this… they fade away. Thus, the 'cold' expression rises to the surface. Cold. Such a general word. English is a fascinating language, that they have so many ways of saying the same things.

He stepped forward slowly, and pushed the reaching fan back from the barrier. The fan caught on immediately, taking one look at him.. his eyes lowering, he nodded, before slinking back behind the barrier. His responsibility in this role was fairly minimal. He preferred it that way.

Not because of less effort, but because of less visibility. Working on the floor is ideal for standing here, keeping those enthusiastic few in the front row in check and collecting his necessary funds when it is all over.

Kazuya clasped his hands in front of him again, his eyes scanning the vast crowd. This arena, Kazuya can hardly recall, certainly seems more lively when it is full of people. Look at them. They are all so alive, so atmospheric.. for song. For music. What the human mind can conjure up with a guitar, with a set of drums, all can be interpreted completely different depending on the individual. It is powerful, although Kazuya can hardly say he enjoys the Western methods of enjoying it. Nor even the Western music itself.

Nonetheless, Kazuya watched over the vast crowd filling out this capacity venue as they listened to Peter Gabriel sing about a sledgehammer. Kazuya impassively watched as all of the fans sang along with the lyrics, his dark brown eyes coldly analysing any for potential trouble. Kazuya adjusted his position, glancing over as the security guard next to him moved towards the crowd. They are not permitted to look at the music act….. always being on the job. Your face is happenstance here.

He prefers it. Amidst all of this noise, all of the atmosphere and the energy, he can find some ironic silence of mind. The mind does not become hyperactive, but it can become consumed at times. Consumed? Living in a city means living with a constant blade to your throat. For Kazuya, it is. Perhaps, it is for some of these fans… these Americans, while they dance and sing. Do they feel that reality of their secrets? This is how they must forget, through careless dance and empty song. There are far more substantial ways to forget, yet again, that would take far too much sacrifice and effort for the likes of these people.

Perhaps, the most amusing part of this entire concert was the beginning. The remainder of the security detail were already giving Kazuya some strange looks when he arrived, but that was not much compared to when the doors opened up.

Kazuya, for an unknown reason, had assumed his new sneakers had been the cause of attention. He is not sure why this line of thought came to him, nor why so many people would be so concerned with his new red and white Adidas sneakers.

Once the stares began to point upwards, Kazuya soon realised what familiar feature was the issue. One rowdy crowd member actually had the nerve to yell 'Flatten your damn hair, I can barely see!' One look from Kazuya silenced that line of thought. Silence is too powerful.

There are very few people who have the unique style of hair he does. Kazuya's dark hair stretches all the way up, and back, into a singular point. It would be a much simpler explanation to tell all these talkative people it is a hairstyle, so that is what he tells them. He would rather not mention it was hereditary. They should not recognize me.

Kazuya turned his head quickly. A scuffle had ensued, and Kazuya tried his best not to smirk at the sight in front of him. The nearest security guard, a slightly fat individual, was attempting to quickly get himself over the guard rail to break up the fight between the two drunkard fools. However, with one leg splayed over the waist-high guardrail, the guard was showing that dexterity is not his strong suit.

Kazuya began a brisk walk towards him, eyeing up two wiry lads still tangling with each other. "You're good!" A hand came onto his shoulder, and Kazuya resisted his instincts. He glanced over his shoulder coldly, but the dark face that met him looked insistent.

Kazuya stared back at a matching pair of brown eyes, behind a much taller individual and a mohawk that accompanied it. His presence, surely, would intimidate many of the other security guards. Kazuya stared, unmoving.

Before Kazuya could respond, the tall guard had already rushed off into the crowd, and had his hand clamped around the throat of the offender.

Kazuya watched the altercation for a few moments. He had begun to analyse, but that stopped quite quickly. There was skill on the tall guards side, but the other were too sloppy, and it was dispelled quite quickly. He was vicious though… the guard was using knees, elbows and forearms. He was trained in an unconventional martial art. That glint in his eyes.

Kazuya clenched his jaw, resisting the urge to yawn, as he turned back towards the active crowd. Kazuya felt a ripple go down his arm…One look at his hand explained it. His fist was clenched, and the electricity rippled around it. Kazuya frowned, and he unclenched his fists. Instinct. Reactionary instinct is dangerous. That is why instinct is so natural to all of us. Kazuya glared at another crowd member who was inching over the barrier. Reactions are the essence of the man.

His gaze seemed to be the only instincts in use tonight.

Kazuya had expected his trip to America to be quite expensive. After all, the city of Angels would still have an entry fee to enter these golden gates. But, sixty dollars in payment…Kazuya stared down at the cold, green bills in his hand. Kazuya did not, in the slightest, rely on a high cost of living, but this would not last long in any city.

Green was putting it lightly. The neon lights from outside the club illuminated him in a bright pink… a shade he was almost familiar with. The life of a nomad will never be cheap, as old man Wang once told him. Taking a single step means taking a million.

Kazuya raised his head again, his eyes fixed the road. So many vehicles… cars flooding past, to and fro. Flashes of yellow, blue, green… another bustles past, urgently talking on his bulky mobile phone. Needles, narcotics and nudity. You cannot overlook that.

Others were carrying their suitcases, their shopping… Kazuya considers himself well travelled. Across several different nations spanning the globe, he is reasonably experienced at all of this. Yet, Kazuya only had one observation to make about the self-professed Free World.

We are in an era where Americans love to show off. They do their very best to stand heads and above every other culture… yet, they could be the most blatantly uninteresting culture the world has ever produced.

Americans always seem like they are in a rush. That's an unfair assessment. City dwellers in general are always in a rush. The city is like an in-between point for them, a vessel for them to reach their destination. There is no opportunity to breathe in the moment for these people. These untrained people.

"Hey."

Kazuya turned away at the sound of the voice, his eyes fixed on an apartment complex down the road. He may have to cycle, but the prospect seems unappealing. A walk would take longer, but be more satisfying. Long strides at night are always more satisfying. Even when one is lost in a world of noise such as this place. "HEY! Kazuya!"

Kazuya closed his eyes as the deep voice stretched further. He knows me. Jaw clenched, Kazuya turned around silently, finally meeting the eyes of his caller.

It was the guard from before. Now dressed in street clothes, he stood out a little more. His long mohawk was tied back in a ponytail, and he walked with the hunched over movements of a fighter… an Eastern style. Not Japanese, but Kazuya could tell he was trained in familiar arts. Chinese boxing, or Muay Thai?

"You've gotten some good review from the boys. " He came to a stop a metre away from Kazuya… a safe, and respectful distance. "The boss wants you back, whenever more gigs are going." Kazuya turned slowly towards him.

Bruce raised his eyebrows, his hands extended in compromise at Kazuya. "Bruce Irvin." The tall man took a cautious step forward. Kazuya nodded once, in greeting.

Bruce managed a grin. "You're probably wondering why I stopped you jumping in the fights…" Bruce let out a deep laugh. "Some drunk kids didn't deserve Kazuya Mishima unleashed on them."

Kazuya managed a polite smile in response at that. Genuine respect from a fellow fighter is always welcome. Kazuya can see clearly through the deceptive flattery, and he could tell Bruce Irvin had little reason for flattery.

Bruce raised a hand, pausing. "I'm guessing you aren't here to work gigs and sight see though." Bruce shrugged. "I have a better idea of what brought you to San Fran." Kazuya frowned, stepping forward.

"How?" Kazuya asked in English, his deep, accented voice finally reverberating out into this place.

"Because, of who you are." Bruce raised a hand, and pointed his finger directly behind him. Kazuya followed his gaze….. his eyes hardened at the sight in front of him. The poster had a black background, with a distinct white throwing star at the bottom. Crossed feathers accompanied that logo, shrouded by a large, overbearing shield.

The sight of that logo always causes Kazuya's stomach to churn. Kazuya slightly wrinkled his nose, too aware of Irvin's intent stare. Two individuals set their presence over the logo. On the left, a silver haired individual with a cocky smirk and a…. pretty smirk. The bastard. And, standing beside the silver haired bastard… front and centre, arms folded with that horseshoe moustache and that distinct spiked black hair… Mishima Zaibatsu. Creating excellence and opportunity.

Kazuya looked away. It took him a few moments, to reign in his fury. "You work for my father?" He does not look like the type.

"Hell no." Bruce chortled. "You think I'd be working at Peter Gabriel gigs if I was Mishima Zaibatsu?" Bruce extended both his hands. "You're here to fight. Collect another championship, right?"

Kazuya stayed silent for another moment. His eyes slowly narrowed. "I don't care for metal and tin belts."

"Whatever you care for: I get it, man." Bruce put both his hands on his hips. "I have my own training setup at home, but I was planning on visiting Marshall Laws dojo tomorrow morning. Change up my environment a little."

Bruce Irvin raised his eyebrows once more. That is your tic when you communicate, Bruce Irvin. Interesting. "You might be unbeatable, but there's all kinds of champions that train at Laws. Trust me, you could use some backup stepping into that dojo."

We don't need backup. Kazuya almost smirked… one side of his lip moving upwards. Trust me. Why do you Westerners speak those words so easily? Is it the platitude of it? Or, does it simply sound convincing? There is a cliché hidden within them. English is difficult enough to speak without these shallow metaphors. Why do these people sleep with those metaphors always in their mind?

Kazuya folded his arms slowly, his thick eyebrows staring at this Bruce Irvin. He speaks in platitudes, and in compromises… another distasteful trait Kazuya's encountered far too many times in his life. Not that he begrudges many people for it… it's cultural. Many of our cultures design us to talk in niceties. It never was the Mishima way.

However, unlike many American fighters he's encountered, there's an edge to this one. He carries around this… darkness to him. Kazuya can feel that darkness immediately upon any fighter… it's like a concealed cloud, something that can rain at any time and leak out at inopportune moments. Darkness is another word that can be defined in so many ways, extreme or subtle. It's most obvious in a man's gaze, when one has the willpower to meet it. However… one can sense it if they are strong enough.

Kazuya respects it. I respect the control.

Kazuya finally nodded. "It would be useful to have someone to… to train with."

2

I swear. This is not complicated. It should not be. But… Kazuya cannot help but feel there's a complication to everything he attempts here. He did not face this complication in London. Nor, Hong Kong. Brisbane, Rio de Janeiro, Cape Town, Moscow… but, this place just feels so intrusive.

Kazuya is secretive. He is honest when he needs to be, but his secrets are his own. Simply living in this place… it exposes him. It tears at his skin, as a thousand peering, judgmental eyes attempt to force this idea upon who he is. The son. Kazuya can recognize this world is a little too imbalanced for him. But, the intrusiveness of these people…. All they need to know is all they shouldn't know. They always need more.

Yet, it is still all so impersonal. Kazuya tends to not dwell on trivialities like this. Every time he has come face to face with another trauma, another emotional blow….he simply continues on.

Kazuya cannot think about anything else, he cannot… he cannot allow himself to feel. Uncontrolled feeling leads to weakness, and the greatest fighters will devour him for even considering anything related to weakness. Kazuya closed his eyes for a moment. You are weak, boy. Get up! Kazuya opened his eyes quickly at that. He needs to train, he needs to progress… he needs to win. He needs to improve. Always, I must be ready. Without excuse. Without shame. Without fail.

However, San Francisco does seem… a little too much. Kazuya grunted, as he lifted his scroll slowly. The San Francisco journey. One more difficult path to trail across with calloused bare feet. The final roadblock.

Kazuya slowly unfolded it, and laid it out on the floor in front of him. Kazuya sat down slowly, crossing his legs, right beside the window of his small San Francisco apartment. At least it is somewhat suburban…however, you can hear it all.

City life in most places is the same, but in America, it's far more dense. The noise and the trouble is just condensed, so one should not be sensitive and sheltered. Kazuya ignored all of the yells, and the loud occasional burst of gunfire. Cowards play. His mind had already been trained to block it out.

His hands ran over the parchment… smooth, cut from the maple of an old Japanese maple tree. There were three kanji scrolled onto the parchment… each of them had an underline to them, each of them had emphasis on their own. Of course, in descending order of importance… he must always incrementally increase his potential challenges.

Otherwise, this whole exercise is useless. This entire journey is meaningless… and Kazuya does not solely mean this San Francisco chapter. These kanji read three distinct names… three names. Kazuya ran his hand over each of the kanji, his thick, calloused fingers tracing each of the elaborate designs. They all hold importance for different reasons.

All three of them will face different fates… but, all of them must face defeat at the foremost. Or, else I am no warrior.

Manchu Ushi. Kazuya drifted past that first name with a clenched fist, finding himself at the stranger name of the second target. Yoshimitsu. Kazuya exhaled out of his nose, as his finger finally arrived at the final name. Not an elaborate design, but there was a weight to the kanji.

Perhaps, even a presence… a charisma, that the fighter himself might hold. Kazuya would not know… he has only hearsay, rumours. Stories. As I'm sure he has of me. Kazuya's name finally stopped tracing the third name.

Paul Phoenix.

Kazuya stared at that name for several moments. Undefeated. Unmatched… completely unique. Kazuya has heard those redundant labels so many times before. Because, they were usually associated with himself. He would take them from others, and cast them aside to show little they meant within the true feelings of fighting. Paul Phoenix.

Kazuya turned his gaze out of the window. The locket was not in his pocket. It was laid out in front of him, its golden chain a hair breadth away from the scroll. Kazuya gently wrapped it around his fingers, lifting it up for a moment. He kept his gaze on the window, as that was the most convenient course of action for him.

Irvin is right, to an extent. Kazuya is entrenched in unfamiliar territory, with so many enemies that know this terrain inside out. Kazuya feels so detached from his emotions, from himself… he fears himself. He fears himself once the emotions finally flood forward, and he finally has the opportunity he has worked so hard for… what will he do? What won't you do?

Kazuya placed the locket gently back inside his pocket, without opening it up.

All of it leads him to feel as if he is a ghost.

He essentially is a ghost. Walking through a tired life, spending half of it on planes and buses to get to the next battlefield, to another fighter. The other half was spent relentlessly sparring, relentlessly fighting another challenge… learning, building. All of it was centred upon one ultimate goal.

Sometimes, Kazuya feels nothing but a dull resentment deep within, that turns him into this silent… angry man. Kazuya supposes, that is the curse of the Mishima's. We simply cannot get enough. Why would you be satisfied with merely enough, Kazuya? You have spoken enough.

Training is his therapy. Fighting is his solace. It's consuming, but it's completely addicting. Being able to feel… he can feel so strongly when he is fighting. It is acceptable for him to finally embrace his anger, rather than swallow it all down and carry it around like a heavy bag of memories that has burdened him his entire life.

Kazuya only feels whole when in combat.

Manchu Ushi

Yoshimitsu

Paul Phoenix

3

Kazuya rarely enjoys the role of being a follower. Perhaps that is his ego speaking. Perhaps, there is a part of him that always needs to have his own way… well. Kazuya knows there's a part of him that is like that. You have surpassed that time in your life.

However, Kazuya has always felt this way. Every encounter he has with another seems like a test, a challenge rather than a connection… he can trust his own instincts. He enjoys being his own leader. It is not that there is no responsibility in only leading yourself, but there is a more focused one. One knows exactly what they must do when they lead themselves alone. There is no confusion, no miscommunication or no manipulation woven into ones own desires. Hmm.

Nevertheless, Kazuya walked in pace with Bruce Irvin as they entered the brightly lit dojo of Marshall Law. Kazuya pushed open the narrow glass doors quickly, beckoning Bruce Irvin forward with a tilt of the head. Kazuya felt the atmosphere change, and flow forward as soon as he stepped within the large hall… Kazuya felt this place. He felt it long before he observed anything.

The energy. The yells of combat, the familiar stench of sweat, the combative nature looming in the air… this was a true training ground. No pointless gym equipment, only sparring mats, practice bags hanging from the ceiling… everything in this place was to breed combat. Of course, it was modernised, and it was quite sheltered within its own space… it is an American dojo, after all. But, for a dojo, it is somewhat impressive.

Kazuya came to a stop, as he slowly folded his arms. Many of the figures wore white gi's, and people of various ranks walked through the dojo… gi's. Ranking belts. Kazuya understood the necessity for it, but it all felt so foreign to him.

His training in Mishima-ryu karate was hardly as official as this looked to be… he did not wear a white, orange, green blue, purple, black belt. He wore the same shade of red on his skin, day in, day out… he wore the memories he carries here today.

"Bruce." A voice greeted him, formally. It was an American voice, so Kazuya initially paid it no heed. This dojo was certainly well equipped… boxing bags, striking dummies and even wooden Makiwara. Kazuya has not noticed many American dojos having Makiwara…. "It's a surprise he even came here."

Kazuya snapped out of his thoughts when the figures appeared in front of him.. Bruce, standing in his training gear. But, beside him, looked to be a small, compact Chinese man. It took Kazuya a few moments to realise the small Chinese man was the one who spoke with the American accent. Bruce extended his hand. "Well, this is him. This is Kazuya Mishima."

Kazuya looked over to the Chinese individual… no. He was not just Chinese. He looked eerily similar to…. "Marshall Law." He greeted carefully, folding his arms slowly. He was not wearing any shirt, so Kazuya could see the shape the dojo owner was in. He was muscular, but it was all functional. There was barely an ounce of fat on the dojo owner, his tanned skin shredded to absolute minimal body fat. That's when it hit Kazuya. Bruce Lee.

Those brown eyes analysed Kazuya, and Kazuya stared coldly back at him. Perhaps… Perhaps, Kazuya should add Marshall Law on his list. Is that a false name, some sort of pseudonym?

Law tilted his head to the side, raising his eyebrows. "You're looking for Paul?" Kazuya's face remained impassive, continuing to stare at Marshall Law coldly. Law furrowed his eyebrows, before turning to Irvin. "That means it's none of your business, Marshall." Bruce replied curtly. "Can we train or not?" Law extended both of his hands with an exasperated look. "Whatever. You've both paid in, so it's all yours."

Kazuya did not need a second invitation. That Makiwara looked appealing… perhaps he shall visit the boxing bag too. Of course, they're all secondary methods… if any of these fighters wish to spar, Kazuya will take his own mat and stay there.

The wooden pole bounced right back up, and Kazuya flattened it with another side kick. It hit the ground with a satisfying slap, before rocketing right towards his face. Once more, Kazuya dropped the Makiwara with another punch… the red gloves on his hands causing a dull thud once they struck the Makiwara.

Geido is what can be found here. Kazuya reaches into Geido at every opportunity of his life… he wakes up with Geido, and he lives with it at the forefront of his mind. This is the only place where Kazuya has found something like Geido… something that can remotely match the discipline and ethics that goes into a person's Geido. Geido cannot be defined with those two broad terms though. Geido… Geido is the discipline that one attaches to their soul.

The wood was thick, but Kazuya could feel it giving way… each strike, placed just well, was weakening the wood. But, it was the most useful training tool Kazuya had… only an actual opponent would be more useful.

Kazuya first heard the voices when he was in the midst of building up the right amount of energy. The sweat was pouring down his body, and his bare chest soon glistened with sweat.

The ugly, mottled red scar that stretched from his chest down to his stomach began to glow under the lights, under the sweat. One of the three liquids that would empower the human spirit. Kazuya appreciates sweat, but it is the least powerful of the fighting moistures.

"Damn, man. Got to learn to pop the hips, brother! Come on man. Throw, don't lift." Kazuya grunted… the accented gruff of that figure was almost distracting. Almost… but, Kazuya persisted. Kazuya could see something red dance in his peripherals… he continued to kick the Makiwara. Nothing around to see.

"Shit. That's him. He's come to the damn dojo! Who'd've thunk it?!" Kazuya's nostrils flared… that figure was moving toward him. Kazuya punched the Makiwara again, and he stepped to the side again. Loud. Unnecessary. Overbearing. Arrogant.

He had no doubt about who this loudmouthed, bulky champion approaching him was. It was only a matter of time, after all.

The gi this hulking fighter wore was completely red, and his bulky figure certainly outweighed Kazuya by a sizable amount. Kazuya caught a glimpse of those bright blue eyes…..they held an energy, an energetic aggression that could capture an entire room. It did capture the room… he demanded the respect, he likely received easily, as soon as he entered the hall. Kazuya could feel the raw power from him, just by his appearance.

What Kazuya noticed however about him…. was the hair. He wore his blonde hair in a large… flattop, that stretched from the top of his head all the way up at least three inches. Kazuya has often faced many barbs in regards to his own hair over his lifetime, but this hair… this hair was a little much.

But, as Kazuya stared into the eyes of the champion, he realised that was what embodied this hot-blooded American.

Paul Phoenix seemed to be a little much, all of the time.

Phoenix and his loud energy quickly approached Kazuya, and Kazuya was quick to fold his arms in response. Kazuya stuck out his wrapped foot slowly, stopping the Makiwara in its vicious path. Kazuya stared point blank into those deep blue eyes, his foot slowly lowering… until, he was stock still. His eyes seemed to flow like an ocean. He could see the waves rising, crashing and beating down upon each other resting beneath those eyes. Are you happy?

Kazuya did not move, as Phoenix continued his pacing. Kazuya has noticed on his travels… across the many 'champions' he has defeated, fighters are terrified of stillness. Silence frightens them, because an absolute still, silent opponent is an unknown one.

Kazuya watched, as Phoenix slowed down. That cocky stride, with that blonde flattop almost cast a shadow over both of them. Kazuya's gaze intensified. Phoenix did not stop. He walked directly past the respectful distance, until he was mere inches away from Kazuya.

Paul Phoenix stared back at Kazuya, a smile crossing his stubbled chin… he began to bounce, from toe to toe. Kazuya remained still, following his gaze as he bounced from foot to foot.. energy. Intensity. Kazuya would appreciate it under most circumstances. Not these.

"'Son of a distinguished family', right? As far as I'm concerned, you're one of the toughest guys around today. You and your pops alike." Kazuya stared at him coldly in response, but Paul grinned, sticking out his hand. "Paul Phoenix. Been a long time coming, huh?"

Kazuya gaze finally shifted. He slowly lowered his gaze towards the extended hand, his cold brown eyes narrowing. Paul Phoenix's hand, gloved and calloused, was extended fully, nearly touching Kazuya's scar. Dangerously close.

"We're all about respect in the San Fran scene, man." Paul continued, his own blue eyes twinkling. "No bad blood outside the cage." Kazuya felt the gloves against his arms wrinkle, and tighten, as he folded his arms tight. His scar was soon partially covered up, as his hands buried deep into his armpits. The silence stretched on, and Kazuya was well aware the entire dojo's attention was fixed upon them.

"Does he speak English or what the hell is this?" The glint. The waves are crashing. The first hint of chaos in those blue eyes came with a raised voice. Paul turned towards Marshall Law, but Marshall only subtly nodded his head in response. Paul turned back towards Kazuya, his nostrils flaring. His eyes told the true story now. "I ain't going nowhere, boy. Come on."

Kazuya curled his lip, staring silently right back at Paul. Where do you think we will go?

But, Phoenix was not telling tales. He stood solid, still bouncing from foot to foot… his hand extended. All this time reading those bright blue eyes… Kazuya saw they did not waver. They did not fold… this loudmouth is brave. But, bravery does not always equal courage. Bravery rarely, if ever, equals wisdom. Pauls hand twitched, but it was open palmed, and if it could extend further… it would.

Kazuya finally turned around.

Quietly picking up his shirt, Kazuya began to walk away. He had expected more from someone of the stature of Paul Phoenix. But, perhaps, maybe he shouldn't have. His attitude tells Kazuya all he needs to know about this 'legendary' champion.

Kazuya could feel every eye in the dojo on him, and could feel many backstepping carefully. "You ain't gonna come into my city and disrespect me, son." He hollered, he shouted… more empty platitudes, in empty attempt to gain back any momentum the boy thought he had. "Every dog has its day." Only one figure stepped in pace with Kazuya, and he could feel Irvin's presence behind him was an assurance of his actions. Kazuya knew Phoenix was far from finished running that fat tongue of his. As Paul stepped forward once again, with both fists clenched.

"You're gonna shake my hand, boy."

Kazuya came to an abrupt stop in front of the glass door, his head tilting to the side. He felt his lip curl, as his hand instinctively clenched into a fist. Let's see if you have what it takes to helm the Zaibatsu, boy. Kazuya blinked. He blinked back the memories, before turning around.

Paul Phoenix was standing there, peacocking… his own fists clenched, bouncing from foot to foot. Kazuya stared at him in a new light now… his lip fully curled, he simply stared back at the hotblooded fighter.

His fist instinctively clenched. Kazuya tried to dispel the feeling of disgust that rose in him. But, Kazuya knew that feeling would never truly leave him. It's in his blood. His fist began to shake. So, this is what you are. Pathetic.

Kazuya shoved the dojo door open, the stale air of the dojo breaking free with a single step. That hand belongs nowhere near Kazuya.

The busy streets of the American city met him once more, as he squinted against the harsh sun that met him. Carefully, he placed his white shirt back on… he could already see some wayward gazes coming his way. Kazuya did not desire any kind of undue attention towards his scar.

"Well, I don't know if that's what you wanted to do." Bruce stepped forward. "But, you made your statement." Kazuya watched as a taxi rank gathered directly across from them… all of the cars gathering, dispelling customers and acquiring them in some kind of controlled frenzy.

"Regards, Bruce." Kazuya shortly responded, his bushy eyebrows narrowing. He held out his fist silently. Bruce gave him a look, his eyes unreadable. Nonetheless, he met Kazuya's fist with his own, and decided to leave him be. The respectful decision, from an honourable man.

Kazuya could see many people of different backgrounds stepping out of the taxi ranks. As he said, everyone in this place is in a hurry… thy can barely acknowledge their own damned lives, always moving from one useless goal to the next with a dull, routine humdrum. Very few caught his eyes at this point… except for the one staring directly at him.

Wearing a white shirt and white trousers, she was unabashed about what interested her. A dark jumper tied around her neck, and her brown eyes highly observant… she held some kind of… device in her hand. Kazuya shook his head, his patience already running across a razor thin strip.

Kazuya could recognize a rural dweller anywhere. She was lost in this city… and, she was clearly out of place in this country too.

Kazuya stared silently back at a native Japanese woman.

4

"Number 10." Well, this is how it is. He's been given his strict instructions, that he can't be messing around in any of his regular spots anymore. So, he has to be stuck in McDonalds, getting an order from here.

A kid brushed up against him, and Paul was roused from his daze for another moment. The kid stared up at him for a moment, and Paul managed a smile back. The kid stared up at him wide eyed, his hands clutching a Happy Meal. Happy Meals. Damn, that stuff stinks of salt.

A hand came in and snatched the kid away.

Paul sighed again, and turned back towards the McDonalds desk. "Number 11! Number 11!" Don't worry, he's not getting any of the shite they call food here. Far from it… he does have a fight this weekend, and there's nobody at his level that's a pushover. Still, Paul needs some kind of stimulation. Going bone dry off the booze hasn't treated him too well… so, hell.

Here he is. Here we go again. Here it all begins again.

"Paul. What the fuck are you doing?" Paul leaned against the wall, not turning his head at the familiar trill of his friend. There's so many fat people here. Paul's not joking, so many fucking fat asses. They're literally living up to the fucking stereotype. Have any of these people even seen the inside of the gym? What prompts people to come here on a regular basis, instead of turning on your damn oven for once, and just cooking a fucking steak or something? He gets comfort is a hell of a drug, but Jesus Christ, surely a little monster like shame inside of you has to give you a kick in the hole at some point. Hell, maybe I should ask myself that. "Just getting a coffee, Marsh."

Marshall appeared in his line of view, those stern eyes glaring at him judgementally. "In McDonalds?" "Only a buck fifty, man." Paul glanced at Marshall, who still had that look on his face. "It's 93, Marshall, come on. They do coffees now."

"Jesus, you're a cheapskate." Marshall sighed in response, but Paul ignored him. "Number 13." He was well used to his friend grabbing any opportunity to shove a stick up his ass. Not literally… you know what he means. That's just the downfall of having your best bud as your trainer… you'll clash heads a lot. You also see each other pretty much all the fuckin time too, so that's a great chance for you to constantly bond. Bond with our fucking attitudes.

Paul glanced down at his receipt. 12. Number 12. They skipped my fuckin number. "So, you think I planted the seeds in Mishima's head?" Paul tilted his head, still leaning against the wall. His energy levels lifted a little. "You planted something in there, I'll tell you that." Marshall responded, drily.

Paul shrugged. "Hey, man. He could've just shook my hand…" Marshall turned to him, a grin crossing his face. "Sometimes, I can't tell if you're clueless, or just plain stubborn."

"A bit of both, is what I've been told, man." Paul glanced back down at his receipt. "Number 14."

"For fuck sake." Paul stepped forward. Paul inhaled slowly, and exhaled. It's all good… he can wait. "I reckon he's gonna show up this weekend." Paul turned back towards Marshall… his meaty hand was clutching the receipt, he could feel it crumple and tear within his palm. "All it needs is some more convincing. Call him out again, get the scene talking… they'll have to sanction the fight. Mishima vs Phoenix, streak vs streak. Fight of the damn decade. The story writes itself, man."

"What about King?" Marshall raised his eyebrows. "You need to get your head out of the clouds, Paulo. Focus on your next fight first." "I'm not worried about some masked priest." Paul grumbled. "You know what I'm after." "Number 15."

Paul stood up. "It's a coffee. You put fucking beans in a cup, you put some hot water in and add some milk. A coffee! A fuckin coffee!"

Paul glanced over the horizon, his hand still clutching the remnants of his coffee cup. He had thought it would've tasted a lot more bitter, for the price of it… but, it was refreshing. Just what he needed. He was bone tired, and his mind was slowly shutting down… these regular six am starts were taking their toll on him.

Yet, he says that… but, it's been in his schedule for over a year now. He trains almost daily, with the odd day off.. the rest days come few and far between. But, it is his choice. He moved to San Fran so he could dedicate his life to the art of fighting… that's what happened. He wants to run through all the best, and in the span of a year, he's run through some of the best contenders and champions in the world. Almost.

"Early enough start tomorrow, Think we'll do some grappling defence.. I've gotten a hold of this guy, he's fought King before. You know King will try take you down, so best to sharpen your ground counters." Marshall leaned against his car, as the orange sun in the sky slowly began to dawn over the city.

Paul crossed his own arms, taking in the landscape himself. "Sure."

Paul fell quiet for a few moments… a rarity for him, but he appreciated it while it happened. Probably just running on empty… people have this idea of what he is, of this character he plays. But, the reality is, he has his social battery. Most fighters have smaller ones too.

Potrero Hill was a staple for them in their downtime. It had become a weekly habit, sometimes twice a week if they were lucky. Shit, man, where else would you go for some peace of mind? San Fran is a city built on opinions, on conversations… on gossip. A foundation of gossip, with people hoping they can get dig some news, some excitement… something new to laugh about, buried deep in all the dirt. Paul leaned against his bike. It is beautiful though. In its own way.

Potrero Hill is one of the most peaceful spots in the entire city….when you get to the forest, man. There's nowhere better. It's rife with the sounds of all the critters you'd never imagine to be near a city like this. Paul often spots a few grey squirrels sniffing around a few trees and sprinting around the place. Rare to find the grey ones anywhere in this neck of the woods, too.

"You're working tomorrow, are you?" Marshall turned his head to the side again, his eyes fixed on Paul.

Paul uncrossed his arms slowly. "Eh… no. Not tomorrow…" Paul hesitated again, before clearing his throat. "Haven't been booked for much this week." Marshall nodded silently, but Paul knew he wasn't that smooth in avoiding that question. Pauls hands went back to his dark gloves.. wrapped on the handlebars of his Harley.

His hand wrapped around them, the sun slowly setting on the vast city of San Francisco. The sun was illuminating the Golden Gate in the distance, and seeing its vague reflection on the river was an inspiring enough site. He spends so much time in the city… yet not enough within it. Wake up. Breakfast. Gym. Training. Work… well. Sure, look. More Training. Go home. Repeat.

He can break the cycle sometimes, but… "Hey, Dragon. You busy this evening? We could hit up 16th street if you want.." Paul extended both his hands, with a smile. "Don't worry, I won't drink. I'm not giving the masked priest any excuse to get a fluke over me."

Marshall snorted at that, and Paul grinned in response. Marshall shook his head, his smile remaining. "Paul, if the missus hears a whiff of me being anywhere near 16th street, you'll know where I'll be sleeping for the night."

Paul nodded quickly, turning back towards the city slowly. "Yeah, I get it."

"Got to make sure the restaurant is in one piece in the morning as well." Marshall stood up, and slowly flexed his arms forward. Paul heard a thousand cracks across his entire body, as he rolled his shoulders back. "See you in the morning, Paulo." Marshall turned towards Paul, pointing a figure. "The usual, sharp."

"Sharp. Night, Marsh." Paul leaned against his bike, as Marshall smiled wryly. Paul watched out of the corner of his eye, as Marshall eventually returned towards his car. Paul was already staring back out at the city as his engine revved to life… goodbyes don't really mean as much anymore.

We're both kind of dismissive with 'em, fallen into some kind of fuckin… robotic mindset with it. Fuckin hell, we see each other every fuckin morning, afternoon and evening anyway. It's always going to mean less. Paul, sometimes, does wonder if he could say the same about his fights. But, the fact is, he never could. Not with a tough challenge like King on Saturday… not tough enough.

Paul sighed, standing up to swing his leg back around his Harley. The engine had long since gone cold, indicating how long they had been here… standing around, chatting shit. Hell, at least he can still do that with Marsh.

There's some people he's lost the ability to talk shit with… he's so engrossed in this fuckin fighting game, he can't even relate to those guys anymore. Like talking to a walking mannequin that was made ten years ago. But, that's the sacrifice, isn't it… sacrifice for that pipedream of greatness. The possibility of facing greatness.

His hands gripped the handlebars again, a sudden surge of anger rising in him. Mishima is pure greatness at this point. Him, and his father… hell, his father is the best in the world today. You can't deny that… Heihachi Mishima has been the greatest fighter in the world for over twenty years now. Around fifty, and he's still untouchable. For now.

Kazuya is getting there though. He's aggressive, yet smooth…defensive, yet relentless. That big it factor is… is that name. That's part of the allure that people have fighting him, Paul supposes. Paul has studied Kazuya, studied Heihachi… in whatever free time he has left, all he does is study tapes of both the Mishimas. That's something that can charge a perpetually empty battery.

Paul can't help that he's still so far away though. He's fought so many people now, from so many different countries. You'd be surprised by how it all just… blurs together into this grey mishmash at a certain point. Very few stand out… even this infamous King, who is brilliant in his own right, doesn't stand out as his next challenge.

But, the Mishima's… they're truly one of a kind. They are. Their power, their skill, their raw determination… Paul has never seen anything like it. It fuels that fire within him. A passion, that they could possibly meet… something he can't explain. All so far away. If he can show this town of his anything, that's all he can give to them. That raw feeling is the only one he'll never keep private.

So, why the fuck won't the guy shake his damn hand?

People think because Paul talks business all the time, he thinks and lives business. They couldn't be anymore wrong. If it was fucking business, he wouldn't have to worry about money every fucking day in the first place. If only Paul knew business.

This is more than business to him.. he takes fuckin pride in whuppin ass. It's his entire fuckin life. Kazuya stepped up to him, in his turf… Paul tried to make the first move, be the welcoming committee.

Why don't I deserve a damn gesture of respect? Is he too fuckin 'elite' for a workhorse like me? Paul only runs his fuckin mouth when it's necessary. He doesn't do that shit to 'sell fights' or whatever. He does it cause he says what he fucking feels. Honesty may not be the status quo in this world, but Paul always tries to clutch to it in his own. What else do we have as fighters if we don't have that?

Paul glanced in his wing mirror, exhaling slowly. His flattop was slowly flopping… already, it was exhausted with the activity of the day. Paul slowly took his gloves off the handlebars, the padding resisting against his light grip. His back… well, his back always had some kind of ache. He lifted up his helmet, already ready to cover up his tired eyes for the day… 16th street.

Sounds damn tempting, I'll tell you that. Tempting… tempting, to try get his hands on making those daily fantasies a rare reality. Fuck knows, they torture him enough as it is.

But… you know, Paul decided a while ago he'd never fall in love. It was a determined decision he made, and he was fairly fuckin resolute at keeping it. Y'know… he'll never fall in love. That's it. He can't let any young lady, beautiful or bubbly as they are, put the rose coloured glasses and blur out his goals.

Paul decided on a sigh as he placed his helmet on. Hands wrapping around his handlebars, Paul mimicked Marshall. He revved the engine of his Harley as loud as he could.

5

These damn machines. Kazuya would surmise that he is having just as much trouble operating this machine as the old man is on the other end. Kazuya held the bulky phone to the side of his ear, staring out side of the glass box encasing him in.

"I'm surprised you even knew how to operate this machine." Kazuya began. He heard the signature wheezy chuckle of Wang on the other side of the phone. "It was by a razors edge, Kazuya. This whole conversation could have gone disastrously wrong."

Kazuya nodded, his stare already focused on the arena in front of him. The silence stretched on between the two, as Kazuya felt his thoughts become repressed by his usual reservations. "Kazuya, did you call me so we could meditate together?" Wangs voice resonated suddenly through the phoneline. Kazuya snorted at that. "That's a funny thought." Kazuya paused again, his eyes drawing downwards. He felt his mind slowly gather the appropriate, respectful words for the old master. "How are things over there?" Kazuya settled on simple.

Wang sighed, his weariness echoing through the phoneline. "As they always are, Kazuya. Worrying. Your father has his ambitions." Wang cleared his throat. "And, of course, Lee is moving from project to project with the intent of an insane scientist. He always finds something new to invest in, with or without your fathers finances." Wang paused for a few moments, his hoarse voice catching for a moment. "Now it seems the Mishima family only seem to understand distance."

Kazuya remained silent throughout all of this, staring out towards the bustling arena in front of him. The fight was due to begin in thirty minutes… the arena was already filling out, and Kazuya could see security was turning away some wayward drunkards.

Bruce in particular was extremely strict… he seems to be fed up, and his facial expression upon encountering every new individual spoke volumes. "What has he done to you now?" Kazuya spoke quietly, his voice momentarily dropping an octave. He?

"Do not worry about me, Kazuya." Wang eventually responded. "I believe he's forgotten all about me at this stage." Kazuya was not satisfied with that answer, but he had little choice but to accept it. "I'm assuming you called me for more than to check on my wellbeing." Wang inquired, a hint of dryness in his tired voice.

Kazuya continued to observe, and he could already see Bruce eyeing him up, from the security podium. He paused for another moment, staring at the phone as he…Decided. "No. That is all, Wang-san." Kazuya paused again, hearing the old man's weary breath come over the phone. "Regards." Kazuya hung up the payphone, his eyes narrowing.

It was a modest arena, but Kazuya did not doubt it could fit a sizable number of people in there. Kazuya fixed his dark leather jacket, briefly looking over his shoulder. It had been purchased at a high cost, much to his chagrin. If it was up to him, he would simply wear the same white shirt and jeans he always wears. However, needs must, and discretion is the best part of valour tonight. He eventually opened the payphone door, and began his brisk walk towards the arena.

The neon lights flickered on and off, as they announced the fight of the night… 'Superfights championship: Paul Phoenix © vs King' Kazuya continued his brisk walk, glancing at the draping poster triumphantly lying below the neon titles.

There stood Paul, his signature flattop along with that intense snarl of his. Of course, he posed, so he was staring off to his right, his fist raised in that ultimate display of defiance he wore so proudly. Kazuya glanced over at his opponent… a tanned skin man, hidden behind a spotted Tiger mask. Mexican. Kazuya is aware of the culture of masked fighters in the country… he fought a similar opponent upon his travels to Tijuana. It will be interesting to see how the boastful Phoenix will deal with such an unorthodox opponent.

Kazuya turned around once more, his eyes scanning the crowd that were entering the arena… he could not see anyone that stood out…nobody that fit the description. Kazuya folded his arms again, eyeing up Bruce once more. He hulked over many of the entrants, his head only tilting down, or to the side at certain individuals who entered.

Kazuya fixed the collar of his white shirt, buttoning up that top button. He does not worry that Bruce will not let him in for not being presentable… he is more concerned about who will be in the reserved seats for this anticipated fight. Despite getting gaining a seat that is relatively blocked off, the wrong individual may recognize him at a mere glance.

"Mr Mishima! Kazuya-san!" Kazuya came to a slow stop, those thick eyebrows thickening. Who addresses him in… "Hello!" A female voice greeted, as the figure appeared in front of him. Not in English, but in his native tongue. Kazuya found himself looking down at… at her.

The same woman. She was wearing the same outfit as before, the trousers, the white shirt… only now, she wore the black jumper. The air was quite chilled, and Kazuya was surprised that San Francisco would reach this level of mild coldness. Kazuya crossed his arms, glancing over her shoulder at Bruce. "This looks to be an exciting fight." She continued. Her round brown eyes stared up at him in anticipation… perhaps, even excitement.

She ran a hand over her dark, shoulder length hair… she moved very gracefully, in a smooth manner that even Kazuya could not help but note. Her aura… Kazuya narrowed his eyes. That is what stood out. He could not help but.. notice something off. He may not mean that in a negative…

"Jun Kazama." She nodded, with a brief bow. Kazuya cleared his throat… "Kazuya…" Kazuya trailed off. He met Bruce's eyes again, which were getting very insistent. "Polite of you to introduce yourself, but it's not really necessary." She smiled warmly, and swee… friendly. A friendly smile.

"I was hoping, that after the fight, we could talk?" Jun Kazama raised her hand, and Kazuya noticed some kind of.. device. A recording device of some kind, holding a tape and a wire that trailed from the device up to her ear. "I am interviewing some elite level fighters, and getting some of your perspective on the undefeated-"

"Perhaps another time, Jun Kazama." Kazuya nodded at her dismissively, turning back towards Bruce. "You're in for a treat tonight." Bruce murmured to him. "Your buddy Manchu Ushi swaggered in here fifteen minutes ago, with a whole crew circled around him. Real up his own ass too."

Kazuya nodded silently, his fist slowly clenching… as he believed would happen. As usual, the Zaibatsu would not dare let Kazuya down.

Kazuya nodded his thanks to Bruce, before he…. He glanced back over his shoulder. Kazuya caught a glimpse of her once more… her dark jumper pulled over her, she looked quite…. Elegant there. Vulnerable? No, not vulnerable. Disappointed, perhaps, but her posture while disappointed did not equate to vulnerability. He couldn't truly put his finger… Well, there are more important things one must identify.

She was a brave one, that was for certain. Courageous, perhaps would be more accurate. Jun Kazama…. Kazuya shook his head. The roar of the crowd was awakening him, and he felt something stir within. It is rare that he is a spectator in such situations. However, it is not just his mission to spectate. He must observe. Observe, and study.

It's a rabid energy, one that can only rise from the depths of sheer combat. Even Kazuya could appreciate that feeling in the air, despite who was fighting… making his way through the tiered, red seats, until he reached his seat in the front row.

The stench of alcohol was off putting, but Kazuya merely wrinkled his nose.. placing himself in the seat. It was strange to him. The entire row he was placed in was empty. Kazuya readjusted his leather jacket, and dismissed the matter.

He has breezed past all of the preliminary fights, thankfully. Kazuya has no intention of sitting through unskilled idiots throw wild punches and ignorantly claiming to be world class. Kazuya took a moment to scan the crowd. Since his work as a bouncer began, he has always gotten into habits of getting a good feeling of crowds. It's a good gauge of what to expect from the event you're at, what audience you can expect. In this case, it's the best possible gauge of the kind of fans a fighter like Paul Phoenix has.

As one would expect, the majority composed of men. Youth was prevalent, but there were some females sprinkled here and there… Kazuya could make out plenty of young Latino and Latina folk centred in some of the most prevalent seats. The ones supporting King.

It is amazing what one can learn from studying a person for a few moments. How they present themselves, their overall demeanour, the way they carry their eyes, their reaction if you look at them passingly… one can make many educated assumptions about a person if one pays attention. It is the way the human mind works, whether one wants to be perceived as judgemental or not. A redundant exercise suited to the human brain.

If one is walking behind an attractive woman, for example, and a man may walk past in the opposite direction. If you focus on the man, you may see his eyes linger on her for a moment longer, before trailing downwards to her body. Before, they would nervously avert.

A fight… well, a fight will feature much more noticeable body language. One can tell immediately, if they are frantic or composed, who is entering a fight to swing wildly and sloppily insult Kazuya's way of life. In comparison, the composed nature of another fighter shows who is serious about this way of living.

Kazuya's eyes analysed many people in this manner momentarily, black eyes lingering and trailing over them silently… until, his eyes came to a smooth stop at a sectioned off block of seats directly in front of the cage.

You did not need a trained eye to see that this small mob stood out, even in comparison to Kazuya. Many of them were dressed in far more… lavish clothes than the others. Denim jackets, beige waistcoats, suit jackets… they were all dressed… 'to the nines', as the local expression goes.

Kazuya took note of all of them… ten. Perhaps more outside the venue. They interacted briefly.. some of them rowdy, a few of them composed and reserved. Kazuya quickly picked out who all of the interactions centred around.

The gentleman sitting between two bulky guards, dressed in full suit attire and with eyes hidden behind a large pair of sunglasses. His tanned, leathery skin gave away his age, and what little Kazuya could go off the appearance gave away his foreign status.

But, the way he sat is what Kazuya recognized. Upright, with perfect posture. That is a position engrained into his memory, from decades ago. "Kazuya. Go and help Mr Ushi."

His thin lips were hidden behind a thin moustache, masked with a bushy, dark beard. There were some scars on his right cheek, several small, indiscriminate scars… easily made by a blade. Kazuya stared. A part of him was willing for the figure to notice him… an irrational part, that wanted to display all he had hidden within to every person here. If only. He would rather settle the matter discreetly. All the same, Kazuya owes something to Manchu Ushi. For decades…he's needed to repay a debt.

However, Ushi was seemingly oblivious to his presence here. Kazuya clenched his jaw, as the lights slowly began to brighten around the arena. Green, and yellow lights… signifying Kings entrance. Kazuya's gaze remained on Ushi… because, as the green light shone, something glinted. A silver badge, placed on the pocket of Ushi's suit coat. That emblem was a design that was too sickeningly familiar to Kazuya… he would recognize it half blind. Mishima Zaibatsu.

Kazuya forced himself to turn away from Ushi, realising that some of his goons were coming his direction. He refocused on King…already in the ring, he was certainly one for the glitz and glamour.

A cape trailing down his bronzed skin, the blue tights he was wearing illuminated brightly with his entrance gear. On his waistband, his name was emblazoned proudly in bold font… as his Jaguar mask was firmly fixed around his head. He raised his arms at his introduction, as he began to stretch. Then, the heavy metal began to play.

Kazuya raised his eyebrows, and resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He should have expected no less… an American metal song, he does not recognize, reverberated around the arena. The crowd knew exactly who they were about to see, it seems… that roar that filled the arena, rising from the cheap seats all the way down to the cage. It was like a gathering of energy, a hum that rose up and carried through every persons being. That is an unmistakeable natural, visceral reaction.

Within moments, he barrelled out… dressed in his usual red gear. Paul Phoenix stood at the head of the stage for a moment, his massive arms flexing at the roar of the crowd.

The only difference between what Kazuya encountered at the dojo, and to what he was now was that title belt he wore proudly around his waist. With 'Superfights' lettered around the glimmering gold, Paul Phoenix began his intense walk down to the ring, accompanied by Marshall Law and a variety of other cornermen all ordaining towels, buckets and all other manner of trinkets.

The whole package was certainly… impressive, Kazuya had to admit. The music blaring out of the speakers, Phoenix's intense stride to the ring… Kazuya could tell from that steely look in his eyes, he was a man determined. The presentation added to the intensity, even if all of that showmanship is frankly unnecessary and useless in Kazuya's eyes.

Phoenix was in the cage in moments, yet he did not come to a stop. He began to pace all around the cage, circling King with his deliberate pace. The referee attempted to approach him, but Paul Phoenix was not to be stopped.

Paul Phoenix continued to stride around the ring, his large arms swinging in time with the music… his face slowly twisting with every step, his lips moving, and mouthing some unknown taunts to his opponent. Kazuya could make out some of it, but felt his English was proficient enough to recognize every slander that may have been thrown in Kings face.

Eventually, Phoenix came to a stop directly in the middle of the ring… and, thrust his fist into the sky. The entire crowd roared in response, and Kazuya batted an eyelid. He's certainly built up a following in his city, perhaps even his country. So has every champion Kazuya defeated.

As the music died down, Kazuya turned back towards Manchu Ushi. He and his goons were now upright, watching the proceedings intently… exchanging small paper slips, with excited glances. Ushi kept his gaze towards the ring, his own hand raising a paper slip more deliberately… his mouth slowly moving in response to his goons.

Kazuya's lip twitched, as he leaned forward slowly… what is being hidden here? Kazuya isn't convinced they've only placed a few wagers down on this fight. Kazuya smells something far more conspicuous around that gathering of vermin.

Kazuya was roused from his daze when he heard the crowd buzz hushed down. The fight had already began, and the two were already trading some establishing blows. Phoenix was the aggressor with his jabs, but Kazuya could see King was aiming for something different… his hands parrying the punches carefully, waiting for that opportunity to grapple.

Paul reared forward with another punch.. that may have packed some power, but King quickly countered with a knee. Paul barely winced in response, as King advanced on him.

Kazuya leaned back in the chair, his chin tilting upwards.

King was advancing with some quick kicks and punches, some of which were connecting…..Paul merely continued to block some.

He even allowed some to hit him flush on his calves, that look of composure fixed on his face.

Kazuya leaned back even further.

King lunged forward with another knee. Pauls fist slammed into the side of Kings neck in quick, timely response. The blow could not have been any more perfectly timed, nor could it have contained any more sheer power.

King slumped almost immediately, as Phoenix's hand almost glowed bright red with the sheer velocity of the blow.

Kazuya tilted his head back up.

Paul was on his masked opponent in an instant, raining down vicious punches that burned into Kings quickly withering defence in moments. Each punch carried into another one, and into a kick after that… his offence, in a strange way, did seem to flow. It was certainly rough, and rugged… Paul Phoenix did not fight a pretty fight. But, the way he brawls is so unclean, so jagged looking… it looked downright vicious. King was barely defending himself against those flaming fists.

Only when King slumped against the cage did Phoenix seem to relent his ferocity, and begin to become more technical. He could see that rugged fury barely withheld in his face… he was not letting emotion fight through him, but Paul Phoenix was fighting through emotion.

Kazuya did not budge in his seat, as he turned his intent gaze back towards Ushi and his henchmen. Ushi was fixed on the fight, half standing as he watched Phoenix's burst of dominance. Kazuya scanned the rest, most of who were watching the fight intently… except one.

One was staring right back at Kazuya, a look of shock slowly spreading across his face. Kazuya, with a curled lip, stared coldly right back at the goon. Kazuya watched as the goon slowly began to slap the one next to him… his blue eyes widening by the moment.

Kazuya, his mood rapidly worsening, turned back to the fight.

King had shot in for a quick, desperate takedown. It seemed he had succeeded, as Paul slowly scrambled down, as King clasped his hands around the fiery champion. Paul quickly sat on all fours, and raising a free arm quickly… he elbowed King on the side of the head. Kings grip loosened, visibly, for only a moment. Paul Phoenix latched onto that moment.

He grabbed Kings arm, and threw him off his waist. King slammed against the floor, and he scrambled quickly to his feet. But, Paul Phoenix was even quicker. Standing to his full height, he thrust his arm forward… and, again, even Kazuya struggled to keep up with the speed of the punch. All he could see was a flash of orange… and, a crack.

A loud popping noise.

Pauls fist drove all the way into the side of the tiger mask, and Kings leg wobbled. Kazuya leaned fully forward then, his eyes intent.. there was no doubt. As King rag dolled to the canvass, the ref quickly intervened… the masked challenger was knocked completely unconscious. With a broken jaw, or cheekbone, Kazuya had no doubt about that.

The mask, nor all the showmanship could not prevent that reality. Kazuya also couldn't deny the reality that Paul Phoenix hits hard. Perhaps, harder than anyone Kazuya has ever fought. Perhaps….

Perhaps not.

With that same fist, and a wild glint in his eye… Phoenix thrust it up in the air, as the crowd once more came alive. He watched as, almost in unison, entire segments of the crowd leaped up, their energy almost infectious as they roared and applauded their champion. Kazuya stood up slowly… keeping one eye on Manchu Ushi and his small contingent.

With a half-smirk, Kazuya began to applaud… slowly. Each clap was slow, rhythmic… partially disingenuous, if Kazuya was to be honest. King was a decent opponent, but Phoenix has no clue how he has exposed himself in this bout. Phoenix only needed to expose that single weakness along with his many strengths.

Kazuya swears that Phoenix will live to regret disrespecting him in his dojo.

Kazuya turned towards Manchu Ushi… but, he only caught a glimpse of what he intended to see. The suited individual was looking towards him, his face impassive… but, his face was lost as his entire contingent surrounded him, henchmen quickly escorting him away. Kazuya felt the locket in the pocket of his leather jacket,… as he stood, he made sure it was buried deep.

Kazuya felt his lip curl into a full snarl of disgust. You lousy rat. You spineless coward… Kazuya broke into a quick stroll, shoving his way through the crowd.

It's really hard to describe the atmosphere of competing in front of a live crowd. Being able to feel their energy, and be present when you're in the middle of a fight… it's fuckin special, man.

That's part of the art of it, Paul supposes. Of course, he has one goal that goes above all else: be the absolute best. But, all the same, when you get a rabid crowd like this… fuck me. It makes all the early mornings, long training days, long journeys and spilled sweat and blood worth it. Even now… as he stands here, sweaty and bruised, after toppling a tough-ass Latino priest. It just makes you forget about what's next, how you can do what's next… it just helps you live in these seconds as they short as they are.

He still feels their energy. There couldn't have been more than a hundred, maybe a couple of hundred here… but, he feels their rabid energy as it leaks into his skin. It fuckin thrills Paul.

"Not so bad, Paulo." The slap on his back roused him from the moment, as Paul turned around to see a grinning Marshall Law walking towards him. Paul hunkered over, as another layer of sweat dripped off him. "Where's my belt at, brother?" Marshall revealed the Superfights championship, and Paul was quick to grab it. To hell with it… let's get another rush.

Paul thrust the title up in the air, and the burst from the crowd… there it is. Another adrenaline rush to keep him going. Paul grinned, hoisting the title around his waist. "Still the Superfights champ… Paul Phoenix, ladies and gentlemen!"

The interviewer, a short man with a dangerously thin layer of dark hair, soon sidled up beside Paul and Marshall. "A quick finish for you Paul, but it's safe to say King brought a lot to the table early."

Paul paused for several moments, catching his breath as he readjusted leather strap of his title. "That damn priest knows how to throw his knees, I'll tell you that. Kicks like a donkey. Caught me right in the sternum on that first one!"

"All the same, it looked like it didn't affect you at all… you shrugged it off to land some vicious blows on King."

Paul raised his eyebrows, with a nod. "Man, I think at the end of the day, the difference between a winning fighter and a losing fighter is heart. King brought it, all the respect in the world… but, I had more heart. Every fight I'm in is must win, man. Nobody else needs to win like I do. I prove that every time."

The interviewer nodded, that grin planted across his face. "This victory marks the record tenth defence of your championship. What's next for Paul Phoenix?"

Paul exhaled slowly, wiping the sweat from his eyes. He looked out at the crowd once more, controlling his breath… seeing all of them, men and women alike, standing, applauding, bellowing. For a moment, despite the fuckin cliché of it all… he saw it all happen in slow motion. So many faces he fixed his eyes upon, that slowly turned into a blur… it just got slower, and slower. But, it still blurred by him, the sudden rush of their noise, their energy…Paul looked all the way around. Paul blinked a few more times, exhaling deeply.

It's not enough. It's never enough.

Paul snatched the microphone away from the interviewer. "I'll tell ya what's next, man. I want the fucking best. Give me the Mishima's. Either of them. Give me the daddy, Heihachi Mishima: the King of the Iron Fist himself. I'll flatten his old ass if I get an hour or two with him."

Paul stepped forwards, his voice raising slowly. "How about Kazuya? Cold-Blooded Son, right? I know you're here, boy. Step up to the plate. I'll put the fuckin belt on the line, anything you fuckin want – come on! I'll pancake your stuck up ass into next summer, son."

Paul paused, stepping towards the cage. I know you're there… "COME ON! I'm giving you the shot: step out of your daddy's shadow, man. Let's make fuckin history." Paul shoved the microphone back into the interviewers chest, stepping towards the cage. Come on, you arrogant fuck. Paul threw it all out there, he pressed all the buttons he needed to press..

Paul smiled. The figure pushing aside the guards was distinctive… mainly because, past all the shoving and the people in the way, that black, spiked hair stood out among them all. "LET HIM IN!" Paul bellowed, placing his belt cautiously on the ground.

That crowd rumble was beginning again… from the base of their toes, all the way to their tip of their hair, he could feel the excitement building. You want this, Mishima. I know you fucking do. You live for this just like me.

Eventually, Paul found himself staring at hard, black eyes again, as Kazuya strode confidently towards him. There was no sense of urgency, or anger on his face… but, Paul knew he had struck a nerve. He could look past the eyes, and see into the fuckin soul of a fighter… he'd hit Kazuya right where it hurt.

Kazuya stopped inches away from Paul, and Paul was already crouching low, one foot near his belt. Just in case… he knew it'd be tough going, but he'd get one good shot in before it would all go to hell.

Paul scooped up the belt in one quick fashion, never tearing his eyes away from Kazuya… Kazuya stared right back. Paul inhaled and exhaled slowly, his nose wrinkling… he couldn't see anything past that wall.

A cold, hardened wall of barely concealed anger, but he couldn't make out any other emotion in Kazuya Mishima. Paul began to bounce again, as he raised his title high. "Let's make it happen, son." Paul began, his eyes widening. "Whenever you want it, I'm fucking ready."

Kazuya remained silent, staring point black back at Paul. Paul couldn't help but notice he didn't even blink.

Paul exhaled quickly, and slowly… slowly, he extended his hand once more. The rumble in the arena came to a hushed silence. The anticipation… you could fuckin feel it, man. The odd fan screaming… Paul can imagine the explosion once Kazuya makes it a reality.

"Come on." Paul remarked. Silence. That stare. Paul began to bounce from foot to foot, his hand steady as it was extended. "Come on." Paul was almost gritting his teeth. Just fucking… do it. Shake it. "Be a man." Paul stopped bouncing, his nostrils flaring. "BE A MAN!"

Kazuya finally broke his gaze from Paul, to briefly look down at Pauls outstretched hand. Kazuya narrowed his eyes slightly, before turning back towards Paul. His face, which was impassive… now turned a shade darker.

Kazuya raised his open hand. Paul pointed his hand further. Do it. Go on. Be a man, Mishima, fucking do it. You Mishima's need to show some fuckin guts. Do it.

Kazuya raised his hand…. and he smacked Pauls championship out of his hand. The title flew onto the canvass below, with the metal smacking loudly against the canvass. The crowd roared in protest…. But, that roar was fucking nothing compared to what Paul felt.

Paul lunged towards Kazuya before anyone could touch him. You little fuck. Don't touch my goddamn title, don't disrespect my title. I'll knock you out right fucking now, you hear? Come on. You little arrogant shit, you wanna touch my fucking belt? Let's fucking go, son. I'M RIGHT HERE!

But, Kazuya stood stock still… as Marshall, the Phoenix corner team the ref and every official imaginable somehow got in between Kazuya and Paul. Kazuya stared point blank, not even moving…as Paul scratched, and clawed, and reached out for his smarmy little fucking throat.

Arms folded, he stood and stared… was he that fucking arrogant? Or, is this guy an idiot? He should know what will happen when Paul gets past all these idiots.

Kazuya slowly turned around as Paul continued to reach… and, before he left, a smirk crossed his face. You cocky little… Paul elbowed the referee in the head, and shoved Marshall away. His hands were possessed, swinging towards one very deliberate target. Anyone who came near him… referees, officials, security, interviewees. They were all getting tossed away, left, right and centre. The lucky ones only got thrown… ones who got too handsy, went anywhere near his neck… Paul made sure they got a present in the mouth to stop that shit.

Get the fuck off me. GET THE FUCK. Stay the fuck out of this. Paul invited him up here to make a fucking moment, and he fucking…. Paul lunged forward. He didn't lunge nearly quick enough.

Because, an arm intercepted that strike. Paul scowled, turning towards the… towards Marshall. Marshalls eyes were fixed on Paul, an intense, brown gaze that bored right through Paul. "Chill out, Paulo. Come on… he's gone." Paul shoved Marshall away again, and broke into another sprint.

Kazuya looked like he was in a fucking hurry to get outta dodge, alright. But, just because he was out of the cage – A pair of arms shoved him back again. "Paul, stop." Marshall stood in front of him. Don't you fucking shove me, boy. Don't do it. "Deep breath. You're gonna get f-"

Paul only saw red, and that shove didn't help anything. Rearing forward, Paul swung, and socked Marshall right across the jaw. Immediately, the gravity of that strike collided with Paul as soon as his fist made contact. Pauls anger slowly began to evaporate, into a much worse feeling of dread. Paul had followed all the way through, but his fist began to wither, to withdraw after the blow… his fist crumbling, flopping back into an open palm.

Marshall stumbled back, right on his ass… Paul didn't think it was the force of the blow. It was a hard blow, sure. But, Paul had hit Marshall with worse in spars. Paul only had to take one look at Marshall to know why.

The shock on his face, as his hand wrapped around his jaw… it wasn't physical pain that brought Marshall to his ass. It was disbelief. Embarrassment.

Paul took a step past him, looking past the cage… but, he could already see Kazuya was on his way out of the arena. Shit. Fuck. Shit, shit, shit. Paul turned back to Marshall, who was still stock still – in the exact same position. "Shit…" Paul reached forwards, extending his hand. "I'm sorry, Marshall. I didn't even-" Marshall kicked his hand away.

Paul winced in pain, shaking away his hand… damn. That was his receipt, he deserved that…. Paul turned back towards Marshall, but he was just shaking his head.

He slowly got his to his feet, his jaw set… but, before Paul could reach out another apologetic hand, he too was already storming out. Paul placed his hands on his hips, aware of the reality of the situation… as hundreds of shocked, murmuring fans were left staring at him. This energy… hell, this an energy no fighter wants to absorb.

All of those eyes, glaring at him, judging him… finding their new scapegoat. Paul glanced over at that championship again, seeing the glint of gold against the cage. Paul slowly walked towards it, and picked it up off the cage… holding it loosely in his hand for several moments.

It didn't seem to hold the same weight as before. Not anymore.

6

The theatrics were a little pathetic, and it was sad that he even participated in them. But, despite his initial goal… he couldn't let that loudmouthed American rant on. He said one too many statements about Kazuya and the Mishima family, and he had to make a stand. The more one lashes their tongue, the worse the lashing will be. He knows not about shadows.

That is problem that plagues society, the vultures and all the so called fighting 'media outlets'. They believe they know the truth about what happens within their family. They're clueless… until it comes from the dragons mouth, they should not accept it as fact. Is Kazuya expected to show respect to the ignorant? You wish me to stand around, and tolerate all of your nonsense as if you have earned that right? Pathetic. Expectations… damn expectations. Damn them.

The brisk air whistled in Kazuya's eyes, as he winced against the wind. Phoenix has become a real irritation, but Kazuya hopes for his sake he has not become a burden. If he cannot find Manchu Ushi and that little Zaibatsu unit now… Kazuya raised his arm, the thick leather jacket shielding his face from the onslaught of wind.

The majority of the security working tonight seemed to be inside, including Bruce… that will not last long. Bruce can only do so much. The main event is finished, so the crowds will be flooding the city in groups within the hour.

Kazuya quickly scanned the remaining surroundings, feeling that clawing… clawing deep within. They're near, Kazuya. You could destroy them in an instant.Not an instant. I want.. I want to bring Ushi to his knees. Kazuya's hand came to his head, momentarily. He shook his mind clear of… the voice. Don't interfere.

Kazuya could hear some discriminate noises coming from behind the venue, in the narrow, indiscriminate alley off to the side of the small arena. Most would miss it… so, it has would be perfect for their little seedy operation.

Kazuya resisted the urge to curl his lip, as he slowly battled the wind in his slow walk towards the ally. "Mishima-san! Kazuya-san! Wait a moment!" Kazuya did not come to a stop, even as he recognized that voice. Not again… damn it all. Leave me be. Before the crowds begin to leave…

"Kazuya-san, that was quite the statement you made out there." Kazuya was almost forced to come to a stop, as the small, slender figure almost slid directly into his path. With those doe eyes, there she was again… Jun Kazama. Holding her tape recorder high, and proudly. "I'd like to ask you – what is it about Paul Phoenix that ins-"

"Not now, Miss Kazama." Kazuya bluntly cut across, continuing his struggling walk against the wind. Kazuya did not look back, as his dark eyes winced against the wind… feeling something a little unsettling bubbling in his stomach.

Surely, he doesn't feel… Kazuya shook away that gnawing feeling, refusing to look back at Jun Kazama. He has more pressing issues to worry about, rather than answering a pretty woman's questions. For Devils sake, he can't even begin to consider such nonsense.

Kazuya eventually found his way to the shelter of the ally, and sure enough, he could hear the whistles of voices among all the clanging. Kazuya leaned against the wall silently, his hand trailing the filthy brick.

Those voices picked up, and Kazuya could already make out the distinction among the accents, the enunciation… matching the crew that had entered the arena. The alley took a sharp right roughly halfway down, so Kazuya carefully hunkered down behind a large waste bin as his ears perked up.

"Do you know much about them, sir?" One voice, local, was the first he made out. Kazuya slowly lowered his hand into the pocket of his leather jacket, his eyes narrowing.

"I do not." That voice came – that twang of harshness, that could only come with a Chinese dialect. Kazuya leaned forward again, his hand wrapping around two leather gloves. "However, we have our orders, directly from Mr Mishima himself. That is where the shipment will go."

Kazuya removed the gloves from his pocket. It was beginning to drizzle, rain slightly… the alley sheltered them from the worst of it, but Kazuya could see the droplets were beginning to leak through. Kazuya slowly raised his head, his sharp eyes locking onto the bulky shape of Manchu Ushi.

His dark ponytail flowed over his back, as he folded his arms over a mountain… of crates. These metal crates were being stacked by all of the grunts, inside an awaiting truck. The process was as thorough as Kazuya recalled it being last time.

One opened the crate, and quickly checked the chosen weapons that were within it. The next closed it, secured it and passed it to the next. Then, the third would stack it into the truck. Like clockwork… Kazuya bore witness to the process so many times. He is proficient in it. Observing it. Yes. He is.

Kazuya raised his head further, as he placed his right hand into his red studded glove. His eyes remained on the back of Ushi's head… he was still, and all Kazuya could make out were those dark sunglasses coldly watching the whole process. "So, the silver haired demon didn't give this order, huh?" Another – a native accent – stood up, walking towards Ushi. "That's a surprise. Heihachi puts a lot of faith in the kid."

Ushi raised his head slowly. "Show some respect to your superiors, you brat." Ushi folded his arms, turning towards the goon in question. "That's 'Mr Chaolan' and 'Mr Mishima' to you. Understood?" The goon hesitated, taking a step back. "Understood… sir." Respect.

The word dripped venom in Kazuya's mind, as he tightened the glove around his right hand. "Now, Kazuya. Mr Ushi is an accomplished combatant. You better show him respect, boy." The monsters come out at night, Kazuya.

Kazuya flexed his fingers… like a second skin. He began to repeat the process with his left glove. "Mr Chaolan does not need to deal with these… affairs." Ushi spoke, his attention directed towards the short haired native. "Weapons are our responsibility. We are to do this task with the same discretion as we would on home soil." Ushi stepped forward again, his hand…resting carefully on the goons shoulder. "That means be careful which forenames you speak openly."

Kazuya tightened the left glove around his hand, his lip twitching with every passing word. Discretion. Responsibility.

You always speak these words with such ease, such false grace, Ushi. You always maintain such composure, Ushi. You always knew exactly how to kiss posterior, Ushi. Oh, but you're useful. You're efficient. You're unmerciful. Everything my father would adore.

Kazuya stood slowly, his dark eyes slowly scanning the entire scene. He felt nothing inside. No nerves, no anxiety, no worry… Kazuya had a fair idea of what to expect, and he was numb to it at this point. Kazuya was a little uneasy when he imagined the potential consequences in the end. However, Kazuya has come to simply accept the heavy gravity of his actions. With Ushi.. that prospect stirred something deeper within him.

He has some unanswered debt to deal with there.

At full height, Kazuya walked forward. He made no bones about concealing anything… his boots clacking against the pavement, his gaze fixed on the back of Manchu Ushi's head. The goons, individually, turned around, and the realisation struck their face. Kazuya read a handful of faces, coldly, with a flicker of the eye.

Kazuya continued walking forwards, his gaze intent on his target. Of course, the guns were withdrawn. Hurried shouts were exchanged, many of them scrambled… Kazuya just curled his lip, and stared as Manchu Ushi slowly turned around. He relaxed his hands, before clenching them… the leather tightening around his fists.

Look at me, Manchu Ushi. Look at me.

One step forward, and as the goon wildly tried to press the trigger… Kazuya reared back, and punched him directly in the chest. Kazuya could feel several ribs break beneath the blow, and the strained cry of pain from the muscle… the shattered ribs could have pierced an organ. Kazuya quickly stepped aside as he crumbled into his inevitable agony.

Kazuya leaped forward, kicking another goon directly in the skull. He watched as his eyes went dim with that one blow, his breathing became much deeper… his entire body went limp as another toppled to the floor. The sheer power of his booted foot immediately concussed the enforcer… what a tame injury. A brain bouncing against a skull is nothing compared to that skull cracking in two like a watermelon.

Kazuya grabbed one more rifle, wrenching the wrist of the next goon. He cried out in pain, and Kazuya wrenched his leg up before he could react. Swinging the goons leg, Kazuya him in the direction of a couple of the others. The man flew as if he was a bag of feathers, careening into his two comrades in an entire manner of grotesque angles, and sudden screams of agony. A bent arm, a misshapen leg. Consequences.

Kazuya easily caught the punch of a desperate goon. He realised his mistake immediately… Kazuya could see the fear in his eyes. You wear that emblem, you can blame yourself for your terror. Kazuya kicked the goon around the head, and brought the same leg around to roundhouse him across the back of the head.

Kazuya could feel flesh once more give way, and the familiar sound of something cracking beneath his boot. Kazuya shoved the goon away again, his gaze fixed once more on his true target.

"An old Chinese proverb says the weak are obsessed, but the strong are driven." Ushi slowly removed his sunglasses, and his cloudy blue eyes were finally revealed. Kazuya remained silent, glaring at his opponent as he controlled his breathing. "Our opinion of you is clear, Kazuya Mishima."

Kazuya curled his lip again, both of his fists clenching even more… your opinion. That is the problem with you…that is why even my father has confined you to this in-between role you are trapped in. You speak in the opinions of the Zaibatsu. Not in statements of your own.

Ushi assaulted first, both his palms coming forward with a piercing yell. Kazuya parried the blow, countering with a kick to Ushi's side… he himself managed to block that. Kazuya quickly jabbed him in the face, and as that blow connected… Kazuya could feel the tide of this short battle already turning. Overestimated.

Kazuya swept the legs out from under Ushi, and quickly drove his fist directly into the ground he was lying upon. Kazuya's fist met nothing but solid granite, as he grunted in irritation… Kazuya stumbled forwards, feeling a solid foot connecting with the small of his back.

Kazuya regained his footing, swivelling on his foot… for Manchu to leap up, with another bellow, and his toes to catch Kazuya right on the bottom of his jaw.

Kazuya stumbled for a moment again, shaking his head…he gritted his teeth, he flexed his jaw, and he flared his nostrils. Enough of this. You are no threat to me… you never were. Kazuya stood solid, as Ushi advanced quickly… both those palms directed towards his chest again.

Kazuya grabbed the palms, and quickly kicked Ushi directly in the stomach. Kazuya slammed his fist into Ushi's chest in quick succession… the electricity flowing through his blood… and flowing directly into Ushi's heart. Kazuya did not stop his onslaught there.

He hit two more blows to Ushi's head, followed by a roundhouse kick to the temple… and, before Ushi could so much as lean forward, Kazuya caught him with another static charged uppercut that sent the Chinese enforcer reeling to the floor.

Kazuya stayed stagnant in that position for several moments, the electricity continued to volt, and crackle off his arms. Kazuya's lip eventually resolved itself, that curl of disgust eventually residing as Ushi began to writhe, and groan on the ground. His squirming was only an affirmation that this was over, and Kazuya turned to a more deliberate pace.

Kazuya tightened his leather jacket around himself, taking a brief moment to look at the carnage he has caused around the small alley. Bodies were strown everywhere, with plenty groaning and some even crawling. Some were even twitching at this point.

Kazuya began his slow walk once more, his eyes fixed on that truck, his eyes narrowing at the crates of weapons hidden in there. The Zaibatsu always finds new customers… on an international basis. Kazuya glanced to the side, and smirked when he saw when he needed to see. Well, he had relied on his instincts that it would even be there. Great fortune on his behalf.

Kazuya picked up the jerry can of diesel, rolling it back and forth in his hand. There should be enough. "No…" The gasp came from below. "Don't….. do you realise….how furious he will be?"

That only caused Kazuya to smirk.

He leaped up into the truck with one deft leap, and he poured. He was completely generous with where it went… as long as it covered every single canister, Kazuya was completely satisfied. Only when the last sprinkle of diesel left that canister, did Kazuya toss it in among the rest of the soaked weapons.

Kazuya stepped out of the truck, eyeing up his work…. Oh. He was sure he would cause some fury back…. home. Kazuya's smirk intensified, as he slowly turned around. He stood over Manchu Ushi… his face bloodied, and his jaw misshapen.

Already, Kazuya could see various lumps and bones shattered across the pavement… the blood was leaking plentifully in the near vicinity. "Nobody succeeds… in what you hope to do…" Ushi slowly gasped.

Kazuya stared down at Ushi. Slowly, he lifted his foot, until his boot glinted in the pool of blood… and he lowered it slowly, until it rested precariously on Manchu Ushi's throat. Ushi's hand eventually went directly to the boot. Kazuya glared down at him… Kazuya does not forget. He remembers every face that associated with… with him. You may believe you played a small part, but your actions here speak volumes. Time magnifies everything, Kazuya.

A small part is enough for you to feel Kazuya's wrath. Kazuya raised his head, and his thumb flickered into his pocket. A lighter unveiled itself, igniting a skinny, orange flame… he used his other hand to shield it from the rain.

Ushi's pathetic struggles regained life once more, but Kazuya was slowly raising the lighter again. Was this poetic? No, not quite. Not yet. But, it was getting there. Kazuya tossed the lighter into the truck.

The weapons exploded into flames, the sudden heat almost scorching Kazuya. He did not step backwards, however… feeling the sweat beads suddenly form across his forehead, soaking his face within moments. He did not even shield his eyes at the burst of orange… he did not divert his gaze, seeing the colourful, beautiful incineration of these damn weapons of destruction.

Ushi splattered out blood across Kazuya's boot, gripping it tighter. "You… truly are a… bitter… man…" Ushi coughed again. "His will…is unbreakable…" He trailed off.

Kazuya was tired of this. Bitter? You know nothing of bitterness. You know nothing of pain.

Quotes, and proverbs are superficial, and provide empty motivation that will barely last a sunset. Even your words now, what do they hope to accomplish? Somehow hurting a feeling of mine before your demise? Is that what a man does in his final moments? Kazuya's lip curled, his foot placed in that perfect position… Now. Right now.

Kazuya did what he must do. Waiting one more moment to stare into Manchu Ushi's eyes, Kazuya eventually drove his foot down, and twisted it.

The crushing sound was the loudest sound Kazuya had heard, inside and out of the arena. He twisted again, as that final gasp slowly faded away… into something far less stylish, less refined than their short fight ever was. It was a cruel, grim reality.

Kazuya slowly moved his gaze upwards, the droplets of rain intensifying in the alley.

The pool of blood was getting diluted, the filthy rainwater washing it down and causing it to turn a murky, rustic brown.

Kazuya slowly removed his foot, and began to tug at his leather jacket. He stared down the alley for a moment, the moment settling in. The consequences settled in. What's necessary, and what's right don't always walk hand in hand. Kazuya pulled his stained leather jacket off, his white shirt glinting in the tendrils of the embers.

Kazuya was sure to remove his locket from it carefully, making sure the gold completely removed itself from that leather. He stared at the closed locket for a moment longer. He eventually placed it back into the pocket of his jeans, its warmth filling his pocket in a few moments. Kazuya learned that… well, he learned that at a very young age. The moment valuable lesson you ever learned, Kazuya Mishima.

Kazuya leaned back, and tossed his leather jacket into the flames. The heat was becoming apparent to him now… alighting a sweat across his brow, that was quickly becoming one of the most uncomfortable sensations of the night. Kazuya stood stagnant for several moments. He had to make sure his peripherals were not lying to him… but, he was sure he saw it. They were scuttling away. Any of the rodents behind the trash can scuttled away, and Kazuya caught a glimpse of one rat desperately squawking out of the alley.

With an exhale, Kazuya started once more.

Methodically, Kazuya began to unwrap the glove around his left hand.

Manchu Ushi

Yoshimitsu

Paul Phoenix

7

"Just shut the fuck up. Don't even say a fucking word." He didn't. Uncharacteristically, Paul did not say a word…. He leaned back, his hood covering his drooping flattop.

His feet were planted on the ground, and his hands were driven all the way into his open pockets….his pockets were the only object feeling his frustration.

His fists pressed aggressively against the fabric, knuckles almost showing white through the red material… his blue eyes stared glumly at those knuckles, as they tremored slightly. He stared, silently, sniffing away the phlegm that came drained down his swollen nose. "What the fuck did you think would happen, Paul?"

Marshalls pacing was getting even more intense, long strides that made him seem much, much taller than he actually was. "You'd hug it out with him, smile for the fucking cameras and kiss some babies on the way out?" Pauls foot was bouncing, his heel barely touching the varnished floor as he stared down… the muffled sounds of training were lost on him, a background noise he has become numb to.

Fists against flesh, grunts and yells of combat, panting and vomiting… sounds of raw effort, pure exertion… as natural as humming birds in the morning, as cars roaring down a small town street. With the door closed, it was the sudden silent air that made him uneasy.

"You're lucky you're not suspended, Paul, I'll fucking tell you that much. You're lucky you have your combat license at all!" Marshall angrily sighed, his sharp gaze turning towards the window. "Is this where this obsession is going to take you? You want to throw away everything you worked for…just for the prospect of one fight?"

Paul remained silent for several moments, his head lowering even more.. almost meekly. "No." Is all he finally offered. His foot ground into the glazed wooden floor, the slight squeaking of sneakers grinding varnish an unfamiliar, and unpleasant noise.

Paul finally raised his head, his steely gaze fixed on the office desk. He never thought it suited Marshall to have an office. Even when he opened up this dojo, the concept of Marshall being stuck behind a desk was so foreign to him… yet again, it took Paul a while to get used to Marshall wearing a chef's hat and cooking breaded cod as well. Maybe, Paul just can't adapt to change as well as others… not a great sign of a fighter, huh?

Marshall began to sit down on the desk, and Paul could see he had finally let out all of that pent up frustration in that yelling session. "There's plenty of other ways you could have made this fight. Kazuya Mishima isn't here for a vacation, man." Marshall shook his head, before turning to stare at Paul.

Paul stared straight ahead, looking directly at the chair with an intensity. Marshall leaned forward, and repped his knuckles across Pauls forehead. "This is the fucking problem. You need to sort out your damn head, man. You can't keep losing your fucking mind every time someone steps out of line."

"Then, when am I meant to lose it, Marshall?" Paul finally met his friends eyes, his voice husky. "He keeps pressing my buttons, but he won't step up."

"What do you think will happen if you pull shit like that in a fight with Kazuya?" Paul fell silent again at that. Marshall exhaled, looking away. "Where are you gonna go from here, Paul? How the hell are you going to fix this?" Paul…furrowed his eyebrows at that. What the fuck does that mean? You're the one who's meant to tell me the diplomatic solution.

"I'm gonna beat him, Marsh. I'll flatten him." Paul sat up straighter in his chair. "If I can't beat him, my entire career means nothing. Everything I worked for, all of it means nothing to me." Paul slowly stood up, dragging his hands out of his pocket. "How the hell could I live with myself, backing out?"

Paul stared dead at Marshall, but Marshalls gaze was fixed out that window. "This fight has to happen." Paul pressed. "It doesn't, man."

Paul stopped… again. What? There's no way he heard what he fuckin thought he… what? Paul stared at his friend in a new light now, his swollen face twisting in disbelief as he stared at his… at his best friend. What the hell is the matter with you, man?

"This is a Mishima we're talking about." Marshall walked towards the window. "You can't pull bullshit with this guy, man. He's got nothing to lose… You just don't have the… you just can't do it. Not in this state."

Marshall began to scratch his arm, his mouth was open… but, he was taking his time spitting it fucking out. "Just leave him be."

"What are you trying to say, Marshall?" Paul stood up slowly, his eyes narrowing. Marshall sighed again… stop that. Stop fucking sighing, and tell me why the hell you don't believe… Pauls mind trailed off. He shook his head. "Listen, let's just get this all out in a spar. I'll let you get a free shot in. We've already missed a couple of hours of training, anyway."

Marshall continued to stare out the window. Paul was inching towards the door, anxiety slowly bubbling deep in his stomach. Paul was at the doorway, his foot wobbling… before, he turned back around. "Marshall?"

Marshall hadn't moved, his arms folded. "You're welcome to still use the dojo. Do whatever you can, hire anyone you want…" Paul began to hover at the door. He began to bounce on both feet. "Stop messing about, man. Let's go."

"I'm not training you, Paul." Marshall was glued to that window… Paul could only make out part of his brown eyes, but they were faraway. "I won't get involved in this."

Paul stayed by the door. His feet eventually had to stop bouncing, even if he wanted to keep going. Paul leaned against the doorway, feeling himself slowly deflating. So, that's how it is.

Of all the people, to back away… it's just typical. It really is. He makes one mistake, and suddenly it becomes a witch hunt… everyone wants to put him up on a stake, just because he loses his temper once. God forbid he gets disrespected, and tries to get his own back. What the fuck do they expect him to do, just stand there and take that? Bottle it all up again?

That's the problem. It's not 'proper', it's not 'brave' for a fighter to act like that. To stand there, to be the bigger fucking man? Nah, fuck that. He won't just say nothing. He's done that shit enough in his life. He's gonna be open about it, and he's fed up of everyone having a problem with that.

Paul turned away, facing back towards the dojo. His fists were out of his pockets now, and they were the farthest thing from loose they've ever been. Marshall knows. He knows this is the fight he's always wanted… the two on his bucket list. Kazuya, and Heihachi Mishima.

It's always been that way, because once you beat them… there's no doubt about it. You can die tomorrow, and that's a legacy that will live with you forever.

That's what makes the early mornings, the soaking wet trips running in the rain, the long trips travelling from city to city on his motorbike, no matter the weather, the hours upon hours out on the mats, the porridge in the morning and the chicken and rice at night… the blank space of a social life. Discarding of all the ups and downs of falling in love. All of it. That sacrifice will finally be justified.

He's not sure what hurts the most… the fact Marshall won't walk with him into the biggest battle of his life. Or, the fact his brother doesn't believe he can even win that battle.

Paul turned his head back around, his blue eyes catching the back of Marshalls head. "Without this fight, I have no career." Paul stared at the back of Marshalls head, but he heard no response from him. Paul pulled his red hood tighter around his head, beginning to bounce again.

The morning run has always been the loneliest part of his training… it's always the part he has to do alone.

But, it's usually the most mindful part…it's when he can clear his head, and let things wash away before he starts the real training. All of those lingering thoughts, the tiring fury of the previous day… it can wash away, so he can awaken some new demons. It's his reset point, when nothing else in the training day can offer him something mentally.

But, as he walked numbly through the dojo, ignoring the greetings and congratulations that came his way… Paul knew that was far from the case this time. Paul realised this run could be the longest, the most uncertain… the most worrying run he has ever went on.

8

Once more, he stood still, arms folded, watching as his opponent dragged himself to his feet. Kazuya stared silently, as Bruce got up… quickly, with a wince, as he dragged up the padding around his body with him. "Is it really necessary to do all of this here?"

Kazuya inhaled in response, the fresh air bred by the trees a welcome distraction. Finding somewhere that Kazuya can naturally train was difficult. Dojos provide equipment, and an environment that Kazuya enjoys.

However, it does not provide a lifestyle. Out here, away from society, deep in the heart of a lonesome field… that is the lifestyle that Kazuya needs to train. That is where he must be. He may grow weary of it, but it is hard for him to simply discard it.

After all, that is where he was bred, almost his entire life… the only way he could prepare was out amongst the world, in the fields, mountains and forests of his native country. Away from it all.

Bruce moved towards him again, the paddings morphing into his skin once more, as his speed began to return to its natural form. Kazuya stepped back into his combat stance, as Bruce already began to throw his knees and elbows. Kazuya blocked them all quickly, continuing to block as he looked for an opening… knee, elbow. Knee. Elbow.

Kazuya realised that Bruce Irvin's fighting style was a far cry from Paul Phoenix's. And, no doubt it hardly bore any resemblance to Yoshimitsu. However, it was the unorthodox, relentless nature of this Muay Thai fighting art that made Irvin a very useful sparring partner. Unpredictable, even to Kazuya, and that is what is needed to sharpen his steel fist.

He used all of his limbs, all of the pointed parts of his body to begin, and continue this vicious assault. That's what Kazuya needs. The most vicious, aggressive spars he can possibly can…. Kazuya does not fight until a referee waves a fight off, or until a fighter cannot defend himself. He fights until he is the last man standing,

Remember, boy. A fight is about who is left standing. Nothing else. Kazuya snarled at those words, creeping up from his pained memory like a spider weaving an impenetrable web. It caused Kazuya to lash out, and with a cry, kick Bruce in the chest. Easy, Kazuya. Some things must be preserved.

Once more, Bruce was sent soaring back, and Kazuya slowly lowered his leg… the grass once more brushing, and threading between his bare toes. Kazuya raised his head, feeling the sun slowly rise… if San Francisco resembled this place more often, Kazuya would have far more kind words for it. Kazuya couldn't help but notice a lone tree sitting off in the distance.

A large presence, a looming, twisted oak tree that stretched up towards the horizon of the sky. Kazuya could take that as indicator that a forest was near here… but, he was more interested in visiting that tree before they were finished.

Call it childish, or a little silly, but Kazuya likes to make his mark on impressive trees like this one.

Perhaps, his initials.. or, even just a signature. One fond memory in a place full of impersonal, self-absorbed fools. One… one mark of beauty in a place that is riddled with concrete destruction. Some of that destruction is your own doing, Kazuya.I never claimed it was not. Can you please stay quiet when I am training?

Kazuya stepped into his fighting stance, but Bruce had his hand shielded to his eyes, staring off in the distance. Kazuya glared at him for several more moments, until Bruce's grim face broke into a smirk. "Well, shit. How the hell does that friend of yours always get a hold of us?" Kazuya frowned… friend?

Kazuya turned to follow Bruce's gaze slowly, and his eyebrows furrowed again. Sure enough, atop of a small bicycle… riding across the small dirt road that led to this field, in her black tracksuits and white shirt, was the familiar dark bangs and headband of one nosy reporter.

Kazuya resisted the urge to roll his eyes, instead placing his hands on his hips as she made her gradual way into the field… her pedal bike, perhaps a mountain bike, slowly gaining momentum as it approached them.

It took several moments for Jun Kazama to…. 'notice' them, but when she did, she was quick to lift that hand for the exaggerated wave, and the warm smile. Kazuya folded his arms as she approached, exchanging a glance with a baffled Bruce. "Think this is a fight for you, buddy." Bruce began to step away, but Kazuya frowned, and shook his head.

"Stay." Kazuya simply responded, his eyes turning back towards Jun Kazama. Kazama had dismounted her bike, and gently leaned it against the very tree Kazuya was just looking at. Kazuya folded his arms tighter, and his stare on Kazama intensified. "Kazuya-san!" She called, waving again. Kazuya did not respond, but of course, that did not deter her. Within moments, she was almost beside them… she was a quick mover, Kazuya would give her that.

He did not unfold his arms, however. "You've chosen an excellent spot to train!" Jun Kazama complimented (in almost proficient English), her round eyes a little too wide for Kazuya's liking. Kazuya exchanged another look with Bruce. "Thank you…?" Bruce offered, but another look from Kazuya shut her down. "You are persistent, Jun Kazama." Kazuya spoke bluntly, in native Japanese.

Jun Kazama smiled in response – another sweet gesture. Sweet. Why are you using such words, Kazuya? "A good story interests me, Kazuya Mishima." But, from where she was standing, under the sun that complimented her fair skin, and illuminated the warm glow of those brown eyes… Kazuya could make out the mischief in those eyes.

Kazuya could see she was already reaching into her pocket. Of course, she withdrew that tape recorder, with a thin wire extending to the earphone stuck in her ear.

Kazuya snorted, "We are training." "Then, I will watch!" Kazama, quick as a whip, responded – reverting back to English. Watch… well. Kazuya stared at Bruce once more. This is certainly taboo, and he'd hardly allow it under most circumstances.

But, Jun Kazama does not seem like the kind of woman to go sharing training recordings with the world, never mind Paul Phoenix. That is a strange assumption to make. That is intuition, of course. Where has that gotten you in the past, Kazuya? His jaw set, and his eyes going blank for several moments… Kazuya finally relented. With a single nod, he turned back towards Bruce. But, Bruce was still standing there, his hand raised and mouth open. "Hold on, Kazuya. Remember what I told you this morning?"

Kazuya's eyebrows furrowed again, before his eyes widened in realisation. For heavens… "I have to go pick up my cousin from school." Bruce wore a sheepish expression… knowing exactly what he was scheming, as he glanced between the two of them. "I'm sure you two can find something to do that Ms Kazama could find useful."

Kazuya remained silent, staring blood curdled daggers at Bruce as he began to leave the field. He refused to turn around, even as Bruce had reached his humble Fiat Punto… even more so, when that vehicle roared to life.

Kazuya closed his eyes for several moments, feeling an… irritating eagerness emanating from behind him. It's an aura, surely. A dangerous aura.You be silent. On instinct, Kazuya intertwined the locket within his fingers once more.

"It seems your journey was wasted, Ms Kazama." Kazuya eventually turned towards Jun, trying to sound apologetic. Kazuya despised being disingenuous, so he gave up that insulting notion. Honesty may be brutal, but there is no charade or deception hidden behind honesty. A dignified person can learn to accept that, and Kazuya… Kazuya's intuition tells him Jun Kazama holds some form of dignity. Jun Kazama tilted her head to the side, her brown eyes looking at Kazuya for several moments. Kazuya did not like it.

He had been looked at before, stared at, glared at… but, he did not like the manner in which Jun Kazama looked at him. It was prying, in a … in an… uncertain way. Kazuya shifted on both his feet, his eyes narrowing. Kazuya could not quite put it into words.

"I believe you're far less intimidating than you believe yourself to be, Kazuya Mishima."

Kazuya's frown almost became a scowl at those words. I see. You are certainly quick with your words, and perhaps you have some experience in combat situations… Kazuya blinked a few more times. This aura you have, Kazama, is not one I am particularly comfortable around. It is because you do not understand it, Kazuya.

"I must meditate." Kazuya finally announced, his gaze fixed on the tree. He began his slow stride towards that tree, looking far past the still, watching gaze of Jun Kazama. She was still for a few moments, her brown eyes watching him… as slowly, he stepped past her. Dangerous. Kazuya ignored the voice deep in his mind, continuing his deliberate walk.

"I shall meditate with you." Jun, unbelievably, spun on her heel…a bounce in her step. "I have fallen out of the habit ever since I came to America… it will do me the world of good."

Kazuya did not stop at that, but he would be lying to say he did not expect an answer like that. There is no getting rid of Jun Kazama… so, perhaps, meditation will be acceptable. After all, there is not much she can pry into without speaking, after all? Kazuya satisfied himself with that answer.

He sat down, cross legged, at the base of the tree… directly beside him, moments later, he could feel the warm aura of Jun Kazama right beside him… also cross legged, and eyes closed in a moment. Kazuya watched her, silently out of his peripherals, for a few moments. I see… she is not pretending. That is a welcome surprise… Kazuya closed his eyes, and attempted to clear the clutter in his mind.

It was difficult, when he felt so confused. So strange.

9

"Remember, Kazuya… there are safer places than here for you." Safe? You do not know safe, Kazuya. You know that better than I. Give me a reason. Awaken me. Kazuya reached out to the nearest rock, with another gasp. Every movement was sheer agony…There is reason for you, young man. You cannot live your life this way. He could not feel… the tears flooded down his face, as he gripped to that rock desperately. He sniffled, gripping onto it for dear life… it was agonising, but he needed to grip onto it. He couldn't just… lay… here…Your mother, your father…You are not helpless, Kazuya. You should not be. You are not like any other boy. You need to grow up quickly. Kazuya turned his bruised, beaten and tired face up again.

You need me to help you grow up quickly.

Kazuya kept his eyes closed, forcing them closed… as his gloved hands ground into his legs. Remember what Wang was telling him… sometimes, letting the mind wander can be beneficial. But… he cannot let this memory come to him again. Not the whole memory. Kazuya folded his legs tighter into the body. Or, that memory. Or, this one…. Especially not this one.

Kazuya's hand reached into his pocket, and felt it wrap around the familiar comfort of a chain… his fingers working their way down, until they encountered that locket. He flipped the locket open, hearing that little rattle… and he closed it again. Not while she is present.

Kazuya exhaled, a forced, slow breath. Within moments, he could feel Jun Kazama inhale… a deep breath, he could feel the relaxation in that single breath. It was so relaxed, so at ease… he could almost feel her breath against him. Kazuya opened his eyes.

He leaped to his feet, and found himself pacing again. Back and forth, treading the entire length of the shade provided overhead by the leaves. Kazuya's signature scowl once more painted across his face, his head definitively lowered as he glared at stray branches and dying leaves shrouded in muck. Closing his eyes is not a solution. It only opens another door.. to home.

Damn you, Wang. Just because all of these methods provide you peace of mind, doesn't mean they're therapy for me. I need something stronger. Something far more potent. More certain. More…

"It's difficult to focus, isn't it?" The sound of her harmonic voice caused Kazuya to spin. Jun still sat, cross legged, her eyes closed as her shoulders gently leaned back… her fair skin nearly shrouded in the shadows.

The look on her face was so easy, so relaxed…. So peaceful. Jun tilted her head. "Well, I suppose focusing defeats the purpose of this, doesn't it?" Jun eventually opened those wide, warm brown eyes of her. Once again, she was staring at Kazuya with that same look. What is that? Expectation? Curiosity? What is it you are looking at… looking for?

What are you, Jun Kazama? Kazuya's pacing had significantly slowed down, until he came to an eventual stop. His stare held Jun's, his lips pursed as he watched her. Whatever she is… she is human, Kazuya has no doubt about that. Yet again, her aura… she holds something dear, deep within. Does she know what she is capable of?

Kazuya slowly walked towards her, and sat down opposite her. Jun stayed still, her body still wholly relaxed, and at ease. Kazuya continued to stare at her, with narrow eyes, and loosening fists. He adjusted his seated position, until he was once more opposite her.

"You wish to speak?" Kazuya eventually challenged, in a low voice. Kazuya lifted his right hand, and slowly… he began to peel off his red and black glove. "Let us speak, Jun Kazama."

Again, the lack of a reaction from Jun Kazama was a little surprising from Kazuya. She leaned back, a small smile crossing her face… as she reached back over to her backpack. Kazuya fell silent once more, as he watched her intently… as she rifled through all manner of trinkets, to finally pull out her tape recorder.

"Let us speak." Jun echoed. Kazuya lowered his eyes, noticing the callouses on his bare hand were once more torn, and raw… Kazuya brushed a careful hand over them, slowly peeling off a wayward piece of dead skin. Jun continued to fiddle with her tape recorder, sorting out her earphones and pressing all matter of buttons on the device.

Kazuya sat up straighter, and adjusted his shirt. Sitting this still, in this environment like this… he's all too aware he is well out of his element now. However, if this is an entrapment, Kazuya is well used to battling in situations where he is the foreign body.

Jun finally raised her head, and lifted up that tape recorder, along with a thin, small microphone. "Ready?" Kazuya remained still, and confirmed it with a single nod. With a final smile, Jun hit the red button on the tape recorder.

Session 1, Kazuya Mishima

Jun: Testing, one two… one two… one two three. Session 1, with Kazuya Mishima. The youngest in the Mishima family and the current 'son of a distinguished family'. Kazuya-san, thank you for joining me today. How are you?

Kazuya: Fine.

Jun: That's… good to hear. Before we proceed –

Kazuya: Do not call me that.

Jun: I'm sorry?

Kazuya: I never was his son. I am nobody's son.

Jun: I will make a note of that. So, Kazuya-san.. you've come to the West Coast of America, and almost immediately, made your enemies. What was it about Paul Phoenix that drew you towards this potential fight?

Kazuya: His dominance. His fighting style. He does not prioritise having a 'pretty' or 'smooth' way of combat. He is brutal, and effective. I did respect that.

Jun: On that point… you 'did' respect that. You don't respect Paul anymore?

Kazuya: No.

Jun: Is this due to what happened after the Phoenix-King fight?

Kazuya: Partially.

Jun: And… what is the other part, might I ask?

Kazuya:… You might. I lost respect for Paul Phoenix the moment I laid my eyes upon him.

Jun: Ah. I believe I understand now… his infamous tongue.

Kazuya: Long ago, I was raised that one's fists is how one commands respect. Not through bravado, and petty insults.

Jun: I see. There will certainly be a clash of personalities once this fight will happen.

Jun: So, Kazuya-san. This is what interests me. Is the sole reason you came to America based around fighting Paul Phoenix?

Kazuya:

Jun: … Will I take that as a yes?

Kazuya: I do not see how this question is relevant.

Jun: I understand. We will move on.

Kazuya: Fine.

Jun: Kazuya-san, you are somewhat of a recluse. You are careful not to expose yourself to the public eye, and when you do, you don't care to play an exaggerated character. Are you against the theatrics that some employ into fighting?

Kazuya: I am.

Jun:… Kazuya-san, have you ever considered you have some form of anxiety?

Kazuya: Anxiety? Miss Kazama, I have fought practically my entire life. I travelled the globe, on my own dime, to beat those who claim to be world class. I rarely feel nervous before any combat.

Jun: No, I did not mean…..

Jun: Socially, was my meaning. A form of social anxiety?

Kazuya: I do not understand.

Jun: Very well… we shall move on. So, we shall finish on this. You were quick to storm the cage upon Paul Phoenix's challenge. You did not speak a word, but you spoke brazenly in how you acted. Why did you smack the title belt out of Paul's hands?

Kazuya: Jun Kazama. You answered that question yourself.

Jun:… Your actions spoke louder than his words?

Kazuya: Yes.

Jun: Well… this was an interesting session, but I feel we've barely touched the surface. All the same, thank you, Kazuya-san. I'm sure we will speak again.

Kazuya: We will?

The red button was clicked once more, and Kazuya was almost on his feet. Again? You… Kazuya exhaled slowly, his jaw clenching. You… you are a clever woman, Jun Kazama. There is far more behind those doe eyes of yours than an inquisitive reporter.

Jun, of course, was as relaxed as ever, as he began to put away her tape recorder, humming to herself. "So, when should we do the next session?"

"Where are you taking these interviews?" Kazuya instead demanded. Jun's raised her eyebrows. "Back to the Kazama dojo. This is not for public distribution, Kazuya-san. I am sorry… I thought I already told you that."

Kazuya relaxed at that, his fists once more loosening. And, you trust those words so easily? Kazuya turned back towards the tree… he placed his calloused palm against the rough bark for a moment. I do believe them easily. "It will be some time." Kazuya finally responded. "I have business to attend to soon."

Jun Kazama nodded in response. "Well, I would offer a contact method… but, you are a difficult man to contact." Kazuya folded his arms, raising his own thick eyebrows at that.

"I am sure we will meet regularly, under similar circumstances." Jun began to stand up, gathering all her recording equipment to place it in the bag. "It is bound to happen." Bound? Kazuya had plenty of time to mull over those words, as Jun Kazama made haste in her exit.

With another energetic wave, she had already mounted that bike of hers, and began her quick descent down the grassy hill. You are careful with your words, Jun Kazama. If I was only more familiar with ones such as you.

Kazuya watched her as she cycled. His hand leaned against the tree silently, his mind… his mind still racing over too many different questions. Start creating answers, Kazuya. She is a problem, and you can create a solution.All the same… Kazuya felt she was genuine. I cannot have all of the answers. All I have is a path I must follow.

His intuition was strong in that regard.

10

It's been a while since he's been here. Fuck me, could be close to four years now… all this time, and it just looks barren now. Paul swears the owner of the place converted it into a gym – a weights gym, not a dojo.

"This is where I became a champion." Paul looked inside the garage door, to see all the fighter splayed out on the sweaty mats. "It's your time now, Paulo." Paul felt the hand on his chest, the reassuring presence behind him. "But, you better be willing to put in the work."

Paul kicked aside a tire that was upright, that fell with an almighty thump onto the ground. That didn't last too long, so. Paul walked towards the shuttered up entrance of the 'gym', the red splattered graffiti already proudly showcasing a number of different crude messages.

It's funny how you just become used to that after being in San Fran for a while. More graffiti, more generic signatures and symbols. Unless it's a proper, full scale portrait or artwork, you'd barely take notice of it.

Paul wiped the snot away from swollen nostrils once more. This snot shit is becoming a problem… dunno what the hell King did, but he's like a geyser sometimes. Paul glanced over his shoulder. The fence that marked the end of the industrial unit had been totally, if not all, ripped… slim, sharp wire extending in all directions.

Paul watched as that wire swayed in the wind for a little while. It barely hid the wild field that lay behind it, completely untamed, unmowed, unstrimmed… hell, untouched. Some punks decided to come rip the damn fence off, and didn't even care about what the hell was behind it. Well, he could see a few badger holes sparsely dotted all over the place, and he's sure that they care about it. Paul imagines that prevented the punks from doing anything further.

Tyres, weighted plates, punching bags, and cinder blocks were tossed everywhere, in what would be a mountain man's exercise paradise. Paul glanced back the alley he came in. I ain't no island man though. The only sign of any other life was the cars that zoomed by every few seconds… he bit the inside of his lip.

Beggars can't be choosers. Paul faintly heard a familiar voice echo in his head… quoting his idol, as he always would. Now I see, that I will never find the light unless, like a candle, I am my own fuel. Ain't what Chuck Norris would say, but still. It don't fuckin matter if Marshall was right or not. Paul's the only one here now.

Paul took off his leather jacket, already wearing his red gi. He kicked off both his trainers, his foot wraps already catching some stray glass. With a grunt, he kicked the shards free. Sepsis all over the place here… not to mention, he doesn't need to be deadlifting rusted old plates now. He needs explosiveness.

Paul turned towards one cinder block, that was lying across the wall. Paul slowly lifted it up, balancing it until it was completely upright. Once he was standing, he took a step back… glancing back down the alley. He reared back, clenching his gloved fist… and with a single exhale, his fist punched directly through the thick cinder block.

It crumbled into several pieces at the impact of his fist, feeling the pressure rock into his fists. Blocks don't hit back. Paul stepped back, blinking a few times. Like a faint whisper… he couldn't shake him.

Well, fuck it. Blocks hit harder than boxing bags, and he sure as hell isn't gonna start trying to hook one of those up around this junkyard. So, he's got plenty of cinder blocks to work through.

The fence rattled from time to time. The beeps, the yells and the occasional sound of some kind of chaos going on nearby reminded Paul what he was doing. All the cinder blocks broken, the tyres he threw and the walls he leaped onto didn't take away from that fact. This is fuckin cheap, man.

Hell, Paul isn't tryna sound like he's fancy, that he's awkward or he's some kind of stuck up rich fighter. Paul can promise you, he's only one of those things, and the pennies in his bank balance would back that up. Paul always tries to keep himself grounded, even despite the rush of the crowd and the ecstasy of victory. But… fuck me, he's earned a little more standing in the fighting world than training like this. Train somewhere else then. Where? Where can he go where he doesn't have to start all over? Where can he go that can specialise in the advanced training he needs?

His flattop was getting more action that it had seen in months, more action that Paul himself, with the way the wind battled against him. Paul jumped down from the wall again, the slight sweat he had already deteriorating quickly.

Paul walked slowly over to his leather jacket, folded up and gathering dust against the wall. Paul picked it up slowly, his blue eyes darkening… he glanced over at the large shutters. Fuckin barren. Paul threw his jacket against the wall suddenly, the slam of leather against metal screaming across the entire yard.

Paul followed that strike up with a furious kick to the wall. "Fuck this!" And, another… the wall itself crumbling inwards, almost shaking with the velocity. What the fuck is he doing? Punching cinder blocks, throwing around fucking cockroach infested tires? What the fuck does it matter if the fucking wall is trembling and shaking? I've been doing this my entire life. You'd think I'd figure something out. On my own? Yeah. On your fucking own, dumbass. Are you mentally malnourished or something?

How the hell… I'm not a creative person. Not in the fucking slightest. I can take a ball, and run with it hard. But, someone else needs to pick that ball up off the ground, and hand it to me first. Wasting my own fucking time. Call yourself a champion, do you? You can't do shit right. Paul was already storming down the alley.

The murmurs had begun, and once they did, they already began to build up,… began to mount, and ride atop each other. Is this why you sacrificed everything? This why destroyed your social life? Six am to eleven pm, for a worthless tire tossing? You're pathetic. How would you ever live up to Kazuya Mishima? What, you missed Johnny's funeral for this? You can't help Ma cause of this, is that it? You call yourself a champion.

He had almost reached the end of the alley, and he already spun on his heel – the pacing was beginning again. All it takes is one bad hit, one fucking wayward punch… and Kazuya can take what he wants from you. Take it all way, so you've lived a fucking existence of grinding and pain with a result of agony and defeat. Agony and defeat. Go fucking home. How the hell do I find my way out of that? You can't. You've never faced it.

How… Paul came to a gradual stop, his ears twitching. His blue eyes lit up gradually and he slowly raised his head… as the sound of the voices approached closer, and closer.

Paul turned around slowly, in time to see the originators of them… a small group, of long bearded bikers, walked slowly past the alley. He was fairly sure they were bikers, anyway… the thick frames. The long beards, the hard eyes, the swaggering demeanour… lads think they're untouchable. Think they're the shit? They don't know what hard work is.

Paul Phoenix clenched his fist, as he felt his blue eyes darken. Untouchable. Nobody is fucking untouchable. Arrogant pricks. "Hey… is this your ride?" Pauls dark gaze was quick to move towards the first one who spoke… they came to a stop shortly outside the alley, One biker -the biggest, with grey in his beard and a twinkle in hazel eyes – stepped forward. "Who's asking?" Paul remarked, his voice low.

The biker paused, furrowing his eyebrows. He glanced over at one of his friends, who shrugged in response. "Hey, man.. we're just admiring. No need to get hot." The biker began to turn around, tilting his head towards his friends. He heard them already beginning to murmur. Their eyes flickering back at him, and towards each other. A smirk there, a snigger on the other side. Pathetic. Asshole. Piece of shit. Dumbass. Paul couldn't make out much among their low conversations, but he could come to his own conclusions. Retard. Idiot. Pathetic.

Paul stepped forwards again. His leer had intensified, into a white hot glare. "What'd you call me?"

The oldest stopped again, turning around even slower again. The look of confusion on his face wasn't enough to dissuade Paul.. it only fuelled the exact opposite. Paul glared at him with a vindictive aggression, his fists clenched as he glared at them. "Listen, pal… there's one of you. There's eight of us. Use your head."

"What are you gonna do, you bum?" Paul stormed right up to the oldest biker, baring his teeth. "Come on. Goofy ass teeth on you like a donkey, son. You think you're tough, bug eyes? You think you're bad? Let's go." The older biker was rolling his eyes, and Paul could already see they were beginning to circle him.

Paul finally felt himself begin to smile, as he eyed up them all. "Pussies." Paul finished with, but he barely had time to even get that one out. Paul blocked a punch by the older biker, and slammed his fist into his jaw. He fell like a sack of bricks… who the fuck is the retard now? Who's pathetic now, huh? Hiding behind your beard and your jacket, you think you're bad, boy? You think you're hard?

The others lunged at him within a moment, but the numbers didn't matter. Paul was swinging for the fences… they're fake tough bums. They're bums. Paul just needs any excuse.

Paul leaned against the wall, with a heavy sigh. His hand came to his cheekbone momentarily, grunting as he massaged it… nobody's immune, he guesses. Especially, when there's that much of a numbers advantage. Paul was glancing in all directions for several moments, the silence speaking the reality of the situation into existence.

Paul could hear the faint vibrations stretch down the road… it was getting late. Paul could hear the bars blaring their music, the laughing cries of an alive city. They were essentially lost in their own little space… a fragile little space. Nah, it's not fragile. I just wreck shit, and blame everything else for being fragile.

Paul began to bounce from one foot to the other, glancing down at the mass of humanity he has left in his wake. Paul gritted his teeth, glancing over at his Harley… he felt his entire body loosen there. It barely lasted a few minutes, but… damn. It feels good.

All the same… this is something I've been perfected. How the hell can you be proud of that kinda perfection? It feels good.

Paul glanced back at the groaning biker beneath him. "Listen, man…" Paul hunkered over again, wiping his nose one more time. "I'm sorry." He heard a splutter in response, accompanied by a groan. "Get… bent…"

Paul exhaled in response, turning away for a moment. "Look it…" Paul shoved his hand in his pocket, and rifled around until he found something suitable. "Here's thirty bucks. Some spare cigarettes too, I don't smoke.." Paul held out his hand, but realising the biker was having trouble moving… he decided to drop the money, and fags, at his head.

It was a little more insulting than Paul meant, but hell… fuck it. Good enough for them, lucky they're getting anything off him. Come on now. Less of that.

Paul turned back towards his Harley, his mind… a little clearer. Was that even fucking training? Hell if I know, but it felt damn good. It feels good. Hey man, what was it Marshall always used to say… don't let the steam build up, or else you'll be burning like a pig. Paul paused, his face twitching.

Used to say. Paul shook his head again, swinging one leg back around his Harley. Nah, he prefers Chucks old saying. The only time you lose at something is when you don't learn from that experience. He looked back at the yard.. well. Paul's not sure, but he knows this will go away. He knows some kind of downswing will hit him, like post-nut clarity.. it always happens for him.

He rides the high of these encounters while he can, but then he realises the mess he's fucking caused…. And, Marshall signs in for clean-up duty. Paul gripped the handlebars tightly, his jaw clenching.

Listen. I just don't want to ruin this fight, this time. Not this one. I can't let my bullshit… I can't. I can't give anyone, any fucking one, an excuse to let me get in the way of Kazuya. I can't let him come and go, and me to be left with nothing but that empty dissatisfaction.

Paul has felt that for too long. He has been left out before, more times than he can count. It's more than emptiness. It's like… it's always there. It's a chronic, inner emptiness. The kind you feel when you're dragging yourself through life… the day to day grind, between all the little things that comfort you and all the other bullshit that tortures you. That feeling that nothing, no matter the grind, no matter the effort… nothing will fucking change. I know who I am. I know what I'm capable of.

Maybe, Paul should take a trip home. Not just back to his apartment on 6th street. Back to home home. Paul leaned against the handles for a moment, his head slumping between the two thick bars. his mind throwing over that possibility.

If he wants a little peace of mind, ain't nowhere better. But, is peace of mind what I need? I need to channel emotion. I need to cancel out Kazuya's. Is that what I need? I'll change my mind about that tomorrow anyway.

Still. That's where the champion was born, and bred, after all. Maybe… maybe. Paul sat up straighter, and roared his Harley back to life. What the hell else is keeping me here?

Coming home means meeting a responsibility that Paul has placed on himself.

11

"So, what's the story with tonight?" Kazuya had been staring at the locket for too long, that he had almost lost himself in his surroundings. The sound of his deep voice roused him from those thoughts… Kazuya shook his head, flicking the locket closed.

The locker-room returned to him, with the bustling of several different groups and cliques. All in a foreign language… well. His native language, at times, feels foreign to Kazuya. Kazuya glanced back at Bruce, who was leaning against the locker-room. Kazuya began to take off his black button up shirt, meeting Bruce's eyes silently. It did not feel whole on him. This black shirt, emblazoned with the security logo… Kazuya hardly cared what others though. But, he did fear that he himself would convince himself that is his identity. Kazuya Mishima, security guard. My loving family would adore that concept. It would be infuriating for us, Kazuya.

Unlike some, Kazuya would not define himself by his occupation. Kazuya would expect that of Western culture… it takes up such a large part of what one does, it is easy to place a label on that. Fighter is all Kazuya spends truly doing… but, Kazuya would not even define himself as that. He would call himself a warrior, but he would not define himself as one. There is so much more… everything must have a label.

That seems to be an issue that nobody is addressing, and Kazuya does not appreciate it goes ignored. Yet, he will not speak of it, so perhaps all things must remain hopelessly labelled.

"No training?" Bruce pressed, his fingers beginning to drum against the lockers. "Not like you." Kazuya felt a shoulder shove into him. He glanced over his shoulder quickly… "Sorry, pal." The older gentleman responsible smiled apologetically.

Kazuya turned back around… he wore a purple shirt. The shirts are not just for show, they indicate your position for the night. Purple generally means you're a seat usher. Green means you work on the floor. Black means you are positioned near the stage.

It's almost a little metaphorical, the more Kazuya thinks about it. A backwards ranking system. "There is something urgent I must take care of." Kazuya finally responded, turning his black gaze towards Bruce. Bruce was rifling through his locker, all the while still staring at Kazuya… bare chested now, you could see the tattoos painted on his sparring partners dark skin. Elaborate symbols, lines and dots, that Kazuya could not recognize nor attach meaning to. He had those hand wraps of his in one hand, and a small, electronic device in the other.

Forgive Kazuya for not being apt at recognizing these electronic trinkets. Bruce ripped open part of the wraps, and placed it on his wrist… letting the tape dangle down, from his wrist. Kazuya watched it for several moments, watching as it dangled.

"You're the boss." Bruce finally responded. A beeping came from that device, and he lowered his gaze. Bruce squinted, as he pressed a few small buttons on the little, circular device. "Sorry, cousin needs some milk…" He paused, lowering his hand. "Just keep whatever you're doing quiet, and don't make too much of a mess."

Kazuya closed his locker quickly, reaching towards his white shirt. His frown already was beginning at Bruce's remark, and the more he considered it, it was turning into a deep scowl. Your assumptions could be perceived as insulting, Irvin. Very much so, coming from someone like him.

"I hear Shawn is in the Little League finals tomorrow, Bruce." A voice behind Kazuya filtered through the noise. Kazuya tilted his head, as a young, blonde haired woman walked towards Bruce.

"Yeah, they scraped by in the semi-finals." Bruce's tone instantly lightened. "You should hear him practicing in the back yard every day…" Kazuya already felt himself zoning out of the conversation, as the blonde woman stepped in front of him. Bruce was already gone from view, and gone from mind.

Kazuya turned outwards, to look out at the locker-room… the coloured shirts, quickly discarded for something more colourful and boisterous. Dresses, jackets, strange hairstyles, even stranger smelling deodorants and colognes. To accompany a… 'night on the town', Kazuya is sure.

Kazuya watched silently, his mind already stretching away, reaching and flowing far away from this little locker-room. The voices all became noise. An already foreign language turning into a background noise, something that kept the energy uneven in this room.

Uneven for Kazuya… Kazuya leaned against the locker, craning his neck slowly. What do you expect, Kazuya? Normality is something that will always evade us. It evades you. Do not speak for me… I was forced down this path. I rejected normality to accept my journey. If that is how you feel.

Kazuya reached back into his locker, and withdrew that locket once more. He did not flick it open this time. He stared at the closed locket for a moment longer, before placing back into the pocket of his trousers.

Every time a car came by, Kazuya was tempted to step in front of it. It would be so easy… there is nothing here. The city slowly faded away the further he walked, the small road only alighting by the street lamps and the shine of oncoming cars.

He didn't ride a bicycle, he did not drive. He walked. As he should… he was confident he could find his intended. This clan may like to stay hidden, but they are easy to find if one looks for the right principles.

Kazuya can just imagine the agony that would happen if he leaped. The car would strike him, his bones would shatter… he would lay broken and maimed on the side of the road. His arm would be disfigured. His leg could be bent backwards.

His tailbone would be cracked all the way through, as his piriformis muscle in his hip would stretch out, and get caught in his hip socket… slowly shredding itself away with every move he made. You think you could bare that without me?

He may be able to drag himself to his feet, without assistance. Much quicker with my assistance. The car would not kill him. That much has been proven. Kazuya is sure of that, it's not what he seeks… he seeks something far more potent. Something he can feel, before he continues… all it takes is a leap of faith. Faith. I could not have said it any better, Kazuya.

Kazuya gritted his teeth. After hearing that, he had his other considerations. Kazuya could feel his shoes were getting damp, walking through the sheer amount of dew in this long grass.

It did not bother him… he did not come dress in casual clothes, and for good reason. He came to his abrupt stop in front of a wooden sign… it was clouded with moisture, but Kazuya had a feeling he was here. There was a sole streetlamp on the other side of the gloomy road, that illuminated just enough that one could see what awaited them. The sign. The handcrafted gateway. The deep forest beneath. All of it awaited him… Kazuya inhaled slowly, and shivered on his exhale.

Intimidation is what they strive for, even if they would never claim it to be so. Kazuya is unimpressed, and his intimidation… could simply fade away. The street light flickered… Kazuya's eyebrows furrowed, as he looked over to the street lamp. Ah… he missed that minor detail.

Illuminated below the street lamp, was a single payphone… a smaller device than the others you would see in the city, with the initials 'S.O.S' emblazoned above it. Kazuya inhaled slowly, waiting until the car sped by him…. the gust of wind blowing in his face.

Barely affecting his hair. Kazuya crossed the road deliberately, searching his pockets… he did not bring much. But… there was some spare change here.

Kazuya quickly approached the telephone, inserting his coins deliberately. 25c…. 50c. Kazuya picked up the receiver… and once more, he pressed that number he knew. The only one he could remember off by heart – the only one he cared to remember off by heart.

Kazuya held it carefully to his ear, looking intently at the dark forest ahead of him. It rang… it buzzed. Kazuya carefully adjusted it, as he closed his eyes. "There's nothing inside, boy. Grow up. Your delusions need to end." Kazuya's fist slightly trembled.

Eventually, he heard the receiver answer. "Hello?" Kazuya opened his eyes slowly… that croak, that familiar wheeze bringing him back to reality. "Kazuya? Is that you?" Kazuya stared deep into the gateway of the forest, his gaze intent. "Yes." He heard Wang's inhale on the other side of the phone, his voice composing itself as he spoke. "Well, Kazuya… what is it you seek? Knowledge, or advice?"

Kazuya gritted his teeth, looking deep into the chasm of that forest… it is not who he encounters in there that worries him. Kazuya is confident he can deal with this ninja, and his little clan. It's… Something else. Isn't it, Kazuya?

"The latter." Kazuya forced himself to say. Kazuya then fell silent, his ears perked up behind the phone.

"I'd advise you to remember that every worthwhile candle needs a worthwhile match. If either of these equations are faulty, than you will not produce any worthwhile flame. Just as a candle cannot burn without fire, men cannot live without a spiritual life.

"With a spiritual life, comes good health. Comes discipline. Comes control. Discipline and control of one's mind, which equals discipline and control of yourself. If one can control his mind, he can find the way to enlightenment.

"Wisdom and virtue then, can come naturally to one."

Kazuya could see shadows flitting within the chasm. It was not a trick of the mind… he had blinked enough, to notice just enough. Kazuya glanced back at the phone, allowing those words to wash over him… let it wash past you, Kazuya. "Is that helpful, Kazuya?"

Kazuya stared down at the grass below, feeling the dirt gather beneath his boots. He blinked a few times, forcing down the memories. "Yes, Wang-san." Kazuya hung up the phone.

Kazuya made his way slowly across the road again, hearing the roar of a car off in the distance. Kazuya stopped at the foot of the wooden sign, a familiar scrawl engraved in it. He carefully wiped away the moisture, until he could make out the Kanji beneath.

Manji Clan. Your actions dictate the nature of your heart. Nothing else.

Kazuya almost smirked. So… the ninja, and this little group he assembled really believe in their little morals. Morals are so often platitudes that are abandoned at the slightest resistance. Kazuya should hardly be surprised. No matter where in the world he has travelled, he has heard the noise, and he has seen the shadows of Yoshimitsu.

Kazuya stepped forwards, pausing to greet the chasm with a steely stare. The Manji Clan, and its infamous leader, take its morals seriously. Who cares? Kazuya doesn't admire bold and loud claims of honour. Kazuya glanced into the shadows shrouding the forest for a moment. He could see eyes staring back at him, but he was sure they were not Manji clan. Perhaps, the curious and cowardly gazes of foxes looking to scavenge their next meal.

Kazuya can already see a gaping weakness in the soul of Yoshimitsu. Kazuya reached into his pocket, and took out his red and black gloves. He began to fasten one around his right hand.

12

Strike. Nah… not quite. Paul followed through a little bit too much with that swing, bat almost going further than the ball… it slammed loudly against the side of the cage, before falling, defeated, to the court below. Paul stepped back into position, counting down the timer of the pitching machine himself. Five, four. Paul gently slid one foot back, raising the bat behind his ear. Two, one. Boof.

The baseball shot out from the pitching machine like a damn bat out of hell. This bats gonna get its fat skull caved in. Paul was a little quick on the mark this time, as it crashed against the cage behind him. It whizzed by Pauls ear, but he barely flinched. Years of fighting will do that to a man.

Paul heard the machine come to a whirring halt… Paul lowered the bat, and narrowed his eyes at the halted machine. He still had an hour left. Paul glanced at the small warehouse next to the batting cage, but the young employee seemed far too busy watching the Fresh Prince of Bel Air. Paul made his way across the cage, starting to gather the balls.

Most people would celebrate on an occasion like this. His last night in San Francisco, for the foreseeable… could be cause for celebration. Hitting the clubs, doing a run around 14th street. Chasing tail. Listen, Paul ain't on some holier than thou bullshit. He may be leaving town, but he's not leaving the game.

Paul picked up the strown baseball strown all around, the moonlight the only useful light illuminating the court around him. There was a faint overhead light that provided a little warmth too, but it was generally inconsistent with how it functioned. It's good that this thing is pretty easy to work out.

The only thing that really disturbed the night was the sounds you'd expect to hear. Rowdy voices, faint dance music vibrating off in the distance from time to time… the shrill of broads who have indulged in a few too many. Paul rolled as many balls into the machine as he could, his blue eyes fixed on the task at hand.

"PAUL!" There it is… that harmonic voice. Well, it was a little shrill… which is to be expected. They'd rarely live up to the ideas you have of them in your head. Paul raised his head, and lifted his hand in greeting. He could say he wanted to keep a low profile… but, let's face it. Anytime the flattop is up, he's going to get noticed. "PAUL, COME TO MONARCH!" One of the women screamed.

Paul squinted his eyes, and got a good look… they were accompanied, thankfully. There was a group of woman, but a couple of guys were in their company… looking quite sheepish, and out of place amongst the group. Paul squinted a while longer, staring at the two dudes…. Until, he was satisfied. "'Nother time, ladies." Paul called, raising his hand and smiling politely.

Yeah, like right now. That would be a perfect time…. I'd drop all that shit, and sprint to that club if you keep a damn table, and a bottle of Jack for me. I'll say whatever you want with a quarter bottle of bourbon in me.

Paul instead continued to wave, doing that awkward half-smile until the disappointed murmurs of the women carried through, and they started to disperse. The smile faded away fairly quickly, the bat back in his hand within moments. Probably too young anyway.

This place used to be a lot more isolated, back in the day. But, Paul supposes, that's the thing about the Golden City… nowhere really stays isolated for long. There'll always be some tourist, some frat kids looking to find a secluded spot to haze some poor, clueless kids desperate for validation. Hell… just cause these places aren't isolated, doesn't mean they can't be peaceful. Doesn't mean they can't be lonely, either.

Paul took his position back at the batters podium, raising the bat back up. There's nothing that compares to fighting. But, baseball comes fairly damn close. Fighting is an art form in itself, an exhilarating rush where you duke it out with another guy to see who's the best. There's nothing more pure, more raw… more downright thrilling than that. It's a pure test of competition, of supremacy. That's what human beings were evolved to do. That's Pauls stance, and he ain't changing it soon.

Batting couldn't compete with that, but it uses similar elements. It rouses a more calm competitive spirit in Paul… one where he competes with himself, rather than another opponent. It's more therapeutic for Paul, when fighting can't be his therapy. Sometimes, there can be so much bullshit in the fighting game, so much politics… you need something else to turn to.

Loving something means sometimes you have to hate it, and Paul can't think of anything he feels such passionate feelings about than fighting. Batting though… it's yourself, the balls and the machine. It's focus… Paul supposes, it's like a form of meditation.

Paul doesn't have the patience to sit down, and close his eyes for ten minutes while thinking of mountains and shit. But, he can try strike out as many baseballs as he can within the span of an hour. He can lose himself in each moment… where the only thing that matters, is hitting that next damn ball.

Paul swung, and caught the next one. It clipped the edge of his bat, flying high up in the air… and smacking against the machine below. Paul slightly winced at the sound of the smack, turning to look at the employee again… still nothing. "You are dropping your right shoulder as you swing, Mr Phoenix." Paul frowned.

The voice was a little irritating to him. Not because it called out a flaw… well, yes. Partly because of that, to be honest. But, also, because it didn't sound… local in the slightest. "No I ain't." Paul responded, quickly, swinging again. He caught this ball this time, sending it slamming against the cage. "Not that time, you did not." That voice – sweet, and a little teasing – responded. Paul finally turned around, and met the eyes of the originator.

She had dark hair, that was neatly combed to shoulder length. She wore a dark headband around her head, and she wore all dark exercise gear… apart, from the small backpack she carried with her. There was also a pair of thick binoculars around her neck, that seemed really fuckin awkward to carry around if you were going for some circuit runs.

Her face though… well, that was the biggest indicator she wasn't local. The fair skin, the slightly squinted eyes… the deep, curious brown eyes. Paul recognized that face. "Back in Japan, baseball is one of our national sports…. Most high schools have a team, both male and female."

She stepped forward, her hand gesturing. Paul did not move for several moments. Eventually, for a reason not known to him, he slowly handed the baseball bat to the strange woman. She took it in her stride, stepping into a stance within moments. "I played on my high school team for a while. I was a pitcher, however…" Her swings eventually slowed down, her brown eyes seeming to mull this realisation. "Perhaps, I could catch some of your hits."

Pauls frown deepened in the confusion of this whole interaction… his face twisting as he tried to comprehend if she understood what she was doing. "I didn't…catch your name, Miss…." "Oh, my apologies." She stood up straighter, and bowed. "Jun Kazama. Fighting researcher." Researcher? Paul stared at her, still a little bewildered. "A pleasure, Miss Kazama… as you can see, I'm a little busy…."

Jun Kazama raised both her eyebrows. "Mr Phoenix, the machine has been stopped for five minutes now." Paul turned back to the machine. "Ah. Yeah, I guess it has." Paul continued to stare at the machine quizzically, but in truth, his mind was doing backflips. All he could think…. How the hell do I get away from this?

"I'm conducting some interviews, to gather some records about your upcoming fight with Kazuya Mishima…" Paul turned back to her, and he could see she was already clutching her tape recorder… oh boy. Paul slowly placed the baseball bat down, his arms folding. "As appealing as that conversation might sound, Miss Kazama…" Paul leaned against the cage, his gaze stretching out to the night sky. "Tonight is not the night."

Jun Kazama continued to stare at him, as Paul began to walk over to the machine again. He was silent, and a little rigid in how he began to load the machine up… the feeling of her intense gaze on him was a little unnerving, and Paul could feel her presence was far from leaving. "I am not publishing my interviews to any publications, if you fear any smear journalism, or bias." Jun offered, her voice very compromising.

Paul raised both his eyebrows, dropping another ball into the machine with another knowing look at Jun. "Yeah, I'm sure you don't have any biases in this fight, Miss Kazama."

There wasn't much silence in the next pause, because the voices in the distance, well past the hills and into the city, were getting louder, and that music was intensifying. "I'm acting as a reporter on behalf of my family's integrity." Jun Kazama finally spoke, her voice only a touch defensive.

Paul turned back towards her, seeing her standing there… a little too still, and her eyes a little stung. "What's with the binoculars, anyway?" Paul bit onto the bait, his voice softening a touch. "Bird watching." Jun Kazama eventually replied, after a brief pause. "There are some beautiful birds to be found in San Francisco… Did you know the Anna's hummingbird is only bred in California? I have never seen one before."

Paul looked at her again, feeling a little bewildered. "Nah… didn't know that." Not sure what else to say, he began to load up the pitching machines with more balls. "This poster is quite… cool." Jun had entered the cage, and lifted up the thick poster that was stuck to the cage… Paul followed her gaze.

Yeah, the fight poster… it was pretty cool. Pretty colourful, and laid out in the old fighting format… made the fight feel like Ali-Frazier or some huge time shit like that. Phoenix vs Mishima: Streak vs Streak. There was Paul, looking all kinds of… jacked, and furious, his flattop a little overblown. As was his biceps to be frank… but, hey. Paul doesn't understand the computer stuff that goes into it, but he looks great. So, fuck it.

You can't deny how good Mishima looks in it either… that spiked dark hair had some electricity going around it, and his dark brown eyes glared out at the reader of the poster… that cold fury barely withheld behind the mask. It was a bit uncanny. Felt like you were looking at Kazuya himself. The scar on his chest too… the jagged pink line, painted all the way across his torso. Even looking at that through a poster, through a photo… Paul couldn't help but feel a little unsettled.

Had all the other stats…Ages. 24. 25. Pauls a year younger, year faster. Weight. Five kilos difference, all in Pauls favour. These little things may seem inadequate, but in a fight like this… they make a huge difference. Paul needs to have those little wins over Kazuya before they enter the arena. Paul needs to see that shit written down on official paper, even just for the validation that he has that.

"Didn't take 'em too long to capitalise, anyway." Paul responded. Paul dropped the final couple of balls in the machine, and heard the faint click into place… it was ready. "Well, the question is, Mr Phoenix… if I cannot interview you now, when can we speak?"

"Well, Miss Kazama, I'd prefer to wait until closer to the fight… that would actually make a little sense, see." Paul began to walk towards the baseball bat. "I won't be around the next while anyway."

"And, why's that?" Jun Kazama jumped on that snippet like a cat on yarn. Paul had to smile at that, slightly shaking his head. Behind all that sweetness and curiosity, you're still a woman that gets what she wants. "I'm heading home."

"You aren't from San Francisco?" Paul picked up the baseball bat, dismissing the surprise in her voice. "No, believe it or not. I was raised in Omaha." "Oh-ma-ha." Jun Kazama raised that sharp, inquisitive gaze to the sky… folding her arms slowly. "I am unfamiliar…"

Paul Phoenix lifted his bat, and began to take a few practice swings. "You should be grateful of that." Jun Kazama tapped her chin a few times, her thin lips mouthing several objects. "What birds can be found in Omaha?" Paul heard the click of the first ball, finally rocketing forward.

"I'm…. not sure.." Paul swung. He hit nothing. He turned towards Jun, his mouth opening. "Can't say I pay much attention to the…." Paul paused, his eyebrows furrowing. "The birds."

Jun Kazama pursed her lips in response to that, following that up with a brisk nod. "Very well. I won't disturb your night any further… Regards, Paul." Paul nodded in response, raising his bat once more. "Take care, Miss Kazama."

Paul dropped the bat suddenly, turning on his heel. "Ah.. Miss Kazama?" Paul turned towards the cage, looking at her with that same curiosity that he had upon first seeing her. "Don't you think it would be a good idea getting a taxi home? It's a little late for a young lady to be wandering around alone."

Jun Kazama, completely unfazed, simply put her hands on her hips. "I can take care of myself, Mr Phoenix." Paul gritted his teeth. "Well… for my peace of mind, could you just call a damn cab?!"

Jun Kazama seemed to stop then. Her brown eyes flickered over to the city, her hands still on her hips. "Who says your peace of mind matters more than my own, Paul Phoenix?" What? Paul stared at her, almost slack jawed, as she turned back around. "Regards, Paul."

Paul watched as she began to run off, her binoculars swinging to and fro… hardly affecting the pace, or the rhythm of her brisk run.

Paul frowned again, before turning back around. Paul punched quickly… deflecting that baseball from driving into his nose. Paul stepped to the side slightly, and watched as the ball soared high into the air… higher than any damn swing he had with the baseball.

You want to talk about strange broads? Wherever the hell Kazuya dug her up, might as well be fuckin Planet Mars. Well… there is a couple of differences, anyway. Well… hey, at least she means well. Beats Paul what the fuck she actually means, though.

Paul lifted up his bat again, shaking his head. "Anna's hummingbird.." Paul exclaimed quietly, raising his bat slowly. Paul shrugged his shoulders. Beats me.

He dropped his right shoulder then, before swinging one more time. Paul felt a satisfying strike rattle through the bat… and the ball fly cleanly up against the cage.

13

"Just let it happen, Kazuya… it's that simple. You realise what the alternative is?" The young Kazuya ground his face into the dirt. His blood soaked face was soon washed away by the flooding of tears. A waterfall that did not relent, and the young boy would swear it never would. "I… I hate him so much. I… HATE HIM!" "I know, Kazuya. I understand. That's why you need me."

Kazuya had discarded his boots before he entered the forest. Wandering in the dark, with nothing but his sense and his good intuition to guide him… it felt right. He did not want to let something dragging him down, not in his encounter with this ninja. Nor, any of the damn minions that are sure to jump him.

Kazuya curled his lip, glancing over his shoulder. He lifted up his other red studded glove, extending every finger on his left hand. He is glad he brought his locket… for some reason, something new stands out in his mind. There was a dark atmosphere in this forest, and what little light the moon allowed in didn't allow Kazuya to see much. Kazuya placed his fingers through the fingerless holes, fastening the palm of the glove around his hand.

But, Kazuya remembered. Despite that not being his perspective, he pictured… he pictured himself sitting beside Jun Kazama. Both of them cross legged, sitting under the gnarled branches of that oak tree. Kazuya pictured his eyes closed, peacefully meditating, with Jun Kazama doing the same right beside him. That imaging… Kazuya shook his head. This is not the place for this. It is distracting you, Kazuya.

No… it is not that. It is not distracting him… it does give him a resolve. It's a different kind of resolve, however. A new determination, that does feel strangely… exciting, in a way. Kazuya just should not be considering these things at a time like this. His mind should be empty, and his heart full of… full of white hot fury.

Kazuya's bare foot crunched through a branch, an audible noise… that could be heard for miles around. Kazuya did not freeze up, nor did he stop. He continued to walk, his gaze intent directly in front of him. Kazuya would hardly be surprised… after all, all the grandeur and the moral proclamations, it would not be characteristic for Yoshimitsu to be a coward. From the hearsay.

But, Kazuya should not be surprised… he should expect these tactics. The dark of night, flitting in and out like cowards… Kazuya hardly cares for a so-called 'clan' such as this. He only cares about the false prophecies of their leader.

Kazuya tilted his head to the side, his walk coming to an eventual stop. He lifted his gloved hands to his white shirt, making out the outlines of a couple of trees directly surrounding him. Kazuya lifted both hands, and unbuttoned the top button of his shirt.

Kazuya spun on his heel, and before the shrouded figure could strike, Kazuya round kicked him across the jaw. He fell like a tonne of bricks… completely shrouded in black, Kazuya could only make out pale skin behind the ninja outfit. Kazuya spun on his heel, and caught the wrist jabbing at his stomach. The knife, which came inches away from his scar… was dangerously close to uncharted territory. Kazuya hooked the wrist, grotesquely behind his arm pit, and punched the ninja once across the temple. He fell after that… but, Kazuya gave him a kick to the ribs once, for good measure. A shattered rib, not the most dangerous, but deceptively agonising.

Kazuya stepped over the two fallen minions, raising his fists slowly… his dark eyes were starting to make out more outlines, more periphery figures in the darkness. He had to rely wholly on his senses… on instinct. On my instincts.

Kazuya lunged before the next could even attack, punching the ninja exactly where his liver was. The ninja crumpled, without a noise, to the forest floor silently. Kazuya spun on his heel, and leaped… kicking another ninja in the chest. He could feel the sternum fracture on that one… Kazuya was going off what he felt. Because, no matter how many of these ninjas defeated… the fabled warriors of the Manji clan did not make a single sound of pain.

Kazuya shot his head up, feeling a gust of wind above him… Kazuya leaped, and hit a vicious uppercut point blank across the jaw. He could feel the minions jaw shatter with the single blow, the dull thud of fist against bone almost drowned out by the complete fracturing of the jaw. Kazuya landed deftly on the ground… only a few moments later, the dark shrouded ninja landed in a heap at his feet. How many of your grunts will you send to do your bidding? They call you the unsung hero of a benevolent brigade, yet the only way you deal in benevolence is through the thin veil of cowardice. "Enough." A warbled high pitched… distorted? Voice interrupted the proceedings. "I must deal with him."

The flicker of the silhouette was too hard for him to catch with any uppercut, or any kick. Kazuya, nonetheless, followed it like a hawk… until, he landed, graciously, on his feet. He almost landed on his toes… his figure, slightly morphed and misshapen more than a human, clouded completely by shadows.

Kazuya stepped forward, his eyes narrowing as he stared at him… this is the fabled warrior. This is the stuff that some would call legends. Kazuya snorted, in derision. He shall be the one to decide that.

Kazuya merely folded his arms. He kept his arms folded, as the figure slowly stood… as his arms flowed to the side, and long hair dangled across his shrouded shoulders. Kazuya watched, looking and feeling disinterested, as the fabled ninja made his grandiose entrance. "Shiki soku ze ke." The warbled voice intoned. The Heart Sutra... a practicing Buddhist. Ironic.

It was choppy, and even the language spoken wasn't wholly Japanese. It was some kind of mishmash, of two thirds Japanese and one third gibberish. Kazuya frowned, his stare intensifying on the ninja's every movement. Finally, a shrouded hand reached down… and, carefully, he unsheathed his sword.

Immediately, the forest was bathed in a bright blue glow, the katana illuminating everything in sight. Kazuya needed to shield his eyes for a moment, his dark eyes protesting against the feverish glow. Kazuya turned back… so, this is the appearance you take on now. You can hide all you like, but Kazuya can sense who is truly behind that mask.

This time, he wore a traditional shoguns attire. Heavily armoured from head to toe, his armour was all shaded that same blue hue… from head to toe, that armour slinked fairly quietly as he moved as quiet as a ghost. Long hair flowed down his shoulders… Kazuya couldn't make out much about the colour, but it was a much brighter shade than this deep blue. The shogun mask was a striking shade of azure… with two horns extending from the helmet, the helmet concealed any sign of skin, any sign of identity beneath the mantle of Yoshimitsu. Yoshimitsu stood as still as a serpent for several moments… sword by his side, he stared back at Kazuya.

Kazuya returned the glare, his arms folded….. he could wait. He needed to hear what the fabled… the fabled hero has to say about him. What has it I've done? Perhaps, I have taken the life of one too many of those Mishima Zaibatsu scum. An eye for an eye, is that it, Yoshimitsu? Oh, please tell me about your rulings of justice.

Finally, Yoshimitsu raised his sword slowly… that blue glow following his every movement, his eyes blank behind the shogun helmet. "The sins of the father…." He stopped moving his sword, until it was directly in front of his mask. It illuminated his hair, a jarring shade of bright red… Kazuya curled his lip. "The Mishima family must pay for their dishonour and their injustices. I start with you, Kazuya Mishima."

He was enjoying this… his little speech, his brainwashed little followers hanging off every word he says. Every lie he spits to fit his narrative.. to fit his quest for justice. Justice. He tears that word from his tongue like it was a poisoned mushroom shoved down his throat. "No Birth, No Death. No Defilement, no Purity. No-"

"My father?" Kazuya finally spoke. He couldn't listen to these empty quotes, these bold proclamations any more. Kazuya felt his lip curl into a vindicative sneer, as he stepped into his fighting stance. "Kill me for my sins."

Yoshimitsu did not know what to make of this response. Kazuya could tell, as he was quick to lower his sword… and step into a fencing position. Kazuya raised his fists in response.

You are quick on the draw with that blade. But, my fists are quicker… they must be. You hardly doubt your own power, Kazuya? Come now. Kazuya flexed his fists, his lip twitching again. Like a serpent again, Yoshimitsu was still. Kazuya exhaled slowly, his nostrils flaring.

All that echoed throughout the valley was faint howls of wolves hidden deep in the forest.

14

He moved far faster than you would expect him too in that armour. As soon as Kazuya dashed forwards, he could see Yoshimitsu sweeping, flitting like a ghost… glowing blue blade outwards, ready to strike. Following the trajectory of our scar, Kazuya. Those words caused Kazuya's eyes to widen, for a moment. Kazuya lunged, and he struck. Just as Yoshimitsu struck directly down – following the exact trajectory that Kazuya predicted.

Kazuya stood still for several moments, his back facing Yoshimitsu. He raised his head slowly, his hands slowly closing around it... a clean blow. Yoshimitsu stood stagnant behind him, his sword arched downwards… his gaze downwards, his head tilted to the side.

Kazuya clenched again, and he lifted. He lifted what he gripped high into his hands, until the sheath of Yoshimitsu's sword was in the light. The sheath had been sliced cleanly in two. Kazuya tossed aside the sheath, snorting. He smirked, as he turned back around to face Yoshimitsu. Interesting.

The second swing found just as much success, as Kazuya parried it with ease. He soon countered with a kick to the chest. Before Yoshimitsu could react further, Kazuya quickly caught him in the face… the helmet with another blow, and another right across the back of the head. Lucky I can protect those bony fists of yours, hmm, Kazuya? Kazuya advanced on Yoshimitsu with a deliberate viciousness, not giving the ninja any course for regaining his bearings. Again, though.. he underestimated the capabilities of his opponent.

As Kazuya thrust forward with another round kick, Yoshimitsu dropped to his back below him. Kazuya's kick swung overhead, and he could not withdraw it before Yoshimitsu struck him right across the shin. Kazuya took a cautionary step back with a grunt. Before Kazuya could drive his heel through the irritating helmet and follow through into his skull, Yoshimitsu used his sword.

Not in the traditional sense either. No… Yoshimitsu used his sword. Grabbing the hilt with both hands, he pressed the blade into the ground… and pushed. The blade now embedded firmly in the grass below, Yoshimitsu relied only on the laws of momentum to latch onto its hilt. The sword propelled Yoshimitsu high into the air, and with all the height he gained, he caught Kazuya around the jaw with a kick.

Kazuya stumbled back fully now, gritting his teeth. His hand came to his jaw, for only a moment… unpredictable is perhaps not the word. Kazuya spun on his heel once more, and he caught Yoshimitsu trying the same tactic once again. Fool me once.

Kazuya easily stepped to the side, as Yoshimitsu soared past him. As soon as he landed on his feet, Kazuya swept his feet out from under him. Within moments, his knee drove into the stomach of the ninja.

All the elaborate samurai armour, all of the fancy sword play in the world could not protect against that. You hide behind your trinkets, your metals and your swords… what happens when you have nothing? No equipment, no crutches… where would you be, Yoshimitsu? Firmly encased in the dirt.

Yoshimitsu gasped, and subsequently groaned, doubling over for a moment. An opening, and Kazuya will take his time. He will take the time to embarrass this fraud. Kazuya rained down the punches.

He began to pound Yoshimitsu, each of those blows easily bending in the solid armour of the shogun helmet… surprised? Sharpened metal and extravagant acrobatics cannot stop me… I am a Mishima, remember? You said so yourself. Our sins are coming through, Kazuya.Let them. Kazuya is… is… Kazuya is human. He will unleash his sins when they should be purged from him. You are human, Kazuya.

Kazuya stopped the onslaught for another moment, raising his fist once again… feeling the crackle of electricity surge through him. How is your justice now, Yoshimitsu? Right my sins. He asked for a Mishima. Give him Kazuya.

The kick caught Kazuya in the chest, and the sheer force of it caused him to stumble back, more than the pain. Kazuya quickly recovered, the sheer audacity of that blow irritating him. Don't irritate me any further, you wretch. All of the blasphemy he preached, Kazuya. He did not just insult me. He insulted us.

Kazuya reared back, only to get caught with another shot across the face. Kazuya blocked another swing by that sword, but could not do the same for a forearm that clapped across his jaw… rather painfully. Kazuya sidestepped off, his hand brushing his jaw momentarily. This Yoshimitsu was far too quick, but he relied on that damn sword.

Kazuya almost fell off balance… almost, as Yoshimitsu began to spin. In what was an illogical, and almost careless attack, Yoshimitsu drove that sword into the ground and began to spin around it.

The first boot caught Kazuya in the back of the neck, but Kazuya was quick enough to shove away the other attack, and kick out at Yoshimitsu's sword. Yoshimitsu leaped off the sword in timely fashion, slightly wobbling. Still, he let out a satisfied grunt…and jumped backwards. Kazuya lunged forward, his fist crackling as he aimed at that smug skull.. but, Yoshimitsu spun one too many times.

Yoshimitsu spun around Kazuya, and with speed like the wind, sliced Kazuya across the forearm.

Kazuya remained standing for several moments, his fist still outstretched as he felt that… pinching run down his arm. Kazuya flexed his fist, and the forearm responded in kind, the blood slowly streaming out. Yoshimitsu simply stared through that mask, his sword outstretched… still as a serpent, waiting for Kazuya's reaction.

Kazuya did not make a noise. He did not move… he did not cry out, nor would he even consider withdrawing. The monsters sin at night.

Kazuya flexed his fist once more, as his lip curled. Eventually, Kazuya lowered his fist. Kazuya smirked. Yoshimitsu slowly stood up, and Kazuya could feel the incredulity growing beneath his mask… you think that butter blade can hurt me? One slice, a pinch of agony with a sprinkle of irritation… I will bow, and concede? That is hardly the way of the monster, is it? Do not use his words, even in mocking.

Kazuya grunted, and electricity flowed through his body, and out of his fists… now, Yoshimitsu took a cautious step back. Kazuya merely stared at him, the electricity crackling… your move, ninja.

Yoshimitsu bellowed, and he wasted that move with another stab.

Kazuya lifted his leg carefully, and drove his heel down with all the force he could manage. Easily, Kazuya's foot bent Yoshimitsu's wrist inward, and sent the sword toppling to the ground below.

Yoshimitsu stumbled back a few steps, his warbled grunts becoming more frustrated. Kazuya moved forward slowly, licking his lips… stalking the ninja, as he backed up against the tree. Backing off… is that what heroes do? Retreat? Unarmed, against an unarmed opponent, they show fear? Dance around their opponent, to live to right another wrong?

As soon as Yoshimitsu's back came into contact with that tree, he bounced off it, and aimed his foot right at Kazuya's skull. Kazuya in response, raised his fist, and drove an electrically charged punch right into Yoshimitsu's armoured torso.

Yoshimitsu slammed down to the ground with a cracking thud, his back slamming against stray branches. The crackling of the electricity still coursed throughout his stumbling body, as he desperately stumbled to his feet.

This time, Kazuya did not take his time. He already stalked his prey. Now, he would devour it.

Kazuya rained down punches and kicks on the ninja, each combination growing in viciousness, in aggression… in fury with every mounting moment. This is the hero of Manji clan? Make bold claims about my sin, and associates me with my fathers'? He dared to make that comparison, Kazuya. What an audacious wretch.

Yoshimitsu did plenty he could to defend himself, but there was very little he could do. The silver armour was beginning to bend, and some of it even cracked with Kazuya's blows. Kazuya could feel his dark eyes lighting up under the glow of blue. His onslaught relentless, his fury untameable.. the critical mistake. The worst act you have taken here is that you spilled my blood. If you are going to take Kazuya's blood, you ought to be capable of taking more than a sliver of it.

Kazuya, with a final grunt, leaped and kicked Yoshimitsu in the side of the skull. Yoshimitsu finally shot back against one of the many trees infesting this place. This time, the noise his back made was far less audible, and far more… sickening. It was flesh meeting bark now, not armour meeting grass.

Yoshimitsu slid down the tree limply and helplessly. Until, his head was the only part of his body propped up by the grand ash tree. Kazuya stared at Yoshimitsu for several more moments, his fists still raised. He lifted his forearm once, glancing at the open wound.

Still leaking slowly, but it was painfully slow… as if the blood was slowly forcing itself out of his arm. Of course, your blood will not leave willingly, Kazuya. Kazuya finally made his way towards Yoshimitsu, and as Yoshimitsu's head lolled to the side… Kazuya clamped his hand around his throat.

Yoshimitsu's warbled language did not affect the noise he made here. Despite language differences, despite dialects… choking is universal. Strangulation is universal. Pain… pain is the most universal language Kazuya could ever speak. Easily translated, simply spoken… strongly inflicted.

Kazuya tightened his grip around the throat, seeing that helmet… thrashing, desperately trying to escape. A question that has plagued us fighting historians since the end of time. Who is Yoshimitsu? Who is this mysterious, brave, warrior that hides behind his helmet, his clan and his sword? Who is the hero that gives up in the face of fury? What will happen when I shine the red sun over your little forest of paradise here, and reveal it as an encampment of deception? Expose him for his lies. The biggest sinner is the one who proudly wears white, Kazuya.

Kazuya slowly lifted Yoshimitsu off the ground, staring into the dark holes behind that helmet. Would I be surprised at your identity? Would it be a figure I would recognize? Or, would that be too much of a cliché? I am no vulture like you. I will not bide my time, hide and wait until you rot before I swoop in. Would it be… would it be somebody nobody would recognize? Perhaps, most importantly… does Kazuya even care?

Kazuya dropped Yoshimitsu. He thumped against the soaked grass below, and he was already beginning to scramble away. Kazuya slammed his foot into his chest, stopping him in his tracks. Deliberately, Kazuya's foot slowly slid up Yoshimitsu's chest plate… his foot sliding, squeaking against the stained silver. Until, it reached his gaping, exposed throat.

Kazuya could not care less. This Yoshimitsu is a liability, no matter what face he wears. He will plague you, looking for payment for sin. Kazuya hardly doubts that. He is an annoyance, an overbearing, overestimated vulture. He pressed his foot down further on the barely covered throat, hearing the gasps become weaker.

"Do it…" He eventually heard Yoshimitsu gasp.

Kazuya curled his lip in disgust, and pressed his foot down further. Don't dare demand anything of me, you coward. "That is… the Mishima way…" Yoshimitsu coughed out, both his hands clasping at Kazuya's foot. Kazuya glared down at Yoshimitsu in disgust. The Mishima way.

Kazuya's lip began to twitch, his foot.. pressing further, and further. Kazuya could do it with ease. All it would take is one final push… and your little clan and their false bravado would fade to dust. "I expect someone strong, Kazuya. Strong, unrelenting. Do you truly believe you are strong?" Kazuya's hand, at the mere coming of that memory… reached into his pocket. It wrapped around the locket slowly. His foot increased the pressure slowly.

Kazuya pressed, his lip peeling back… until, he finally did it. Kazuya removed his foot, and Yoshimitsu gasped for breath desperately, both hands reaching towards his throat. Kazuya curled his lip, as he turned away. He reached down, seeing his white shirt strown across the grass… branches had already fallen on it.

Kazuya carefully picked it up, turning it across in his hand. His shirt has been stained… he should have expected as much. Perhaps, he should have worn the dark security shirt. Nevertheless, Kazuya could hardly choose from a wardrobe at the moment. He flung the shirt back on him, brushing away the excess dirt and insects that were floating upon it. That was a shame, Kazuya. Be quiet.

"Why would you spare me?" That irritating warble. Kazuya had reached the third button, and was deliberate with every step… making sure every button on this stained shirt was secure, despite the dirt encrusting itself all over the once spotless white. The darkness of the forest had settled in once again, the moon finally revealing itself. The wolves howling could be approaching, and they will be far from observant to this encounter. A fact that Kazuya was all too aware of.

"Why does your father have a presence here?" Again. Yoshimitsu, lashing his whiny tongue.

Kazuya turned his back on Yoshimitsu, finishing buttoning up his shirt. Kazuya brushed his shirt off once, but then he noticed the red streak slowly spreading from his forearm, and invading the arm of his white shirt. This shirt has been ruined. He at least, has three spares at home.

Yoshimitsu shuffled against the tree. "If you are not Zaibatsu, what do you seek?"

Rhythmically, Kazuya unstrapped one glove around his hand, and undid his strap. His white combat slacks are relatively untouched, so he will place his gloves in those pockets.

"Whatever your motives are, you would do well not to underestimate Phoenix."

Kazuya paused. He tilted his head to the side, considering… nothing. He won't give this fraud the satisfaction. Kazuya curled his lip slowly, as he slowly unstrapped his glove.

Yoshimitsu was scrambling to his hands and knees, coughing all the while as his frightened tongue lashed away. The fear may not be evident in his tone, but it is in his cadence. For a masked enigma, this one certainly fears silence. "What is done in the dark must be brought to the light."

Kazuya completely stopped when he heard that. He around fully, unleashing his glare fully on the slumped Yoshimitsu.

Perhaps, you should reveal him after all, Kazuya.

Manchu Ushi

Yoshimitsu

Paul Phoenix

15

Session 1, Bruce Irvin

Jun: Testing, one… two. Everything is ready. I'm here with Muay Thai World Champion, bouncer, bodyguard… and San Francisco native, Bruce Irvin. Bruce also is a training partner of Kazuya Mishima… the only one we seem to know of. How are you today, Bruce?

Bruce: I'm all good, thanks.

Jun: Well, Bruce, I am not sure where I can start. You have such an illustrious history in Muay Thai… it is…. Quite impressive.

Bruce: Miss Kazama, you can ask me about it… I'm not ashamed of my past. We all make mistakes.

Jun: Please, call me Jun.

Bruce: Well, Jun, I don't got sh.. crap to hide. Ask away.

Jun: If you insist… It seems rather disrespectful…

Bruce: *chuckle*: I've been called way worse in my lifetime.

Jun: Well, you have spent a large portion of your adult life in prison. Since we are on the subject… you told me before recording, you felt your life was destined to go awry at a young age.

Bruce: Yeah. I did feel that, for a real long time. I made a lot of mistakes… stuff I have to carry around with me today. But, I was the one who made the mistakes, man. Not destiny.

Jun: When… when were you first arrested?

Bruce: My first? We're getting right to the nasty shit huh? *clearing throat*Shit, must've been when I was twelve. Wait… I'm allowed to swear, amn't I?

Jun: In English, you are more than welcome to.

Bruce: Just English, huh? Good to know. Yeah, so… I think I was twelve. Thirteen, maybe. It started when I fell into the wrong crowds. As the new kid, I was the fetcher. That's basically what most the older guys would do to save their own asses.

Jun: Fetcher?

Bruce: Yeah. Essentially, I was the gopher-sorry, the collector- they sent in to take stuff for them. A few parts for their bikes, an Atari games console, some pills from the pharmacy, a bottle of Jack Daniels from the liquor store… it just kept growing, and growing, quicker and quicker.

Jun: You eventually got caught?

Bruce: Yeah. Like we all do, I suppose. 16 years old, armed robbery of a post office, of all places. Could you believe it? The one time you get caught, it's robbing other people's welfare in a fuckin post office. I got 16 years for aggravated assault and armed robbery.

Jun: I can't imagine the terror you must have faced. A young teenager, losing everything… the prospect of your entire youth, behind bars.

Bruce: Well, I barely had a family before… that's why I was such a pain in the ass. So, I guess I was blessed to serve most of my sentence. Sixteen years was my entire life span at that point… it's pretty nuts to think about, in hindsight. At the time, though, I had no idea what to expect.

Bruce: I'm very fortunate I had a couple of the older guys looking out for me in there. They showed me how important discipline is. That was something I never had in my life, and to be honest, that's all you can rely on in a prison environment. To survive, you have to be disciplined. You have to work out, you have to be on time, you have to push your body through your minds complaints. You have to be willing to step up.

Jun: The discipline must have been implemented when you learned Muay Thai. Or, was it caused by it?

Bruce: I dabbled in Muay Thai before I served time. In and out,you know. I had the natural talent, and I built up the skill. I just never had the dedication.

Bruce: But, there was one prison guard, his name was Gus… he trained down in the Rise dojo, in the Bay Area. He saw me working the bag in the yard, and offered me some tips. He explained the true art of Muay Thai, and how I could use it to really purge my demons… how it could be therapy for me. He was right. It's like… he opened a whole new world up to me. The possibilities felt endless.

Bruce: Muay Thai isn't a martial art, it's a philosophy. It's a moral code anyone can apply to their life…. It can be your religion. See, It's the only thing in my life that has made me feel like I am in control.

Jun: Muay Thai is an interesting martial art. I train in my own families fighting style, Kazama Style Traditional , which is very much based upon defence and subduing an opponent. But, Muay Thai is a very innovative, and aggressive martial art.

Bruce: Muay Thai, in my opinion, is the most effective form of self-defence if you are confronted in the street by two scumbags wanting to take your shit. It uses all eight of your limbs, so it's far more effective than your more traditional karate or jujitsu.

Bruce: Listen, no offence to your families art, but the best defence is a great offence. You strike first, before they can even get a lick in. That is how you neutralize any threats… that's the first thing I did when I got out. I made sure to neutralize all of the bullshit that was going on in my neighbourhood for years.

Jun: Yes, you did get out… your sentence was ended short.

Bruce: I served twelve years. The last were four suspended, for good behaviour. I got out last year, and I've made the most of it ever since.

Bruce: A core principal in Muay Thai is you reap what you sow. I didn't expect to be met with thousands of job opportunities. What reputable business would employ a guy with armed robbery on his rap?

Bruce: I'm very fortunate I got into security, pretty much only cause of my background, and I'm happy to work as many gigs as I can. As long as I can train, and fight in tournaments, I'm happy.

Jun: How do you feel you are adjusting to life outside of prison?

Bruce: How am I adjusting? Well… good. Good, I guess.

Jun: I'd imagine it must be much different to what you have grown accustomed to. Or, has Muay Thai helped bridge that understanding?

Bruce: You know, I just take things one day….. you know, just One day at a... shit. I dunno. I dunno… I dunno. I dunno what the hell to tell you.

Jun: That is okay. Sorry for being intrusive, we will move on. Without prying into the personal… it does seem your family life is more settled now.

Bruce: Yeah, I have a younger cousin that moved in with me last year. Shawn's given me a new lease of life. You know, I'm responsible for another living, breathing human being now. I can't just look out for number 1 anymore. Forget survival. I have another mouth to feed. That adds a bit of perspective to anybody's life.

Jun: That is great to hear.

Bruce: Well, it's great for me to run my mouth about all my obstacles and goals too. But, you didn't come for my life story. You wanna talk about Kazuya and Phoenix.

Jun: I did. That was before I knew of your story, however. I believe every fighter has their own unique story. A redemption story is always fascinating.

Bruce: I appreciate that. I'm just a lucky one though. There's a hundred more kids in my position right now that never found something like Muay Thai. They have to fight day to day just to have a meal at night. They're the real fighters.

Jun: We can only hope for their safety, and that they find their path in life. Now… I would be interested to hear…

Bruce: About me and Kazuya.

Jun: Well, yes. It…It is…. An interesting partnership. How close have you two become in the process of training for Kazuya-san's fight with Paul?

Bruce: I'm not talking about that. Sorry.

Jun: I did expect for you to say that. Well, after training with him and getting to know him… what do you think he brings to the table to beat Paul?

Bruce: Mystery. Everyone and their mother in this city knows who Paul Phoenix is by now. They know what he's like. More importantly, though, they know how he reacts…How he feels about some people. I won't mince words, guys got a short fuckin fuse.

Jun: And, Kazuya does not?

Bruce: Well… Kazuya deals with his anger differently. That shows in how he fights… his relationship with his emotions is a little scary at times. To be honest, I don't think anybody knows what Kazuya is thinking or feeling, except for Kazuya himself.

Bruce: I don't Phoenix will be able to handle that.

16

Paul got up late again today. 10am, he rolled out of bed. Only after being awake for a whole hour, staring up at the ceiling, his calves just aching in protest like usual. Suddenly, when you've gotta get up, you've got the best attention span in the world. You could learn every detail of the ceiling, all of the cracks and plaint splotches. Feeling slightly dizzy, and a bit put off by the light bursting through the curtains of his apartment… he could feel himself groaning before he could even start. He almost broke the alarm clock when he turned it off.

When Paul ate his porridge, he realised he had no raspberries or bananas he could throw on top. Paul ate the flavourless sludge silently, the only solace to his plain breakfast being his runny eggs on his bagels and the chance of having a milky enough coffee when it was all said and done.

Paul also nearly forgot to pack his knee pads. He made sure to turn over the entire apartment and leave it a mess just to find the knee pads, that were sitting in plain site on the window sill anyway. He wasn't bothered fixing all that shit now, he had to go. No time to be making his bed again, or to put his shoes back on the shoe rack. Paul also had to stop off to buy a couple of 2 litre water bottles at the gas station, that barely fit into his loaded up suitcase.

Was Paul ready to leave? Fuck if he knows. Maybe, this entire ordeal was purely based on emotion. One argument, and the pressure of everything that is to come… it's caused him all to finally snap. He's gotta run away now. That's the way a certain someone would say it.

Paul doesn't buy that though. He doesn't want to buy that. He can do this alone. He knows all about Kazuya's story. Well, Paul has been alone for a lot of his life too. Maybe, not in the same ways… but, Paul knows what it's like to fight for yourself. I did have a life before Marshall. Even if he doesn't want to admit that.

So, when Paul bombed his way down the Freeway, cars breezing past him and overtaking him… Paul wasn't sure if this was a gut decision, or just an emotional one. To be honest, he doesn't really care anymore. Everyone he knows, no matter who's side they're on, knows Paul is in over his head. He's taken a next level challenge, and even though he's heard the blind words of belief from some, he can see that hesitant glint in their eyes. There's a conviction out there that the result is set, and maybe Paul shouldn't even bother to argue. Be grateful to even have the fight, huh? Nah, fuck that. I shouldn't have to be grateful just cause that's what's expected of him. Paul's been at this too long to be fucking grateful at every little gesture he's feel he's earned.

Being in the city sometimes, feels like you're always on guard. Your fighting some kind of demons, some kind of resistance.. Paul is fortunate enough that he can head home, head back to where he came from. So, that's what he'll do. It's a long way to Omaha, but Paul has the time. It's his rest day anyway.

His hands tightened around the handlebars, revving the engine of his Harley slightly. He was liable to get pulled over at any moment, not wearing a helmet or any of that shit. But, look it, there ain't no chance in hell he's ruining his hair for a helmet. Safe my ass… he who dares wins. That's what the SAS say. You'd think in the Motherland they'd have the same attitude sometimes.

The Motherland. Ain't that what the Russians call their nation? That can't be what we call America. Hell, Paul comes from Gateway country. That's where he will always call home.

Paul began to swerve as the car in front of him hit the brakes. Paul swore loudly. "Dumb fuck! You're on a highway, pal! FUCKING KEEP UP! STUPID MOTHERFUCKER!" Yelling at the wind didn't accomplish much, but he had to yell at something. Paul gripped the handlebars a little tighter, glaring down the back window of this reckless BMW. He tightened his leather jacket around him by rolling his shoulders… ah, fuck it. He doesn't have the patience to let this shithead slow him down.

Paul suddenly swerved to the left, until he was almost right up against the barricade. He quickly slammed his foot on the pedal, and soon he was in line with the driver. It's an old fart. Course it is. Old folk should have their damn licenses stripped of them as soon as they hit 65. Never mind driving on a fucking highway, fuck me. Are some people just blinded by fucking sympathy instead of using their fucking head?

Paul decided to leave the rude gesture. Getting into a tussle with a geriatric wouldn't do him any favours in the build to this fight. Paul finally had some space to bomb away, considering the distance he had left… finally. If he was stuck behind that idiot, it'd take him 20 hours to reach Nevada, never mind Omaha.

Paul loosened his grip on the handlebars, his hands gently leaning against them for a moment. It's hard not to be taken in by the Golden Coast when you're on this Highway. If you catch it at the perfect time, around 4pm to 8pm, depending on the season, you're laughing. It's just that in the final hour of sunlight, you catch a lot.

People trailing across the sand, the water blanketed with that nice shade of orange… all that good shit. Course, you can't really focus on much considering the speed you're going. Still, good for some nice background canvass when you drive. The stuff that's most mindless usually makes some subtly huge impact you'd never acknowledge, anyway. Is Paul gullible to say something like that? Well, fuck it if he is.

But, to be honest, everything gets old. Paul is a firm believer in the environment makes the man. You can put Paul anywhere. In any state, any country, with any amount of fights, pizza or beautiful women you could imagine. But, nowhere compares to Omaha. Nowhere is like the state of Nebraska.

Platte River, Omaha is the most beautiful place in the world. There's nothing spectacular about it to the naked eye… it's a small city. Well, small in comparison to this metropolis. But, still, it's a simple city.

Paul can find himself yearning sometimes… for a lot of simpler times. The River was where he spent his childhood… hell, he'd remember he'd just stand in the shallow bank sometimes. He wouldn't even go swimming, he wouldn't try catch some fish. He'd stare into the water on a sunny day, and he'd just try make out what looked back at him.

Sometimes, he'd see different faces on different days. Sometimes, he'd just find an ugly mug staring right back at him. On the good days, though, he could see a couple of buffalo fish ploughing their way through the undercurrent… doing whatever the hell buffalo fish do.

Paul glanced behind him, gripping his handlebar tightly. What the… Paul could see the black smoke rising from his bike. The handlebars briefly shuddered… Paul gripped them tighter, trying to ease the vibrations. Paul gripped tighter… until, they eventually stopped. Well, that's a bit worrying. Paul reckons the engine is just a little overheated. He needed to drop this thing into the garage for a while now anyway, but just hadn't found the time.

Paul used to resent Omaha. A part of him still does… I guess because he was stuck there for so long, being forced to travel to train and to compete, well before he had his place in San Fran.

The small city syndrome has its downs there, where you see the same people that you never really know, with the similar events that you always know the outcome to. It's all about perspective, Paul supposes, but it just got so stale. It's the extreme opposite to San Fran, y'know? Balance is everything. But, hell, maybe Paul was finding things to complain about. Fuck it anyway.

Paul steadied himself slowly, as he approached a slowing Mercedes… his hands gripping the handlebar once more. A sign notified him he was approaching Nevada… one state out of many he has to pass through. It's a long trek to Nebraska. But, Paul welcomes it.

Back in the day, when he first moved out here, he'd see how long he could last on the long road trips home every second weekend. No stopping for coffee, or to take naps. Straight driving, for 24 hours, until he found himself back on his childhood porch. Nowadays, there ain't no fucking chance he'd do shit like that just to test himself. Hell, he would barely bother his ass to come home under most circumstances.

Ccck. The shuddering intensified. Paul finally swore, his head swinging back… the black smoke had intensified, creating a whole dark cloud blocking his entire rear view. You can't be serious… now. Of course this has to fucking happen now. Paul quickly turned over to the hard shoulder, not even bothering to signal.

His Harley just about made it there, clicking and choking all the way… eventually, it began to move like arthritic ridden old man, until it choked to an eventual halt on the side of the road. Paul felt the entire bike shudder as it did, the whole engine screeching to a halt with a vicious final judder.

Paul sat on his bike for several moments, hearing it clicking all the while. The subtle hiss of dark smoke rising from the engine was the only noise that accompanied Paul in between… in between all the cars flying by. Leaving him in the dust. Paul knew he couldn't just sit on the bike, and breathe forever.

Paul looked up to the sky for a moment, and inhale. The timing was just a little too fuckin perfect, you know? It just had to happen now. You just couldn't have it at a better time. Too far from home, and not close enough to the house.

Paul dismounted the bike slowly, and knelt down in front of the bike. He nearly took his leather jacket to wave around the black smoke, but he realised pretty quickly the whole endeavour was fairly redundant. Paul knew what happened… he could see the damage that was done. It was a little more than a heated engine.

Paul gritted his teeth, and slowly stood up. Paul leaned against the motorbike for a moment, doing his… very best, to maintain his composure. Paul turned his gaze up towards the many cars… come on.

Someone fucking beep at me. Someone slide down the window, and call something. Somebody act the smartass. I reckon I'd have enough time to crack someone's fat fucking jaw before the car drives off. I'm a quick fucking striker. Paul, with both fists clenched, forced himself to turn around towards the Coast.

Well… at least it won't be in the background tonight. He could appreciate the sun setting across the Coast in its full fucking glory. Hell, he'd be able to make out the people too. That'd be dandy.

Paul placed both fists on the seat of his bike, his blue eyes boring into the ground. His options are fairly fucking limited. The only feasible one was looking him right in the eye, a few metres away. Paul drove both his fists into the motorcycle seat. He won't. Not a hope he won't.

Nah. He doesn't need to. He's got to hold onto his pride. He's sacrificed enough of that when all this started… he's got to maintain what's left. Paul can sort this out himself… he hardly needs to go digging up old corpses. That's the last thing that needs to be done.

His fists were beginning to sink into the leather plaid seat. More cars passed by… gusts of wind continued to hit Paul in the back. The leather jacket couldn't do much to protect against shit on the side of this road.

Paul forced his gaze up, until his eyes were locked on the emergency telephone up the road. Paul lowered his head again, and lightly punched his bike seat a few times. "Fuck sake." Paul did not believe in God. He comes from a fairly religious community, with a fair-weather religious family.

Still, there are some fucking things in life that you can't just brush off. There's a reason some things happen. You just can't be fucking stupid, or stubborn enough to be blind to those signals. Call em opportunities, call em gifts… Paul just has to call them another brief flash of help, before he goes back to the fight. "Fuck it." Paul eventually stood up, and began to walk towards the phone. "I ain't fuckin apologisin' though."

Paul was forced to wait a while. He wasn't too surprised, to be honest. He hardly had much to entertain him… Paul did not bring any of his books for the journey. He had this one, Musashi, that he thought was pretty interesting. He lost it after a training session a couple months back.

He resolved himself to pacing up and down the hard shoulder, turning on the radio on his Harley so he could continue to blast the new Counting Crows album. Time passed agonisingly slowly at first. The sun is pretty fuckin slow to set when you're alone. Paul had the CD album with him, 'August and Everything After'. Maria says she's dying. Through the door, I hear her crying.

The opening song, 'Round Here', got rewound a few times. Why? I don't know. 'Mr Jones', the single of the album, was some tune. Round here. We always stand up straight.

He also couldn't help but listen to 'Anna Begins' a few times too. Those are his initial favourites, but he needs to listen to the whole album all the way through for a proper opinion. Round here. Something radiates.

The day slowly stretched into night, the orange evening slowly morphing into a deep blue sky, before fading into an unmistakeable black. Once he found a rhythm, he began to keep himself preoccupied. Maria came from Nashville with a suitcase in her hand. She said she'd like to meet a boy who looks like Elvis.

Paul watched the people strolling the Golden Coast. Paul thought about their stories, what they did in their lives. Paul wondered if what they did with their lives lined up with their ideas of what they wanted their lives to be. How different does it turn out from person to person? And she walks along the edge of where the ocean meets the land. Just like she's walking on a wire in the circus.

Paul thought about what their passions were, and if they could feel as strongly about something as Paul did about fighting. She parks her car outside of my house and takes her clothes off, says she's close to understanding Jesus.

Paul, when he spotted a couple, wondered if love for another person could possibly top love for a passion. And she knows she's more than just a little misunderstood. She has trouble acting normal when she's nervous.

Paul wonders if friendships made when both are suffering and in pain really stronger than those made from joy and love. Round here we're carving out our names. Round here we all look the same.

Paul ain't no philosopher, but when it comes to passion, he thinks it's fairly symbolic. Any time he questions his journey, his ability… his skill level, he thinks a lot about passion on a general basis. He doesn't have answers for many of the questions, but he also is fairly stupid in most aspects of life. Round here we talk just like lions but we sacrifice like lambs. Round here she's slipping though my hands.

He just figures everybody wants to be a big star in their own way. That might not necessarily be fame, but just be… be prominent in their chosen path. Hell, Paul doesn't know who he'd be if he wasn't trying to be the best fighter in the world. Then she looks up at the building. And says she's thinking of jumping.

It sounds like such an outlandish goal when you say it out loud. 'Best fighter in the world.' But, it's really all he has. It's the core to his entire philosophy. Hell, it might be what his entire fighting personality has been built around. She says she's tired of life. She must be tired of something.

Paul could have walked home. He did do that once. He didn't afford his bike before he had the championship, and cause of some storm, the bus back to his apartment after training was busted. Fuck knows he wasn't paying a taxi for the price of it. He had to walk the length of California, from San Jose to San Francisco. I said I'm under the gun round here.

He only walked about seven hours of the journey in fairness, thanks to a sympathetic trucker, and another old friend who was on a road trip. Still, that was a low point.. that was one of those points he questioned his passion. He remembered he had one bottle of water, that he rationed to painfully ridiculous levels to keep him sane. Well I can't see nothing, nothing round here.

Paul leaned against the barrier, as he watched out the cars flying down the highway again. One car caught his gaze… well, it wasn't a car. It was a pickup truck, that was rapidly slowing down. Paul stiffened up, as he slowly shut off the CD player.

Hey, maybe Paul should walk back. A couple of days strolling might be easier than this conversation.

Paul awkwardly stood up from the barrier, rolling up the sleeves of his leather jacket. His thick forearms were revealed in the dipped headlights of the truck, the rusted brown that Paul was familiar with came alive when the truck pulled into the hard shoulder.

Paul walked over to his motorcycle, taking the handbrake off quickly so he could begin to roll it. The rickety chugging of the truck reverberated through the eery night, but Paul continued to push the motorcycle towards the pickups boot.

Eventually, the man in the front eventually left the shrouded comfort of his driver's seat, and the door noisily swung open. Paul did not look up immediately, as he slowly bent his legs… preparing to lift the motorcycle. Silently, Paul watched as his brother approached the other side of the motorcycle. Marshall, with only a glance at Paul, bent his knees also, and gripped the side of the Harley.

His slightly uneven dark hair fluttered in the wind, as the two hoisted Paul's Harley into the back of the pickup truck. The yellow tracksuit Marshall wore illuminated a little in the headlights of his pickup. He could feel Marshall giving him more than a few stares. Paul doesn't mean glances either.. he means full on stares. Paul eventually found the courage to lock eyes with Marshall for more than a few moments.

Marshalls thin lips eventually peeled upwards, as he titled his head towards the truck. Paul acted without a word spoken, quickly claiming the front seat by throwing himself in the air conditioned truck. Marshall was quick to follow him, his hands wrapping quickly around the steering wheel.

The constant racket of the Highway was eventually muffled, as Marshall shut the driver's door. Paul stared out the windshield for a few moments, watching as the cars flew by on either side of the door.

The tension in the air did not stay for long. Paul couldn't tell if it was rising, or falling, but it definitely was changing. The energy felt a little weird to Paul, as he realised how long it had truly been since they had even shared a room together. Paul has never been great at reading the room though. Except for anger, that is.

Paul leaned forward, his gaze turning towards the sky for a few moments. The headlights were blasting down, so he could make out the entire landscape of the sky life. "Marsh, you ever go bird watching?" Marshall gripped the steering wheel, looking out the side window for a moment. "Can't say I have, Paul."

Paul shrugged, his eyes fixed on the windshield. "Think I just saw an Anna's hummingbird." Marshall snorted. Paul turned back towards his friend, seeing those dark eyes come alive once more… that smirk crossing one side of his shrouded face. "I just wanna go home, Paulo."

All Marshall did was just pull the handbrake down. He slowly began to turn the wheel, doing a full U-turn, as he rotated the truck back to the opposite side… the Coast Highway back into the bright lights of San Francisco.

Paul resisted the urge to smile, as his eyes remained on the Golden Coast. Only the stars were lighting it up now. Well, hey… he can experience the best of both worlds now.

Maybe, that's the perspective he needed.

Maybe, that's how Paul can finally get his head straight.

17

Coming back into the dojo was a little bit like stepping back into the past. Alright, Paul gets how ridiculous this might sound. It's only been a few weeks, a month tops. But, let Paul just put this into perspective. For the last five years, he had spent his entire life in dojos. Day in, day out, he and Marshall had trained in a dojo of some sort. This particular dojo had been their home for the last year, and Paul doesn't use the term 'home' lightly. This place was a little more special… maybe, because this is the place that trained him to finally become Superfights champion. Or, maybe it's just cause this belongs to his best bud. But, he finally felt he became world class in Marshalls dojo.

It was different though. The emptiness struck Paul immediately. He was so used to hear jovial voices, hear bodies slamming against the mats.. hear the faint trinkle of music on a nearby stereo.

There were a few noticeable changes, as Paul glanced around at the large matted area meeting him. There might have been a few more boxing bags. It also looked like Marshall had added in a few more gym mats… more room for sparring.

Paul began to wander around, the feeling of an empty dojo even more unfamiliar than the new features. Well, there was one other glaring difference than before. Marshall had changed the colour of the matting. Paul stopped at the foot matting, a little jarred by what he was looking at. The blue judo mats that he had become so accustomed to were gone.

Replaced by thick red and black mats, that looked a little more reinforced than the old hand me downs Marshall relied on. Paul glanced up at the overhead lights… nope. They were the same alright. Still, that one dodgy one in the right hand corner that flickers the odd time.

"How'd you get ahold of these?" Paul toed the mat for a moment. The cushioning on it was a lot more thick than before. "I got to spend more time in the restaurant the last while." Marshall admitted.

Paul kicked off his shoes, and quickly peeled off his leather jacket. He was already in his red gi, feeling it wrap around him like a second skin. The same colour, and shade as the mats below. Hell yeah.

Paul paused at that, his bare feet crossing the smooth red mats once more. "Safe to say I had to kick the guys into gear." Paul tilted his head at that. Marshall being the frugal businessman he is, he did employ students, most of which underage, for minimum possible wage. The smart business plan probably would backfire knowing what work ethic sixteen year old punks would have.

Paul shrugged at that, turning back towards Marshall. "So, we stickin-" Paul was silenced almost immediately, as his face snapped back. The slap was so quick, and powerful, he could almost feel the vibrations judder through his entire face. That's not a fucking exaggeration either.

That slap was far from superficial; it cut through him like a damn shotgun. Pauls hand came straight to his cheek, his breathing intensifying. ""What the fuck, man?!"

Paul took a step back in shock more than feeling the pain… at first. At second, he could already start to feel his cheek turn a rapid shade of red. Marshall stood, his lips pursed and his arms folded, glaring at Paul triumphantly in that stupid yellow tracksuit.

Paul exhaled quickly, his jaw clenching. "Alright. I deserved that one. Now we're even." Paul stepped forward again. "So let's get-"

Ok, this time Paul had no one to blame for himself. The exact same hand, slapping the shit out of the exact same fucking cheek. Paul stumbled back for another moment, before he quickly stepped up, his nostrils flaring. "Alright, Marshall. Don't fucking push me." Marshall folded his arms again, his eyes staring at Paul. Completely nonplussed. "Before I'll even consider training you again-" Marshall kicked off his own shoes, stepping into his fighting stance. "We got settle this. Now."

Marshall began to bounce on his toes, taking up that signature pose that was associated with his doppelganger. "Come on. You wanna sucker punch me? About time you tasted it yourself."

Pauls scowl turned into a look of intensity, clenching his own fists. Taking a careful step back, his intensity turning to a look of deliberate rage.

Paul hates to admit it. But, he's right. There's only one way to get all the bullshit out in the open. One way to get rid of all this resentment in the air. The same way they've done it for years, upon years. Same way we've done it every single day on these mats.

Neither of them moved, simply standing in their stances. They had crossed horns so many times, whether for training or to settle a spat… it's like a game of angry, furious chess. They can read each other like open books. On the other hand, they both know how unpredictable the other can truly be as fighters. That familiarity always comes with a battle like this…to see who can get the edge.

Paul knows that both men's pride won't allow them to give a fucking inch in any way, shape or form.

Marshall leaped in the air, and Paul quickly sprinted forward in reaction. He threw forward his punch with a vicious ferocity, but Marshall was just as quick with that flying kick. Paul couldn't enjoy the satisfying feeling of his fist slamming into Marshalls stomach… because, he felt the boot grind into his face at almost the same time.

Paul flew back, backstepping with the sheer force. Paul recovered within moments, to see Marshall had too been brought to his knee. Both locked eyes for a moment, seeing the damage their respective strikes caused. You know.. there's a saying in the fighting game. When it's your friends, you'll always hit them harder.

That's just what Paul tried to do. Swinging forward with another punch, he followed up with another kick that clipped Marshall in the ankle. Marshall hopped back on one foot, and Paul lunged with another punch to the face.

But – in signature fashion – Marshall parried the blow, and delivered a round kick right across Pauls face. Paul swung back, almost dropping to a knee with that one. Fucking hell, Marsh. I have a fight in a month.

Marshall, of course, wouldn't give him any more leeway. Paul expected no less… as Marshall spun around, his foot aiming for the back of Pauls prone head. Another Marshall Law signature. Tried and tested, Paul ducked the blow, and rose off his knee, to deliver a kick to Marshalls gut. That stamina and all those abs means you have a more vulnerable target, son.

As Marshall doubled over, Paul delivered another to the side of his head.. there we go. No disrespect, Marsh, but losing to you right before Kazuya… ain't a good look. Not for my ego, anyway… since you insist it's so fucking big. For good fucking reason, son.

Paul grabbed Marshall by the back of his neck, and raised his fist once again. Marshall snapped his head up, a rage in his eyes… Paul glared right back in response. He matched that rage with a justified fury of his own. I already fucking apologised. It was in the heat of the moment.. what else is Paul supposed to say? Well, like fuck is he going to hesitate. Paul swung forward with that fist, but it met nothing but air.

That goddamn speed of his brother was too much, as he already knew where Marshall was. Paul did the 180, swinging around with a backfist that Marshall easily ducked. The signature onslaught began then… the damn kicks. Marshall, after all this time, still loves his fancy kicks. While Paul knew how to deflect some, he also accepted it would be downright impossible to block all of them.

He's quick with them, but he's also way too precise with them. It fuckin showed. Paul blocked a few that were aimed at his face, and felt the fury of one aimed right at his jaw; against his forearm instead. But, the body shots were another story. With an aching forearm, and an achier jaw, Paul did his best to try take the guts of all of those kicks.

But, they were nearly impossible to just brush off… still, Paul gritted his teeth, and glared Marshall down. The bare feet slammed into his side with the intensity and relentlessness of bullets, but he just kept the armour up. As one thumped into his stomach. As one more caught him on the crook of the shoulder. As the next crumbled the back of Paul's knee. As another caught Paul right in the sternum, and almost winded him.

When Paul doubled over, trying to massage some fucking feeling back into it so he could breathe… he couldn't shrug off the kick to the same part of his jaw.

Paul doubled down on his knees for a moment, coughing as he massaged his sternum. Paul just about stood up as Marshall pounced on him. Paul growled when he felt his friends hands on him… don't try to humiliate me for one fucking sucker punch. It's over now.

Paul swung back, and elbowed Marshall as hard as he could in the face. That stopped Marshalls rage for a moment… he stumbled back several steps, with a curse. Paul spun around then, and now it was his turn for the onslaught.

He rained down the punches on his friend. Well, it wasn't his friend. Paul did not see Marshall anymore when he beat down on him. He envisioned that same man that had humiliated him from the start. Paul pictured that man that set everything into motion… that caused that rift between Paul and Marshall in the first place. Paul pictured Kazuya, as he beat the ever living shit out of his best friend.

Paul finally dropped Marshall with one more well timed punched to the jaw. And, well… he couldn't help himself but grin after that. His rage slowly sizzled away, as he felt déjà vu wash over him slowly. Paul raised his eyebrows, at Marshalls pained eyes. "Again, huh?"

Marshall clearly didn't find the situation amusing. He swung his legs up, and one soaring foot caught Paul in the side of the neck.

Paul took a step back, as Marshall kipped to his feet. This time, as Paul reared forward with that punch… Paul decided to take Marshall to deep waters. One thing he has on his friend. Marshall might be more precise, more technical than him.

Paul caught Marshalls punch, and wrapping both meaty hands onto that thrashing arm, he reefed Marshall over his shoulder. Marshall went over like a bag of groceries, sliding across his back and slamming back first against those red mats. Once you take Marshall Law to the ground, he's in trouble. Especially with Paul.

Paul latched onto the arm, quickly dropping to his back as both legs wrapped crook of the elbow. The cross armbar was locked in within moments, as Paul slapped on the keylock. "Is this out your system yet?" Paul nearly shouted in Marshalls ears. "Or can we play some more?"

Paul extended the arm even further, and Marshalls furious face turned another shade of red. "Fuck me… just shut the fuck up… " Marshall swung both his legs up, until he was on both knees.

Paul leaned back further, still trying to hyperextend his arm… but, on his knees, Marshall has pretty much relieved the leverage. Before Paul could even wrench the hold, another one of those precise punches caught him directly between the eyes.

Paul grunted, releasing the hold immediately… as Marshall stumbled away, massaging his shoulder for a few moments. Paul tried to stand up, but Marshall leaped again… before Paul could get his bearings, Marshall latched both his arms around Pauls foot.

No. No no no no. Hell nah, I ain't letting you near my foot this close to the fucking match. But, Marshall was in the heat of the moment… he could see the wheels turning in those fiery eyes. He was getting ready to put on a knee bar. He had nothing in his mind, his thoughts weren't on anything except for supremacy. Superiority. Tapping out is the most glorified example of superiority and justified supremacy you could ever get.

Fuck you, Marshall. It can't just be a spar anymore with you, can it? Paul moved a little more frenetically now. Desperately, he lashed out at his friend. He kicked him… over, and over, each of those blows catching Marshall in the chest. One wayward kick caught Marshall in the shoulder, and that caused Marshall to drop Pauls leg, subtly shaking out the arm.

Paul didn't hesitate. Adrenaline coursing throughout his entire body, feeling apathetic and remorseless… Paul leaped to his feet. The momentum still carrying him, Paul punched Marshall as hard as he could in the… Paul gritted his teeth. Don't take it too far. He lowered the blow. Paul punched Marshall as hard as he could in the stomach.

Marshall toppled to the ground with a loud slap. Paul slumped over, once more on his knees… the sweat pouring down his face. Good thing his eyebrows are so thick. Paul could already feel his jaw beginning to swell up.

Breathing was becoming a little strained too… he could hear, and see in his peripherals, that Marshall shared similar symptoms of the adrenaline dump. Eventually, Marshall moved… with a slight groan, both of his arms came up – momentarily covering his face, before retreating to his stomach. Paul winced, and dropped onto his ass. "You happy now, you bitter bastard?"

Marshall groaned in response. "I'd say vengeful. Sounds… cooler…." Paul slumped against the mats himself, the strength to even sit up drained from him. "You're getting stuck in your ways, you old dog. Falling for the armbar?" Paul snorted, his hands disposing of that layer of sweat sheening his forehead. "You should have never packed it in."

Marshall propped himself up on both elbows, slowly sitting up. "One day, you'll get a wife, Paul. Then, you'll realise that coming home looking like this every week…" Marshall waved a hand over his face, and his dark red stomach. "Is a death sentence."

Paul began to prop himself up, slowly rotating some feeling back into his jaw. "Well, I'll tell ya somethin, buddy. It seems a lot healthier to get into it with an attractive woman, than a fuckin Mishima."

Marshall folded his arms, shaking his head slowly. Both of them remained silent for several moments, the sound of their panting, and the sweat dripping on the red mats the only echoing noises in the dojo.

"I can't train you for this fight, Paulo." Marshall leaned against the wall, with a strained sigh. "I know that for sure now." Marshall winced again, his hand wrapping around his stomach. "Look at me, man. I'm not what I used to be."

Paul sat up… a lot quicker, with far more winces this time. "What? Jesus, bud. We don't have to scrap each other every day, y'know?" Marshall did not respond, grabbing his stomach. Paul felt the humour slowly wash away. "What the hell do you expect me to do?"

Marshall raised a compromising hand, a smile finally crossing that bruised face. "Hey. I'm not gonna walk away again. It's just.. you need someone…" Marshall stopped. Then, he finally sighed. "Someone better, to be frank. Someone who can prepare you for a fighter the calibre of Kazuya."

Paul raised both his eyebrows, a little irritated. He didn't like where this line of thought was going. "Well, spit it out. Who's this grand master you're thinking of?" Marshall crossed both his arms, wrapping them around his knees slowly. "Specialised training is what's really needed. Someone who knows exactly how Kazuya fights, how he thinks. Someone close to him."

Paul began to loll his head back. Well, that's gonna be next to fuckin impossible. Where can they….? The anvil dropped on Paul then. He sat up straighter then, his pain forgotten. The excitement rushing through him would give any man three times the adrenaline rush of a fight. The King of Iron Fist. "You seriously talking about Heihachi?"

It was Marshalls turn to snort at that. Pauls felt the adrenaline deflate slowly, like a drawn out, wet fart. "I'm talking someone realistic, Paulo." Marshall turned his gaze out the window, his brown eyes drifting somewhere faraway. "I was thinking… Kazuya's brother."

Paul frowned then, leaning forward himself. That's news to him… well, Paul supposes a lot of that behind the scenes personal stuff is news to him. Paul tries to stay out of it unless he's dragged in. But, still. Paul swore that Kazuya's only remaining family was his dad.

Who the hell is Kazuya's brother?

18

Another raven flew away. The more he stands there, the more he looks at the massive entrance.. the more he sees leaving. He still does not move though. The tree just stands over him, towering and glaring down at him. It makes Kazuya feel very small.

Kazuya wiped his small, stubby hands over his eyes. He thought he'd find her here. But, he wasn't sure what he was looking at now. The dark chasm at the base of the bark was so big, was so engulfing. Kazuya felt like the black hole was staring right through him. It always will, Kazuya. You made that choice.

Kazuya's dark eyes drew downwards, as he noticed movement from beneath the tree. Another creature was leaving from the dark abyss. Kazuya narrowed his eyes, on instinct folding his arms… this small body felt so out of place to him.

Kazuya watched as the rabbit moved quickly… hopping on hind legs, and sprinting around the surface of the tree. It sniffed its way around the tree for several moments, before it began to hop towards Kazuya.

Kazuya watched, as the small rabbit bounded its way forward. It stopped every few moments, to sniff the ground, and watch Kazuya carefully. Kazuya did not move. He did not dare to move. He just watched the small beast, his nose turned upwards and his gaze pointed downwards.

Eventually, the rabbit came to a stop, with one final hop. It was almost at Kazuya's feet, its brown eyes staring curiously at Kazuya. Kazuya observed that rabbit. How its nose wrinkled, how that hind leg would twitch and kick… how that rabbit would not tear its eyes away from Kazuya.

Kazuya turned his gaze upwards back towards the dark tree, his eyes once more lost in that chasm. He tried his best to ignore that sinking feeling in his stomach. Some feelings you cannot escape, however, and you have to learn to harness. This is the place where you trace your bloodline, Kazuya. I am far too young to be learning such things. Who dictates that?

Those red eyes are somewhere. He could feel them pressing into his very soul. The wolf is always starving until its next meal. Kazuya forcefully turned his gaze to the small rabbit.

"I think you have him on conditioning, man." Kazuya blocked another elbow, and another kick. It took him every inch of control for him not to strike back, but he had instructed Bruce to reign down all of his strength on Kazuya.

He cannot strike back. There will come a time where he may be exhausted, and the strength to throw effective offense is gone. So, he must have a strong, and intense defence in response. If you do not have power in every facet of your being, then you are flawed. Kazuya is no fool, he knows every man is flawed. We are no man.But, one can hide… one can smother those flaws. That is a power learned only through years of suffering, of osmosis… of sheer toleration.

"I can imagine your training regimen back home is a lot more based around functional conditioning." Bruce threw another knee as he talked, following up with another shin strike. Kazuya blocked both with his forearm, remaining silent. "Phoenix has great conditioning, but he conditions himself like any fighter would. Yours is inhuman." Kazuya curled his lip, raising his own shin to block a vicious elbow. "It is not enough." Kazuya shoved Bruce back. "Continue."

Bruce, seemingly unbothered by his retort, just shrugged. Bruce weaved forward quickly, and Kazuya could see that knee coming his way again. "Bruce! BRUCE!" Bruce pulled the knee. Kazuya was left with little satisfaction, palming away a weak knee. Bruce turned around, looking back at the open door of his small home. "What'd the hell I tell you, Shawn? Don't interrupt training!"

Bruce shook his head, irritation painted on his face. "Your dinner's the Thai green curry with the tinfoil on top." "Bruce, it's the phone. My coach wants to talk to you." Kazuya could see the young child step out onto the porch, and the tone of his voice was indicative of something a little more serious. His dark hair almost matched his cousins… thick dark hair, peeled back in a small ponytail.

Bruce turned around again, his eyes showing what he felt of the situation. "Your coach is a fuckin' clown." "He says he wants to talk to you. Come on, man.. don't make me get back on the phone to him. Please?"

Bruce placed both his hands on his hips, his jaw clenched. The desperate tone in the young boys voice… Kazuya turned his gaze away from the child quickly. "Fine. Sorry about this Kazuya… this guy won't give Shawn a break."

Kazuya raised his eyebrows in dismissal. Kazuya watched as his training partner turned around, and walked back towards his small, suburban home.

Kazuya's eyes flickered downwards, as Bruce's vest slightly rose above the belt line. Kazuya only saw the dark metal for a moment, but the shape and the glint of the weapon was unmistakeable. Bruce readjusted his vest, pulling the seam back over the holstered handgun.

Kazuya folded his arms, feeling the warm sun beat down upon his back again. Perhaps, it had been ill advised for him to take his own shirt off… considering how sheltered this neighbourhood was. But, to be frank, Kazuya did not know nor care if anybody noticed his scarred torso.

Let them look at him. Kazuya is well used to being pointed at as the resident 'freak' wherever he fights. Kazuya knows the truth… understanding and fear are polar opposites. The unknown will always intimidate the fools stuck in their ways. The greatest do not operate on honour, Kazuya. Honour is one tool of many . Fear is an ethos.

Kazuya was immediately aware of the young child staring at him. Shawn stood still in the front garden, round brown saucer eyes staring at Kazuya as if he was that resident 'freak'. Kazuya kept his arms folded, his dark eyes fixing on the young boy. He did not look away, as he furrowed his eyebrows.

It must be a confusing, and strange life… being raised by an older cousin. Those are the ones you see in the same hierarchy as yourself, especially as a child. You may look up to those that are older, but they rarely hold the same authority as.. as a parent. Shawn took a step back, his eyes widening. Eventually, he began to walk around the scattered yard, until he was directly in front of that American football. He carefully picked it up. "You play ball?"

Kazuya furrowed his eyebrows further. It took a few moments for it to register to Kazuya, that the child was talking to him. Kazuya locked back on him. "No."

The boy looked a little disappointed, his eyes lowering. Slowly, he dropped the ball back onto the grass. Staring at it for a few more moments, he began to slightly dribble the ball.. the faint echo on leather upon leather the only noise in the bare garden.

Kazuya cleared his throat, unfolding his arms slowly. "Do you play in any other sports?" Shawn's head darted up, his eyes widening again. "I play baseball too…" Shawn stood up slowly, his brown eyes alighting with excitement. "I'm on the wrestling team at school!" Ah. Well… Kazuya took a step forward, blinking a few times. Shawn took a couple of steps back immediately… his eyes remaining wide. Kazuya exhaled slowly. He needed to stop glaring at the child.

Kazuya's gaze eventually softened. "Wrestling. That is a tough art. It requires great discipline." Shawn nodded quickly, still wearing that excited smile. Eventually, that smile seemed to fade.. his wide gaze returning to that same look. Kazuya narrowed his eyes… he knows that look. That look in a boy… It is a terrible thing, Kazuya. Terrible… but it gives you power.

"Let's see if you have what it takes to helm the Zaibatsu, Kazuya."

Kazuya stared up, his eyes streaked with tears… he hated him. With every ounce of his being, he hated that man who towered over him. Who lorded over him. Who took… everything from him. But, what could he do? He was so big, so strong.. Kazuya was so weak. He was so feeble. He was frail without… without…

Say it Kazuya. Without….

"Shawn! C'mere a second!" Shawn, seemingly happy to get away from the interaction, quickly bounded back into the house. Kazuya watched him go, shaking his head free of that memory. Kazuya too was quite relieved. Of course, it would always be vivid. He would never forget that moment… it scarred him for life.

It had become a part of his soul, and it… Kazuya turned away from the house for a moment. Kazuya reached into his pocket once again… his gloved hands found comfort in that locket. Nestled deep in his pocket, he felt the chain wrap around his fingers.

Kazuya lifted it out of his pocket carefully, watching the gold glint; almost directly into his eye. Kazuya lifted it, keeping it low and nestled within raw and calloused fingers. Kazuya stared at the gold casing for a few moments.

What struck him now was the quiet nature in the entire suburbs… none of the houses in this small, shanty estate seemed to stir now. With that comfort, Kazuya flipped open the locket. With one thumb cradling it carefully, he stared at that image deep within it.

It had been perfectly preserved, perhaps to a fault. However, anyone else who would lay their eyes upon it could tell it was an old image. The colour had that faded aspect, the kind of shade that naturally comes with time. Also, the way she was dressed… you could tell it was old.

Kazuya's eyes laid upon himself first. Barely an infant, his unique dark hair was already beginning to shoot up… the thin sprouts forming a faint spike, the giggle on his chubby little face. You were such a gentle child.

His eyes were far from gentle. Even back then, Kazuya could see that same stony stare he wore so often.. it was not something he perfected through practice. It was as true to his nature as these fists are.

Kazuya, however, quickly moved his gaze to the figure cradling him. She was a beautiful woman. Even now, Kazuya was struck by her beauty… how graceful she was. How caring she was. A nurture that never faded, a protective nature that always resided within her. Even the way she cradled his small head, the way she supported his stubby legs… you could learn so much about her from this one photo. All you would ever need to know.

Her hair tied into two dark pigtails, her intense dark eyes were almost a mirror image of Kazuya's. Hidden deep in those mirrors of intensity was that compassion though… that was the difference. She didn't have the burden of the truth burning in those shining eyes.

That gaze roused something in Kazuya that made him feel… so much more than he was used to feeling. Was it nostalgia? Perhaps. Kazuya believes he was far too young at this point to feel nostalgia. Of course, one cannot ignore the pain-

"She is a beautiful woman." Kazuya turned in a snap, his eyes widening in rage. Kazuya's fist was clenched… he would have struck right there, and broken whatever he needed to shatter. He would have picked up the damn intruder by the throat, and strangled him until his voice began a gargled, croaked noise.

What stopped him taking that action was the feminine nature of that voice. Kazuya locked eyes with the intruder, and he unclenched his fist slowly. He stared back at the bright eyes of Jun Kazama, binoculars wrapped around her neck, and wearing a loose fitting white shirt. Of course, she had her recording gear with her. Her bangs slightly fluttered in the breeze today, as she dropped her backpack on the pavement. It sounded empty, but Kazuya had a strong intuition there may be notepads hidden deep within.

Kazuya did not like the curious expression on Jun Kazama's face. "What was her name?" Her voice somehow could share a soft tone with intensity… a quietness that spoke past a thousand boisterous presences.

Kazuya ignored that question regardless. Kazuya folded his arms. He curled his… Kazuya pursed his lips, his eyes watching her closely. "You are early, Jun Kazama." Jun raised her camera, that warm smile crossing her face. "What is it they say… 'the early bird catches the worm'?" Jun raised her binoculars. "I believe coming early to an arranged meeting is a sign of deep rooted respect."

"I find it almost as irritating as arriving late." Kazuya was quick to respond drily. Again, that jab seemed to float over her head. She instead placed both eyes into her binocular lens for a moment, pointing them at Kazuya. Kazuya folded his arms again.

"I spent some time in the John McLaren park today. There were some beautiful creatures to be found there. I even spotted a peregrine falcon today. It was quite amazing! They are rarely found in North America."

Kazuya narrowed his eyes for a few moments, his eyes… remaining on Jun's. "You have spoken with Bruce?"

Jun lowered her binoculars. "Yes, it was an interesting interview. He neglected to give any details about your friendship, however. I'm sure those are details you will try your best to keep from me." Kazuya glanced away. A small smile crossed his face for a moment, before he quickly wiped it away. You are full of surprises, Jun Kazama.

"Besides." Jun continued. "You seemed to be a little too busy for me." It was her turn to grin, as Kazuya eventually looked at her again. "Friendship is a strong word. Bruce and I are training partners at most." Jun's smile faded at that. "Oh… I see." The pause in the air was not kind to either of them, as Kazuya could not look away from those colourful, lively eyes. "That's quite a sad perspective you have, Kazuya-san."

"Are you prepared to start?" Kazuya puffed his chest out, resisting the urge to fold his arms. Jun jumped to life, her eyes treading downwards. "Yes! We shall… we shall get started." Jun glanced over Kazuya's shoulder, her eyes clouding over. The muffled voices of Bruce and the boy could still be heard, behind the thin walls and ajar doors. "Perhaps, somewhere more private."

Kazuya did not follow her gaze. Instead, he clutched that locket tighter to him…. before placing it back in his pocket. He continued to look at Jun. The sun served some purpose now it seems. It illuminated the true shade of Jun Kazama's hazel eyes. Under the pressure of silence, she will still block you out.

Kazuya still managed a smile. "Perhaps."

19

What is a robot? That is a good question. One that I ask myself every day, but the answer always does seem to change. Well, robots have existed for centuries, as a matter of fact. Take for example, automata in the 18th century. Machines made from clockwork, such as a cuckoo clock that would come out, and chirp on the hour every time. Of course, these machinations are mostly useless, and I don't really find much use in studying them. I need to research more effective examples. To make any sustainable progress with my work, of course.

The earliest robots as we know them come from the early 1950s. George C. Devol, an inventor from Louisville, Kentucky, America. That is right… the heartland of this country. Not where I am at the moment. A shame. Mr Devol's machine was called a 'Unimate', a reprogrammable manipulator. What is a manipulator? That is a good question. One that I ask myself every day, but the answer always does seem to change.

"I believe we've arrived on location, sir." Ah. The beautiful city of San Francisco. The Golden City. The Golden Gate Bridge was constructed purely from burnt red cables. He would love to investigate them, but unfortunately, his duties would hardly allow such complacencies. Unfortunately, his duties are shared by labour of loves and labours… of labours. Some might say labours of luck. Some may express that. He has never considered himself to be among the 'some', however.

In his travels, he has visited many different places in this country. After all, he must represent a great corporation… an organisation that wishes to fully expand and promote a better outreach across the nation.

It is a great responsibility his father has placed upon him, and it is not one he takes lightly. The Mishima Zaibatsu have a stimulated presence in America, and he will not be the one who erodes it.

He pulled his suit jacket over him, keeping his makeshift device close. He considered listening to music for this journey up. Billy Joel has an excellent new album that he would love to listen to on three or four more occasions, to fully get a good sense of what it is. Alas, time is our master, and it can act as a slaveowner.

"Mr Chaolan?" Eventually, he lifted his eyes from his book. "My gracious thanks, Maria." The dark tinted windows of the limousine did allow him to see some of the exterior, but not much else. As expected… this is a humble little facility that Marshall has crafted. He smirked, before his gloved hand went to the limousine window. Slowly, he wound the window down… until, the sunlight illuminated his dark suit.

His white tie, with only a touch of violet on the knot, was fully alight for the world to see. One thing he did enjoy about the sun is that it lit up his silver hair well. Often times, his hair does not get the desired silver affect he wished for.

Most people called it white, as if he was an old, hobbled man limping home with an apologetic medal of honour for his services in Pearl Harbour. But, today, at 7.00 am on a Friday, in San Francisco, his hair was unapologetically, decidedly, absolutely silver. Excellent.

Eventually, he swung the door open to the limo… his shining black shoe struck the pavement, as smoothly, gracefully… he stepped out of the limo.

Lee Chaolan stood to full height, a smile painted on his face as he stared out at the dojo. Far less humble than he expected, and far more excellent than he could have ever imagined. The machinations in his head of what is to come exhilarates him. Lee inhaled slowly.

Ah. A breath of the wild. How he does long for time among the warriors, with all the hours he spends amongst the suited vultures. "What is the itinerary up until 1pm, Maria?" Lee's voice was smooth, graceful and laced with touches of buttery charisma and a creamy baritone layer. Well, that is what Lee would merely describe it to you as. He may embellish at times, but he considers himself to be a beacon of self-honesty. Not to be confused with self-righteousness, of course.

What another would tell you would be entirely their opinion… and much of the same of what Lee has just said. He would hope they would have a more vast vocabulary in English. Or, Japanese. Or, even Cantonese.

"You have to visit the Zaibatsu research facility at 10pm, and look at some early prototypes. At 12pm, you have a lunch meeting with the estate developers, about the possible blueprints of the Mishima Zaibatsu manufacturing plant. At 1 pm, you have lunch with Whitewater PMC, in discussion with a possible large shipment of over 10,000 units."

Lee tilted his head to the side. "Hmm? What of 9am or 8am?" Maria lowered her notepad, her lips pursing. "Well, you have already cancelled your one on one meeting with Mr Rochefort about your Polytechnic research. It was rescheduled for 9am…" "Cancel that too, Maria." Lee waved a hand at her, turning back towards the large dojo doors. "I want to have at least two hours with this curious gentleman."

Lee could see Maria hesitating, but Lee already began his wide, swaggering berth towards the dojo door. It came as a surprise to Lee that the frugal man himself would open his own dojo, considering the situation with the restaurant. On the last occasion Lee had spoken to Marshall, he was already chasing away some debt chasers or some such. Marshall was quite the schemer, but he had his aims, and his prospects of creating his own way. It is quite admirable, in Lee's eyes.

Lee pushed both doors open, his arms wide as the dojo doors swung open. Lee took in his entire surroundings… and, was a little surprised. Surprised, but relieved, that the dojo was much quieter than usual.

Apart from three gentlemen training with the boxing bags, who slowly stopped training at the sight of him. But, Lee was focused at the back of the dojo. He could already make out his old friend… and of course, the infamous American Warrior himself.

"Some individuals just cannot get away from their passions, can they, Law?" Lee smiled, his white teeth showing, as he removed his sunglasses carefully. "The pleasure is all mine, my old friend." He began to walk towards them with slowly opening arms, and could see Marshall shooting his friend some looks.

His friend, looking utterly befuddled.. and a little offended, Lee is afraid to say. That's a natural reaction. Perhaps, it is his English… it remains to be a little choppy, despite his few years back and forth to the 'Land of the Free'. His mannerisms may be considered a little too eccentric for this city, also. Would that be fair to say? Hopefully, Lee can find out shortly.

Nevertheless, Lee made his way towards them… placing his sunglasses into his suit jacket. Lee can sense the Chuck Norris off this gentleman… Lee has a deep appreciation for Western pop culture shows, like Walker, Texas Ranger. This is the San Francisco Ranger. That is the ambience, or the aura, that Mr Phoenix is emanating to Lee right now. Looking to face a huge challenge… Lee's smile grew wider, as he extended his hand towards the warrior.

Excellent.

Paul wasn't too sure what the hell to say when he walked through the door. First off, he made a massive scene so that absolutely everybody would notice him. Secondly, Paul noticed how the guy walked.

You can tell a lot about a fighter on how he walks. It's a huge indicator into their fighting style as a whole, and can give you some time to prepare. But, the way this guy walked… Paul isn't sure how to say this without stepping on some toes. It was flamboyant. Y'know? He doesn't mean that in a homophobe way or whatever. It was just way too over the top. As if… he was trying to tell everyone, 'Look at ME!'

The hair, the suit, the sunglasses, the whole… the whole package, essentially. When he made his way over to Paul, Paul picked up on a few things. For one, the guy isn't that big. He'd be about the same height as Paul, but in terms of mass… well. Let's just say he's built like a sheep without a coat of wool or the thick head.

He hasn't seen what the guy looks like beneath that Gucci Lauren, or whatever-the-fuck, designer suit. "Lee." Marshall greeted, a grin eventually forming on his face. "Right on the hour. Wouldn't expect anything less." "I am afraid I live my life by the clock whilst in the United States." Lee lifted his gloved hand, and removed his sunglasses… there it is.

Paul locked eyes with him, and he could see a hint… a hint of something worthwhile. Piercing brown eyes, hard and calloused. There was something a little darker hidden in those eyes, and Paul could imagine it would be difficult to pry it out. Those eyes quickly moved from Marshall to Paul… putting up another shield. "Mr Paul Phoenix. Now, this is a fascinating honour."

Lee raised a hand… a limp hand. "Lee Chaolan." Paul lifted his own, and grasped the gloved hand tightly. Lee's smile remained, as his hand tensed, and tightened within a moment… grasping at Pauls in response. Paul could almost feel his knuckles shift with the sudden pressure. Paul squeezed hard, until he could feel the sides of Chaolan's palms begin to compress. "Chaolan." Paul echoed, tilting his head to the side. Lee nodded, tilting his own head in response. "Indeed it is."

Paul furrowed his eyebrows. "Kazuya's brother." Lee released the hand with that, raising his hand to his chin. "I know. A terrifying concept, isn't it? Fortunately, it's a bond looser than string."

Lee stepped away then, beginning to look around at this dojo. "Your colour scheme is quite pleasing, Law. Red and black… to represent the champion, I assume?" Marshall raised his eyebrows, shooting a grin Pauls way. "Might have been a thought." Paul looked back with a gaze that could stop a bullet in its tracks, and turn it back towards the original shooter with twice the ferocity.

"Lee's known as the Silver Haired Demon over on the East Coast." Marshall continued, his gaze between both Paul and Lee quickening. "I don't think anyone is as sharp with their offence."

"Well, that is just a nickname by design, Law." Lee shrugged, slowly removing his suit jacket. "Oftentimes, nicknames given by others are half-truths of what you truly are."

Lee was beginning to fold his suit jacket, that half smile still on his face. "I would not trust a perspective of someone who only watches fighting." Lee turned to Paul suddenly, his eyes boring into him. "Would you, Paul?"

Paul was too busy trying to figure out how the hell this guy would ever handle himself in any threatening situation. Never mind help him with Kazuya… this has got to be some elaborate ruse. Wouldn't be like Marshall to pull this shit on a Friday morning. There's no way this guy is Kazuya's brother. Hold on… what the fuck is that in his hand? Whatever it is, Paul ain't too confident that little… remote thing is an actual piece of technology. Or, just another thing Lee Chaolan can add to his whole…aura.

"Hey, Lee… we already have a stereo system." Marshall extended a hand. "We have it on loop on this tape,-" "I appreciate the offer, Law." Lee lifted the object… a makeshift- something? In his hands. "But, whilst I am training, I prefer to have appropriate music playing." Music? Is that thing a freakin CD player?

Well, it was. He placed it down… and pressed a button. Two lids folded back from behind the mini CD player, and two large stereos popped out from beneath it. What is this guy, Bill Nye or something? Pulling out his folding CDs… this is some carny shit, man.

Lee smiled, his hand retreating back to his chest shirt pocket. Paul was still trying to decide… Man. Fucking hell, Paul feels like he's stepped into Alice in Wonderland.

Lee flourished his hand, with a triumphant 'Aha'. There, nestled in his hand, was a CD box. From nowhere. Somehow. Paul squinted, seeing some… painted artwork on the front. It looked hand designed, and a little.. a little trippy, to be frank. Paul could tell from the artwork it ain't his kind of music.

"Billy Joels 12th studio album, released this year." Lee was carrying his CD-stereo-player-thingy to the closest desk, over at reception. "It has been a while since his previous album, and some dare say this will be his last album." Lee clicked open the CD box, his gloved hands caressing the CD cover for a moment. "River of Dreams has a more soulful, rhythmic feeling than his previous albums. It also deals with more serious issues than his previous music has, if you can make out the themes throughout the album."

Lee, turned back towards them with another flourish. "There are some great melodies." Lee clicked the play button. Sure enough, some soul music began echoing around the dojo… Paul glanced around the dojo. Hell, Paul was already tightening his gloves back on his hands. Get outta here with that shit.

"What are you waiting for over there, huh?" Lee had already discarded his suit trousers, shirt and tie… underneath, a dark violet rash guard covered his toned body. Well, at least the guy was in good shape… still. Lee lifted up a hand – now pale, and gloveless – and beckoned him on. "Do your worst."

Lee began to bounce on both toes, like a damn rabbit… he was bouncing from toe to toe, at an ungodly rate. His fists were raised to chest level, as he hopped around on the mats… almost doing a full circle of Paul in the meantime. This guy is Heihachi Mishima's son.

Paul couldn't figure out if this perpetual state of shock would ever go away. This fuckin guy… this guy. Paul turned back to Marshall one more time, but Marshall just looked at Paul expectedly. Jesus H… this guy really is it. This guy is the guy, isn't he?

Paul turned back towards Lee. He had now decided his spot on the mat, bouncing from toe to toe with the same energy and vigour as before.

Maybe it was wrong of him to judge the book by the bright cover. but… come on. Come on. You walk in here like this, flaunting all this bullshit… you're gonna prepare me for the biggest fight of my fucking life? Maybe, it's wrong of him to have these high expectations. Paul's a sucker for imagining ridiculous shit anyway. This is too much, even for my fucking imagination.

Paul cracked his neck, pounding his fist into his palm. "Alright, then. No pain, no gain." Lee stopped bouncing at that, his lips pursing. "Nice. Excellent little saying."

Lee began to bounce again, his smirk returning. Pauls lip curled. You sure do like to run your mouth, huh? Paul stepped forward, his gaze intensifying further. Well, let's see then. Paul lunged forwards, his fist thrusting forward –

Lee had already become a silver blur to Paul, before a foot came flying at his face.

It took a while for Paul to dust himself off. Collapsed over on one knee, he found himself heaving for breath. That heaving was the only thing keeping the pain away, that painful bruises alighting all over his body with every movement. Man… maaaan. Fuck me.

Paul really thought Marshall was fast. Paul coughed a couple of times, flexing his neck slowly. That shit is gonna kill tomorrow. He needs to invest in that fuckin double bed, even if it costs the bomb. Going back to his single tonight after facing the damn 'Silver haired Demon' every day is going to cause some lactic acid build up, or arthritis or some shit. Paul eventually turned his head up, wincing all the while.

Lee had echoed his position… crumbled himself onto one knee, with a few grunts. His breath was quicker, but seemed way more controlled than Pauls. His eyes were downwards, as he lifted his arm up slowly. He seemed to be reaching slowly at the end of the mats… towards that sleek silk glove of his.

"Not bad." Lee finally announced, that distinct smooth voice returning after a couple of coughs. Lee pushed himself slowly off the ground, wincing and grunting the entire time. "You are… quite powerful."

Paul pushed himself off the ground, but his arms angrily complained within moments.

Jesus, his arms were exhausted. He had not been tested like that in a while… certainly, not tested strike-wise. I've been in fuckin autopilot. A dangerous way to be. But, easy to fall into that trap when your routine is stuck in that same cycle, and no amount of oil can smoothen it out.

Lee brushed himself off slowly, before raising a hand. "But!" Lee raised that gloved hand, his thumb and finger just a millimetre apart. "Your accuracy could be… just a little sharper."

Paul collapsed onto his ass, resolving himself to sitting down for a while. Jesus fuck. This guy may not be a real Mishima. Paul isn't sure what the hell Lee truly is. But, he fights like a fucking Mishima. At least… what Paul imagines a Mishima would fight like. Paul didn't respond for a good while. He just narrowed his eyes, as he stared down the prancing Lee. What's your deal?

"I almost….caught you a few times….didn't I?!" Paul challenged, feeling the remnants of extinguishing defiance erupting in him again, between heaves. I get it, you're fuckin good. Don't try diminish me.

Lee raised a finger. "Ah. You said so yourself, Paul. 'Almost' is your key word. You need to sharpen the skills you have as if it is your personal blade. Your personal Harley Davidson motorcycle, for example. If you did not clean out the exhaust every week, you would have a fantastic machine that was reduced to puffing out smoke and tar."

Lee began to pace again, one hand behind his back as the other became extremely anticipated. There was a stall in his step, at least. At least I did something to put a limp in that Michael Jackson walk.

"My…Kazuya's timing has always been impeccable… intensely so." Jesus fuck, this guy loves the sound of his own voice. Takes him about fifty words to say what he could say in five.

"How am I meant to do that?" Paul eventually caved in, his breathing finally regulating himself. He wrapped his massive arms around his knees, trying to squeeze some feeling back into his reddening biceps.

Lee's smile remained. But, those bright brown eyes began to dance. Dance with a madness, an insane energy and charisma that never seemed to die. Well, fuck knows, Paul couldn't beat it outta him. Lee began to pace faster, that cocky, elegant strut once more… gracing their dojo. "It is what you would call a 'false dichotomy' fallacy."

Lee placed both his hands on his hips. "People believe accuracy comes from speed and technique. This and that. In truth, those are just two extreme ends of a fighting spectrum. A spectrum that stretches on in many directions.. like a rainbow. You believe it has two ends, but in reality, the light reflects as many sides as it wishes."

Lee lifted his hand away from his hip, revealing a small flower. Where the fuck did he… . It was a freshly picked rose, and it looked completely untouched or uncrumpled to Paul. Is this guy trying to be a walking metaphor with everything he does or some shit? He tries way too hard. But, hell. It works. Paul doesn't get it, but it works.

Paul just tiredly shook his head. Paul doesn't have to understand, or even like this guy. He just needs to trust in what he says.

Lee gently pressed away the bud of the flower, and revealed two sharp thorns on the side of the stem. "The truth is, Paul.." Lee pressed his finger gently against one of the thorns. Paul could see Lees skin go a dangerous shade of white, directly around the thorn. But, it did not break. At least. not yet.

"Timing." Lee eventually exclaimed. Lee removed his finger from the thorn in a flash. "Timing is that excellent ingredient that ties everything together."

20

Session 2, Kazuya Mishima

Jun: Well, despite his best efforts, I find myself sitting down with Kazuya Mishima. Kazuya-san, it seems my charm has finally had an effect on you.

Kazuya: I am just interested, Jun Kazama.

Jun:…Interested in what?

Kazuya: Interested in what else you could possibly ask me.

Jun: Kazuya, I believe we have barely broken the metaphorical iceberg of what I could ask you.

Kazuya: You are wrong. I have stated my feelings on Paul Phoenix. My intentions of why I am fighting him. Is that not enough to satisfy your 'Kazama dojo'?

Jun: I am afraid not. I have some more questions. Ones that are not connected to Paul.

Kazuya: Jun Kazama, what implores you to believe I would answer such questions?

Jun: Out of admiration.

Kazuya: I do not admire many people.

Jun: I am among a select group. I am honoured.

Kazuya:

Jun: So, back to Bruce.

Kazuya: Your obsession with Irvin is rather alarming, Jun Kazama. Perhaps you should interview him again rather than waste your time here.

Jun: Well, he is the only person I have ever seen you spend any amount of extended period time with.

Kazuya: I am in a foreign country.

Jun: So, you are saying the case would be different in Japan?

Kazuya:

Jun: What of that locket? That woman must hold some major significance to you.

Kazuya: Be careful of what you ask. Most would not even dare.

Jun: I shall ignore that threat. First of all, is that your mother? What is her relationship with Heihachi now?

Kazuya: Do not mention his name.

Jun: Apologies. Is she your mother?

Kazuya: That is none of your concern.

Jun: Kazuya, you carry that locket everywhere. You believe you can keep this from everybody?

Kazuya: Yes.

Jun: I may put on a brave face, but it hurts me that you would act this way.

Kazuya: Why would it hurt you? How is it any of your concern?

Jun: Because… it discredits the credibility of the Kazama dojo. If for nothing else, do it for my families honour.

Kazuya: Your family?

Jun:

Kazuya: Fine. She… She…

Kazuya: She was my mother.

Jun: Was?

Kazuya: Stop asking dangerous questions.

Jun: Yet, I cannot feel that your motivations run a lot deeper than a clash of cultures. What happened-

Kazuya: Jun.

Jun:

Kazuya: I will ask you… I am not comfortable talking about this. Let us… Would it be okay with you if we moved on?

Jun: Well, I appreciate you asking so nicely. We shall move on if this makes you uncomfortable. I apologise, Kazuya-san.

Kazuya:

Jun: Why are you shaking your head?

Kazuya: You are an enigma.

Jun: Enigma? Is that an English word?

Kazuya: There was not an appropriate Japanese equivalent I could find.

Jun: I am honoured.

Kazuya: You are very loose with that phrase.

Jun: I would like you to know I am absolutely not.

Kazuya:

Jun: I only ask because of the 'enigma bird'. It is a Western term for the Talaud Kingfisher.

Kazuya: Hmm.

Jun: The Talaud Kingfisher is another rare bird I managed to capture a photo of, in my travels to Indonesia. It has a beautiful blue and white coat, I must show you a picture of it soon. Have you ever been to Indonesia?

Kazuya: Yes.

Jun: Beautiful, is it not? If one spends enough time around the tropical rainforests, one could get lost in the beauty. It connects you with something outside of us.

Kazuya: Hmm.

Jun: You do not agree?

Kazuya: I found Indonesia to be disgusting. The living habits the people have is shameful, and downright sordid.

Jun: They cannot control how they live if they are forced into poverty, Kazuya-san.

Kazuya: I did not mean their living conditions. I meant their living habits.

Jun: You seem to be someone who enjoys observing people.

Kazuya: I observe cultures. Those who live within them seem to follow the same patterns.

Jun: Well, that is an unfair statement, Kazuya-san. Not all people from a certain culture are the same.

Kazuya: That is not what I said. Internally, everybody is twisted in their own way. Externally, however, many act in accordance to how others around them act.

Jun: I see. I read something similar in an American book, '1985', by George Orwell. The idea of 'Groupthink'.

Kazuya: That… is an apt phrase for it. The Americans in their… 'Groupthink', have some awful habits. Their overconsumption of fast food, and liquor is abhorrent. Their reliance on computers, telephones and other machinery only reveals their slow burning stupidity. Their 'partyboy' lifestyle is something I could not detest more, and is absolutely offensive to anyone of my philosophy and stature.

Jun: You are awfully judgemental yourself, Kazuya.

Kazuya: We are all judgemental. I am honest, when others are not.

Jun: Are you?

Kazuya:

Kazuya: What is so appealing about the birds?

Jun: Sorry?

Kazuya: Watching the birds. Why does it appeal to you?

Jun: Ah. Who is the expert of changing the subject now?

Kazuya:

Jun: Birdwatching is a beautiful way to not only learn about nature, but be amongst it. I have always had an interest in wildlife conservation, but the structure never appealed to me. There is also so much unseemly activity that takes place. Birdwatching is a great activity, where nothing is harmed and solitude is key.

Kazuya: Why not watch snakes? Rhinocerous'? Or, wolves?

Jun: There is still danger in that, Kazuya-san. I could still be harmed.

Kazuya: You have your Kazama Style defensive arts.

Jun: I would be the offender. I am invading their homes.

Kazuya: Invade with pride. Plant your flag and boldly proclaim that you are here to watch them in all their glory.

Jun: Perhaps I shall. If I ever become bored with birds, I will consider your offer. I will be sure to invite you when that day to watch snakes and wolves comes.

Jun: Besides, you seem so willing to poke fun at my hobbies. What of yours?

Kazuya: Of what?

Jun: I could not help but notice those lovely red Nike sneakers you have on. It seems you customise your footwear on a regular basis.

Kazuya: I do. I take pride in my collection of sneakers.

Jun: Really?

Kazuya: Of course. My legs are my most powerful weapon, and one must dress as they intend to come across. If one wants to break down how I dress, I want my shoes to be the first trait they notice.

Jun: The furthest thing from your face.

Kazuya:

Jun: It is just a… strange hobby. Perhaps I am one to talk, but putting so much effort into footwear above all else is not something I would believe someone would obsess over.

Kazuya: It is… It is quite relaxing. It is a way to look upon some beautiful colours, and get lost in the variety of what is offered.

Jun: The world is a beautiful place too. Brimming with colour and inspiring variety too…

Kazuya: You are being selective.

Jun: How so?

Kazuya: Well-crafted sneakers only know beauty. They are made with the intent to look beautiful, feel beautiful and project a beautiful aura. You speak of 'this world' so generally, so openly as if it is the same. You must search for beauty in this world, beneath a sordid, corrupt exterior of injustices. You cannot simply generalise it and lump it all together for the sake of positivity. There is no such searching with my Nike sneakers.

Jun: Well, we must agree to disagree, Kazuya-san. I believe that when one searches hard enough in this world, you will never fail to find beauty.

Jun: However, you have piqued my interest. I have never viewed sneakers in such a light.

Kazuya: Many don't. Many only greet them with a passing compliment. 'Lovely sneakers' or 'nice Adidas'. 'The red looks good'. Sometimes, that is all that is needed. A passing moment of appreciation. That is far more beautiful than searching for some nonsensical profundity that likely does not exist.

Jun: I may have to see your sneakers myself to understand this philosophy.

Kazuya: Nobody has ever seen my sneaker collection before.

Jun: I am honoured.

Kazuya: You do so well to confuse honour with pride.

Jun: I believe you are speaking of yourself.

Kazuya: You are too quick with that tongue, Jun Kazama.

Jun: So you have told me. You have yet to "strike me down", however, so why should I stop?

Kazuya: I would not expect you stop. You are Jun Kazama.

Jun: Is that flattery?

Kazuya: Do not start this nonsense. It is honesty.

Jun: You are Kazuya Mishima. I would not expect such flattery.

Kazuya: Jun Kazama, I am not a passing vessel of questions for you. I do have to train. How much do you mean to know about my sneakers?

Jun: Another hour shall do.

Jun: I kid. I do have one more question.

Kazuya: You will ask it regardless of my opinion. And coerce me to answer.

Jun: It is more than a confirmed rumour. He has been spotted in the Bay Area, and has appeared several times at Marshall Laws dojo. How do you feel about your brother training Paul for this upcoming fight?

Kazuya:

Jun: Oh… you did not know. Well… I am glad to be the one to inform you. Even if it is not the best news.

Kazuya: You are wrong.

Jun: Wrong? So, you are denying Lee Chaolan is training Paul?

Kazuya: I deny that he is my brother.

Jun: If he is not your brother, what is he?

Kazuya: A bastard.

21

"You know, there is a hard way to all of this. We have no problem showing you that, Karate Kid."

Endless cliché's and bravado. The more he is exposed to it, the more he grows.. he grows to detest it. Kazuya is simply set in certain ways, and no amount of exposure can change those opinions.

Being confined here, in this small box… they truly believe this frightens him. At this point in his life, very few things frighten Kazuya. He will disclose one thing. The fact he could not care less what this police force would do to him does frighten him. This lack of caring is a terrifying beast, and one that a thousand police officers could not contain it. Kazuya can hardly contain it himself.

Kazuya had one hand on the small table. The other was on the leg of his trousers, clenching and unclenching as the two police officers stared him down. Kazuya had no problem staring back at them. As he said before, people fear eye contact. They fear what hides behind the eyes. Do you blame them? How would they know? They know about something, Kazuya. You are not as discreet as you believe you are. Why on earth would I care?

"You realise our eye witness account matches up." One of the police officers leaned forward. The older male, with the thin moustache and the greying hair. "Five minutes after Ushi left the venue, you were spotted following him. Next thing we know, his half-devoured corpse is found deep in the dumpsters, hidden by trash bags and fat rats." The older one leaned back. "What are you suggesting, Mr Mishima? He slipped, and crushed his windpipe on the dumpster?"

Kazuya really has tried. He has tried to understand these people. He took Jun's words to heart. Searching for that beauty, even if it seems difficult to find. Yet, here he is sitting here… being interrogated and shunned for the death of a cruel murderer. Kazuya snorted. Do not confuse anything here. He is not searching for pity. Far from it. Underneath it all, you are not searching? Is that right, Kazuya?

"Nah, Sarge. He's not saying a fucking thing." The younger one stood up from the chair. Brown hair, plain face, and plain anger. This tired kind-nasty routine is even known in my culture, and it bores Kazuya. All of this, frankly, bores him. At least, when training with Bruce, he does not need to waste words. Wasted words are incredibly boring. Actions can rarely be wasted, because one must be a coward or a fool to have unreliable impulses.

"Maybe, we should get a little physical. What the hell can he do in here?" "Sit down, Hyker." The old one was staring at him, hawk eyed. Kazuya continued to stare at him… even, if the footwear of that young fool did interest him. Puma Disk Blaze, that was released this year. Kazuya had only recently added that pair to his collection, and they were certainly very costly.

"You need to be careful with Mr Mishima." The old one shrugged his shoulders. Still speaking about this? Kazuya has lost interest in potential consequences.

"We figured you wouldn't cooperate with grunts like us. You Mishima's are too good for the foot soldiers of the world, right? So, we got a special guy visiting from across the seas… from your side of the world actually." Foot soldiers? Who do you go to war for, the donut factories? McDonalds? Don't speak to me about war, you fat old imbecile. I will rip that tongue from that eager mouth of yours.

The old grunt looked over to the colourless window, before nodding briefly. "He works for Hong Kongs International Police Force." The old fart paused. "Interested now?" Kazuya was sick of looking at him. He turned towards the grey door, as it clicked open. A young face met him… a young man, perhaps even younger than Kazuya. Young ones are overambitious.

But, he had the unmistakeable face of a Chinaman. The round face, the thin lips, the slightly tanned face. His small eyes locked onto Kazuya immediately, his brown eyes a little hardened. A little shaky. Hidden well, Kazuya will give him that. Kazuya stayed still, watching as he rolled the sleeves up on his blue shirt. So, how will you compose yourself? Have you been Westernised too?

Clearly, you are a Martial Artist. Zui Quan, by the way you move, however there are elements of more unorthodox methods. Kazuya has never fought a 'Drunken Boxer' before. Kazuya believes the unorthodox, and deliberate sloppiness can get more predictable than most would imagine it could.

The detective sat down, the badge around his trousers flopping for a moment. He sighed, kicking both feet up onto the table. Kazuya watched him do all of this… I see. The carefree rulebreaker? By the Devil, the cliché's will never stop. There is more to you than that, and I can see that. The ones you give credit to don't deserve it, Kazuya. Nobody truly deserves anything.

"Listen to me." He began. Ah. Americanised… learned his American from watching a TV show. Kazuya sees now. "Sorry. Hello. My name is detective Lei Wulong. You might be worried right now that you're in some deep trouble, but to be honest… I am not after you, Mishima."

Kazuya unclenched his fist, and leaned back. His dress shoes has a chunk of dirt on the heel, and it irritates Kazuya. Dress shoes are rather dull, but they can be respectable. Wulong does not seem to prioritise respectable, by Kazuya's standings. Kazuya scowled at that for several moments.

"I am a young man, so I don't have a lot of pull. This badge, it gives me certain liberties that most police wouldn't have. But, I am still…a little naïve, I think. Liable to be a little…low tempered? Foul tempered." Wulong tilted his head, his feet seemingly comfortable on the table. "Ever since that friend of yours got out, I have been looking for any reason to put him in prison forever."

Kazuya's eyes slowly dragged away from the chunk of dirt. His scowl turned into something far deeper, as his lip curled.

"I'm sure you already know by now, but Bruce Irvin is a nasty man." Wulong raised his eyebrows. "And, I am not talking about the electricity-aura- energy thing that you Mishima's do. I'm talking more gritty stuff, that is not very nice at all."

Kazuya closed his eyes for a moment. Wasted. Wasted. Get. To. The. Point. Can you not see the value of time in anything that you say?

"He is up to something. I know it. My… senses are tingling, so to speak. I can feel it in here." Wulong placed a hand to his chest, before closing his eyes. Strangely, Wulong began to hum, in an act that almost caused Kazuya to strike him in the throat. Those are hands that have been uncanonized, and untested. Devil knows, Kazuya needs someone to test him right now to drag him out of the boredom of all of this. Wulong stopped humming, opening his eyes, with another one of those false smiles.

"So, on behalf of HKIPOL, I'm willing to make an offer." Wulongs hand came to that golden badge, he was already beginning to fiddle with it. "You send me reports on what Irvin is up to. It doesn't have to be every day… you got a lot of time taken up for that big fight. Weekly would be very good. You continue to be our ear to the ground until something pops up… and everything will be great between us. No shit will be stirred."

Wulong extended his hands. "We can look over your little discretion. You see, I know you've probably been stitched up by someone who's got high up connections. But, that is not the Hong Kong departments problem, I am afraid. You have been spotted for this Ushi business.

Of course, they don't have anything to keep you in permanent custody with yet, but all the circumstantial evidence will all add up. The way I see it, I am the only way you can get out. The Mishima family name means absolutely nothing when it comes to my superiors."

Wulong rubbed his hand on his chest, clearing his throat. "What do you say, big guy?" Kazuya was glad one of those fists was under the table. He could feel a slight jolt of electricity rattle around his fist, that could have morphed into something far worse. What is the worst that can happen? Somebody must humble him.

Kazuya has a duty, and responsibility. Kazuya turned his gaze back to that specked foot, covered in a fleck of dirt. Kazuya is not surprised by this offer, and little would surprise him at this point. He flared his nostrils.

But, in all the feelings that are buried, he will never lose hold of his anger.

Kazuya stood up, and with some of his might, slapped both of Wulongs legs off the table. Wulong sprawled almost immediately, clumsily careening off his chair. The two police officers rushed forward, guns unholstered and pointed towards him.

Kazuya continued to glare at Wulong, who was now stuck – bottom first – on the cold floor. The electricity was not restricted to his fist now. The electric aura reverberated around his body, crackling and jolting with every tightened muscle, every clenched fist… every snort.

Where is that bravado now? One look into Wulongs eyes, and he could see it had all leaked away. That persona, the whole demeanour and all of those empty ultimatums… faded away with that realisation. Titles, organisations, and badges do not mean much in a grounded reality like this.

"Hands up, Mishima." The older cop ordered... his voice was already hoarse. Pathetic. "We got - you on as-assault now, you..."

"Let him go." His voice was quiet. But, there was no mistaking the authority. "Let him go." Wulong repeated, his voice slightly shaking as he cleared his throat.

Kazuya stared down at Wulong, his lip curling. The colour of the eyes do not lie. Eventually, Kazuya felt himself sneer. The safe choice. There are so few people that can be honest with themselves, nonetheless with others. But, the cowardly one.

Our keepers of justice, all of those who are meant to implement the right in the world… they are the most dishonest of all. Kazuya toed the chair out of his way, his dark gaze still on Wulong. Wulong sat still, chair splayed out directly beside hi.

Many would not be able to pick up his fear. A slight shiver of the arm, and that dread revealed fully in his eyes revealed all to Kazuya. Stress training or whatever nonsense they train you in those academies cannot prepare you for knowing you are hopelessly outmatched.

Kazuya forced his eyes closed, that sneer disappearing. Enough. Why? Kazuya opened his eyes, his gaze set on the door. The things we desire… they are never what is right. Who is right. What if it is all right, Kazuya? I cannot believe that.

Kazuya had only briefly stepped out onto the street, before he felt the anger bubble even further within him. Who are they? Who are they to call themselves keepers of justice? It is all a colossal farce.

They waste their time chasing after men like Irvin, who's biggest crimes were pointing pea shooters at a settled middle class individual, to steal some of what they never needed anyway.

There are so many more men… no. Not many. Kazuya had approached his car silently, quickly patting down his jeans for any spare notes that will do until the next gig.

There are a certain few men who need justice inflicted upon them. They never will by others, Kazuya. Only by us. Kazuya accepted that long ago. If it were up to him, he would burn that entire building to the ground. But, it is not up to him. Not yet. It still is. You do not need to wait.

Be quiet. I do. I can leave this forsaken country once I have Phoenix's scalp. He will never need to…

Kazuya had turned around, and that was an ill-fated move. Perhaps, it was a well fortuned move on his behalf. Once more, he saw that symbol that haunted him. That followed his life, that plagued him just out of reach of the right. Kazuya clenched his fist, seeing the signature shield with the cross feathers.

Kazuya stared at the Mishima Zaibatsu logo for several moments, his silent deadly glare willing the logo to just… to just go away. Just leave him be. Can that name just… can that name just leave him? Can it not stick to him, its permanent label glued to him like some sort of tattooed curse? Just for a moment? Those are dangerously weak thoughts, Kazuya.

Kazuya closed his eyes, and reopened them to see two figures had replaced that logo. It was a sliding poster, that was identical to the large one he had witnessed before. But, it was identical to the one he saw before. The same two figures.

To the front. His dark hair, with hints of grey, sticking out at both ends, along with that handlebar moustache. Those mocking brown, hellish eyes. Him… His…fath…Kazuya turned away, wincing on instinct. Hate rose within him like a hot iron, flooding his entire body with its intensity… he just needed to strike... The lowest of low. The righteous scum.. He didn't even notice the electricity coursing through his body until he got a hold of himself.

Soon, he forced his eyes upon the figure behind his fath… the figure directly behind. The hate may have lessened slightly, but what replaced the missing hate was disgust and fury.

Because, the realisation of this whole pointless encounter became obvious as he stared at that figure off to the side. The silver hair. That arrogant, leering smile. The sparkle in those little know-it-all eyes. Both of Kazuya's fists shook, as he stared at the poster of that silver haired bastard child.

This was between me and Phoenix. The fraud will always stick his nose in.

Lee may play his damn games. Lee may try to inflict his righteousness, and his damn spoilt nature on him. Lee might try to force the same pressure on Kazuya as he always has, that same pressure of false comradery and falser victimhood. Lee may try to lay claim to something that was never his.

But now that Lee is here, he will suffer for it.

22

Maybe Paul has gone crazy. Maybe he's gotten a little weak. Maybe, he's blinded by the need to achieve victory at the end of this whole deal. But, Paul has to admit… this place wasn't half as bad as Paul expected it to be.

He couldn't sit still in the office chairs for too long though. They were too small for his frame, and there were too many suited people wandering around, shooting curious, and questioning looks his way. Plus, he just had a brutal set of mid-afternoon spars over at the dojo, well after his morning ritual of getting his ass kicked by Lee.

Paul decided to go to that flashy ass coffee machine sitting on that reception desk. Paul did so, ignoring the obvious stare from the older suited guy beside him. Paul approached the machine, grabbing a plain paper cup from the dispensary. Hey, no shit.

Paul turned the cup around in his hand. No fucking shit. Even the coffee cups have the Mishima Zaibatsu logo on it. Damn. They're taking their expansion to America seriously enough then. Money to spend on that nice paper, cut from them fine logs, y'know, the good shit? Nah, Paul doesn't have a clue about trees or paper manufacturing. He knows this cup feels like it's premium shit, though.

Paul pulled the cup under the machine, and scrutinised his options. What the…. Americano. Cappucino. Espresso. Latte. What the fuck is this, little Italy? He just wants a straight coffee. The pictures weren't too clear either… well. Paul glanced over his shoulder. There were some scattered guys all over the reception area. They were all dressed in the same plain suits, white shirts and black ties. Paul glanced over to the large office in the corner.

From what he could make out behind the blinders, he was still in his meeting. Pauls eyes scanned over to the door. Of course, the label was not in plain writing. His title was in plain writing. 'COO of Technology, and Vice President of American Operations'. But, beneath… it had been completely stylised. In large, bold, purple writing, his name was printed clearly on the door. 'LEE CHAOLAN.'

Well, Paul sure as shit ain't giving any of these corporate fools an opening for any small talk whatsoever. So, deciding that the faint black picture beside 'Americano' was a good sign, Paul clicked the button beside it.

The machine began to whir loudly, and bubble. Paul watched as the brown liquid shot out the end, looking very syrupy, and over produced. It ain't natural, but it's probably loaded up the wazoo with the caffeine.

Paul turned away from the machine. The sound effects of his specially machine made coffee is a bit too much as it is. He doesn't need to watch the whole thing happen.

Paul placed both thumbs in his belt buckle, crossing his legs again. This place is so… it's so fucking by the numbers. I dunno, but with all the rumours, and all the hearsay and all that shit, Paul expected something a little more extravagant when it came to the Mishima Zaibatsu.

Especially, since Lee seems to be the man in charge of the Stateside stuff. But, it's all just plain Jane.. the same shit you'd find in any office, any brokery, any banking chain.

"Excuse me?" Paul turned his head slowly. He titled his head, looking at the young, pasty man. He ran a hand through his short brown hair, a smile painted on his face. Painted, not grown. "Mind if I squeeze in?"

"Be my guest, pal." Paul mumbled, shifting to the side slightly. The young lad quickly moved into Pauls spots, his hands flying away at the machine next to Pauls with urgency, as if the damn thing owed him money. Within a couple of seconds, he had his… whatever-chino pouring into the cup.

The same people you'd find anywhere else too. The kind looking for the next best Rolex, the next custom calling card, the next pretty model with the brains of a peanut and the heart of a snake. It's kinda empty that's how these people get their thrills.

You never tried riding a bull in the backarse of Montana, for a rodeo competition? Bombing through San Francisco at four in the morning, nothing but the roar of your engine to greet you? Talking to a bartender, a waitress who's a little more human, a little more relatable than Barbie doll number six? Fighting in your home town?

Paul has only tried one of those things too, but the rest are on his bucket list. You know, the little things bucket list everyone tries. Everyone has their big goals, but the small ones you wanna accomplish, to see if those little things make the big difference everyone says they does. Maybe Paul is the only one who has a list that specific.

Paul shrugged, turning away from the young employee. I dunno, man. Paul just doesn't get this. Lifestyle suits Lee anyway. Suits his eccentric, ravenous way of life to a tee. Paul crossed his legs, his eyes narrowing towards the door.

Well, it wasn't Pauls choice to be here. It was his idea, sure, but it took a lot of scratching and clawing for him to actually go through with it. Sometimes, you gotta do what's necessary sometimes. Doesn't mean it'll always feel right to you though.

Paul snatched his coffee up, before the machine was even finished. It only took him a few moments, peering down at it to start judging it. "Hey, buddy." Paul turned back towards the young man. "Where's the milk at?" The nervous young guy raised his eyebrows, that smile returning to his face. "It's-right there." He pointed towards what looked to be a silver dispenser.

Another silver chunk of metal, right beside the coffee one. "You boys have a machine just for milk?" Paul looked over to the young man, in mild surprise. Paul exhaled. "How bout that."

Paul stuck his cup under the dispenser, and jammed his finger into the machine. Well, it was fairly generous in its milk giving anyway. Still, any real need for that?

Probably costs the same amount of money to invest in a fridge, and throw a few cartons of milk in there. You could keep other shit in there too. Few apples, some protein bars, maybe even a dinner or two…

"Alright, Mr Chaolan!" The voice exploded from behind the door. Paul turned around slowly, taking a sip of the coffee. Little hot… well, look. Give it a minute or two. He doesn't need one of them stupid covers anyway.

A blonde haired man, with a thick jawline and a… an accent Paul couldn't place, lifted his hand. "Thank you anyway. I appreciate the thought, I do. I'll get back to you, sir. All the best." Paul watched the exchange silently, taking another careful sip of his coffee. It's like if Pinocchio decided to talk shop with the Mad Hatter.

The visitor was quick to leave Lee's office, striding off with his boots clicking against the office floor. Paul turned over to the receptionist, raising both his eyebrows. "Mr Chaolan should be ready to see you, Mr Phoenix." "Thanks, Ma'am."

Paul stood up silently, walking towards the office. He turned back towards the man, still perfecting his coffee. Paul opened his mouth for a moment… Paul closed it. He nodded politely, before turning into the office. He could already hear Lee's voice murmuring… well, not murmuring. Talking quite loudly, and proudly. Like there's someone else in the room. Looks like Paul is intruding then… yeah. He's intruding on some shit.

"How can something so good go so bad? How can something so right go so wrong?"

Paul stopped dead in his tracks at the sight he saw. His grip around the coffee tightened, as he furrowed his eyebrows. He's not sure what he walked in on. But, Paul is pretty sure he should have turned on his heel, and walked the other direction.

Lee was standing up from behind his trinket decorated desk, his suit jacket ordained neatly around his extravagant chair. His purple waistcoat was buttoned perfectly around his white shirt, as his eyes glared out the window. All of this was a little strange, but not really concerning. Paul was more concerned about the handgun that Lee was pointing out the barely concealed window, out towards the reception.

He was…. Singing all the while to himself, his gun slowly moving across the length of the window…. tracking his last visitor, Paul could only assume. His hips were slowly moving to some invisible beat, that Paul could barely see any rhythm in. "Well, I don't know, I don't have all the answers. How many times can I say I'm sorry?"

Lee continued to point the gun for several moments, one eye closed… the other wide open, silver hair scattered wildly all across his sweaty forehead. "You can run, and you can hide. But, I'm not leaving unless you come with me. We had our problems, but I'm on your side." For once, Paul wasn't sure he had something suitable to say here. Still, he decided the least offensive thing to do right now with the unhinged fighter with the gun was to not move. "You're all I need… please believe in me."

"Sorry about that, Paul." Lee finally spoke, the tone of his voice slightly lightening. He did not rush to lower his gun, or even turn towards Paul. He lowered it slowly, his other eye slowly opening as he deeply exhaled. "That was a personal moment. Maria sent you in a little too early."

Lee eventually placed the handgun on his desk, turning towards Paul with a flourish of the hands.

"As you can imagine, the most unpleasant part of my job is dealing with many of these people. On occasion, I like to vent a little after dealing with many of these corporate types." Lee exhaled, a little more jovial, as he dropped the gun back in the shelf. "Do not worry, it is empty. While I flirt with the idea of guns, I cannot fully invest my trust in them." Lee continued to shake his head, his gaze returning to that window. "I really have grown tired of Mr Salazar and his antics."

Lee stared out the window for several more moments, and Paul genuinely could not tell if his gaze was faraway, or just getting more intense.

"I don't have an issue comin' back again…" Paul began, hand resting carefully against the door frame. Lee clapped his gloved hands together, his head tilting.

"Nonsense!" Lee's voice had returned to that smooth baritone, that magnetic smile returning. "You are my fighter now, Paul! Any query you have will be promptly answered, and timing is of the essence in the upcoming month." My fighter. Paul shifted in the doorway, his gaze hardening on Lee. Of course, Lee probably chose to ignore that.

Lee leaned against his desk, his gaze turning serious. "What troubles you, Paul?" Well, the fact my new trainer is a gun toting madman who's part Mishima is a trouble. But, you know, fuck it. Paul signed the dotted line for Kazuya. I mentally did, anyway.

Paul Phoenix does not fear many things, or many men. He doesn't fear Lee Chaolan either, don't get it twisted. But, he's never treaded around a man with caution like he has to with Lee.

"To be honest with you, Lee, I believe the connection between a fighter and a trainer is a huge part in makin' a champion." Paul narrowed his eyes, but Lee did not make any sudden moves. He was looking at Paul, hanging onto every word. "I mean, just look at me and Marshall. I can trust him to do what's right for me as a fighter, and I've had him since the start. Haven't lost a fight since."

"You want to know if you can trust me." Lee bluntly responded, his arms folding. Paul extended both his arms. "Well… yeah. I need to know, man." Lee was now standing at his full height, that smile gone from his face. "Paul, I don't believe anything I offer to you now can suddenly inspire an undying loyalty in me, like you have with Marshall." Lee shrugged. "Frankly, I would be worried if it did. Any man of true moral fibre knows to keep his cards close to his chest at a table full of swindlers."

Lee paused, his eyes drawing away from Paul. Finally, he clicked his fingers… somehow, a loud snap reverberated out through the gloves. He grabbed his suit jacket, throwing it around him. "What I can offer you, my friend, is a drink." Paul found himself shaking his own head, the sheer confusion of this entire situation making his brain ache. "It's lunchtime."

"And, time is of the essence." Lee clapped his hands together. "What do you say?" Paul… alright. Paul gets it. A drink is shorter than a tale, right? One of the oldest tricks in the book. Blind, drunkard trust isn't quite the same as a long-lasting, clearheaded one. Well, Paul can't be sure what the hell this guy is really thinking, but-

"Excellent." Lee strode out the room, his shoes gliding across the carpet as he strode out. "Come on! Let us enjoy the daylife!"

23

This was not a hangout Paul would frequent. The neon letter outside strangely called the venue 'Carnage', where Paul could not see any carnage. Well, Paul supposes everybody has a different view of what carnage means. Paul is sure as shit his carnage ain't this glowing fancy shit.

Paul, believe it or not, does not see a bunch of rich bankers and college frat boys drinking, snorting whatever shit they put into their body in the bathroom, and messing around with struggling waitresses and bartenders 'carnage'.

Hell, he doesn't know if the waitresses are struggling or not. But, every time he catches a glimpse of them walking by the bar, the look in their eyes was a little too lifeless for Paul to decide anything else. It's a tired, old exhausted life, especially if you're any kind of woman working in those positions.

Paul took another sip out of the Heineken bottle, his gaze extended over to a small group, of two young and energetic couples, over in the dimly lit corner of the bar. Beside the cigarette dispensers, and just opposite the pool table. Yeah, at least it had some features that Paul could get behind. A little like some of his old regular spots.

Paul twisted the longneck in his hand, finding his fingers peeling away at the labels silently. It was non-alcoholic, of course… not even the persuasive Lee could get him to drink before this fight. If it was up to Paul, he'd just be chugging a pint of milk right now. But, even in a place like this, Paul has to keep up the appearances, or 'the mystique', of Paul Phoenix. Beer it is.

They all had a hipster feel to them, these people. Youthful, energetic, colourful, jeans and shirts… all that shit. The blonde highlights in their hair, the eyebrow piercings and the odd lip piercings.

Maybe, Paul has grown too accustomed to it being around him, but he is fairly used to be surrounded by this scene. But, being a part of it was a beast he wouldn't tackle. Then, now or forever. Just cause he was always surrounded by those people doesn't mean he'd ever understand them.

Paul took a swig of his beer. "Didn't think you'd like a drop like this." The tall glass gently tapped against the bar, as Lee lifted the glass of wine to his lips. The yellowish liquid swirled as he did so, his nostrils twitching.

"I go where the energy takes me, Paul. It's an unique beast, energy. It would lead us places we never thought we'd go. It will help us tolerate places that we'd never dream of staying. It will make us admire people we would never believe we would admire." Lee tilted his glass to the side, and Paul could feel his intense gaze fix on him. "It can also change the tide of any confrontation, whether it's a verbal spar or a physical fight."

Paul chortled at that, taking a swig of his own beer. "Yeah? Energy's gonna help me beat Kazuya, is it?" Energy of the crowd is powerful, but it doesn't stop you from getting a punch in the fuckin face.

"Energy is the most valuable currency you can earn." Lee warned, and Paul eventually turned to meet Lee's intense gaze. "Your desire for becoming the best is admirable, but without the right energy, desire can lead to obsession." Obsession. Paul shook his head, brushing it off. "I'll remember that next time I find myself obsessed." Paul responded, taking another swig of his beer.

If there was one good thing about this place, is that he's not being barraged by fans. Don't get him wrong, he likes the attention. But, it has to be in the right place. With the right energy. There you go. Well… hell. There it is. This place is playing the Crows. Paul raised his head, a small smile crossing his face. 'Anna Begins'. Brilliant.

"Where are you from, Paul?" The sudden question jarred Paul a little, and he turned to give Lee a confused look. "Omaha." Paul narrowed his eyes. "Why the sudden interest?"

Lee pursed his lips. "Just innocent curiosity." He swirled his glass around for several more moments, and his gaze had returned to the deep lengths of wine. "Omaha. I have only ever lived in the cities of the United States. I struggle to imagine anything else but the stereotype of southern redneck culture in places like Omaha."

Paul snorted. "Thanks." Paul had ripped the labels fully from the bottle, until all was left was the white remnants left of the stickers. He continued to tear.

There was another pause, as Paul turned to look at him with interested renewed. "You born in the Mishima dojo too?" Paul asked, breaking the extended silence. Lee smirked. Paul watched his gloved hands, as they slightly tightened around the long neck of the wine glass. "I was born in the Beijing United Family Hospital. I could not inform you of the details, but I imagine it was an ungracious and terribly messy affair in a busy waiting room."

Beijing? Paul ain't no Asian expert, but he knows his basic geography. Lee was born in China, yet he's a Mishima. But, his last name isn't Mishima. It didn't take too long for Paul to connect the dots, but he figured that their 'friendship' wasn't close enough to open up that can of worms.

Paul pursed his lips. "Y'know, I was apparently born out in a barn next to ol' Frank, the family pitbull." Paul grinned. "My momma loves that one. Any time you go near her, she always says 'I swear, by the Lords hand, we thought the third coming of Jesus had popped right outta me…'" Paul shook his head. "'But, nah. It was just Paul.'"

Paul lowered his eyes to the now empty bottle, his smile managing to linger, as Lee took another sip of the wine. "Well, as a non-religious man, I can promise you, your revelation of being Jesus Christ would not surprise me." Lee raised his wine glass, peering into the remnants of one final sip. "Although, call me blasphemous, but I think you are a much more interesting man than Jesus Christ ever was. "

Paul raised his eyebrows at that. "What the hell would surprise you?" Lee smiled. "At this point, very little, my friend." Lee's tense grip on that wine glass loosened slightly, the leather gloves sticking to those particular fingers like rubber. "However, I have no doubt something out there would catch me off guard. I am firmly against the idea of absolutes, Paul."

"The hell does that mean?" Paul asked, feeling his old accent creeping back in. Is this shit really got 0% alcohol in it?

"Nothing in life is set in stone." Lee sat up straighter. Paul could see he set the silver haired demon into a monologue, that he has probably recited a good few times. "Facts, the actions of others, concepts. Fates, destinies, heirlooms. Societies. I think they can change…" Lee raised his hand, and gently slid his thumb and forefinger together. "Like that."

Paul gently swivelled around in his barstool, his bottle forgotten about. "I'm not so sure bout that one. What about opinions? Some people are stubborn. They'll never let their opinions of other people change. It's why some people are always trapped in the same old shit life, running around the hamster wheel." Lee's half smile remained. Paul could see that dancing in his eyes… he's enjoying this. His eccentric trainer is revelling in these deeper conversations.

"That could be true." Lee faced his glass of wine again. "I can tell you, that some older gentlemen and women are absolutely set in their ways, and their opinions of certain kinds of people. As a result, the influence those older gentlemen have are bound to spread to others, like a bitter, aggressive bacteria. But, at the same point, all it could take is one surprise…" Lee opened up his gloved hand. "There we go. Just like that, all their staunch believes would evaporate." Lee's half-smile remained. "One sudden, shocking surprise. An excellent remedy to stubbornness."

Paul's smile slowly faded, as his eyes narrowed at that. Paul wasn't sure he knew what they were talking about anymore, and he didn't like the unknown direction it was taking. "Paul, I see a group of at least four young ladies sitting in the far corner over there." Lee did not move his gaze, as Paul peered over his shoulder.

Sure enough, there was a group of four women, all of which a variety of races, and different levels of beauty. There was one alright, that looked a little exotic to Paul. Caramel skin, bright eyes, long flowing brown hair… Paul shook his head. He can't. Is this some kind of test?

"Paul, you are welcome to join me. But, I am going to get myself acquainted with these young beauties." "Am I allowed?" Paul asked, before realising how fuckin stupid that question sounded out loud. Is he allowed? Like what, Lee is his fuckin father? Fuck me. Guy's his new trainer, ain't he meant to be keeping him away from potential distractions like this anyway?

Lee's half smile had not left his jaw. "I would welcome your company. Of course, as long as it does not affect your training or performance in any shape or form." Right. So, this guy has all the answers, and he can bang four girls at once, and still fight as good as Paul? Get to fuck, brother. Even for a Mishima… half-Mishima.. whatever you are, there has to be limits. He ain't a better fighter than me. For now, anyway.

Paul shook his head with another derisive snort. Lee stood up, adjusting his violet waistcoat carefully. "If you're interested, I believe that young bartender has a keen eye on you." Lee turned around once more, tilting his head.

"An old friend, perhaps?" Lee swivelled on his toe, and with that distinctive flourish, he began to walk towards the group of models.

Fuck, they may as well have been. And, this guy just walks up to them willy-nilly, not a care or worry in the world. I swear… Paul shook his head. As much as he would like to see this encounter, he is a little curious…

Paul turned around, to see that bartender was eyeing up. That curly hair was tied up in a ponytail, but it was so distinctive Paul would recognize it anywhere. Oh, she was eyeing him up alright. With those round, chestnut eyes, she was staring at him with a strange reluctance. Paul was far more than reluctant, and was way past hesitant too, realising how close he was to her… and how long their eyes had been locked.

"Elizabeth." Paul greeted, his mouth opening and closing several times. She approached him carefully, a cautious smile painted on her face.

Paul welcomed the smile, although he could see beneath it. He could see the trepidation, the… the slight hints of dread hidden beneath it all. "Paul!" Elizabeth welcomed, in that breathy, sunny voice of hers. Her voice was always sunny.

"Here you go." Pauls gaze, on quiet side alley, was roused as a glass was passed over to him. His reaction turned from surprise to a polite smile in a moment, as he carefully took the glass off her. The scenery in the alley was hardly in any way ideal or romantic anyway, and the shit he was holding in his hand was far from that.

"I appreciate the thought, but not anymore." Paul placed the glass on the small table. Elizabeth tilted her head to the side, with that half-smile. "Really? Paul Phoenix saying no to a glass of Old Sam?"

Paul stared at her for a few moments.. he looked away, turning back towards the back of Jimmy's Pizzeria. That was a much safer option to look at. "I figured out a while back that Old Sam is more like an abusive uncle than a reliable friend." Paul placed his hands in his pockets, as Elizabeth exhaled at that. "Wow. Always the charmer."

Paul glanced over at Elizabeth. The light out in the sheltered smoking area wasn't great, but he could see enough of her face illuminated by the lighter. She had barely changed a touch. That face, with barely a hint of makeup on it, still glowing and maintaining that same beauty. Those eyes, that hide a lot that Paul could get lost in, but find a lot more to do. Paul could. Paul has.

"You put on the Crows, huh?" Paul glanced over at Elizabeth, with a smile. Elizabeth raised her own eyebrows, that smile of hers glowing again. "It is on the bar playlist, but I do enjoy many of their songs." Paul leaned against the guardrail, his gaze fixing on her "What's your favourite?" Elizabeth exhaled slowly, folding her arms. She began to rub her arms quickly, turning towards the alley. "I'm not sure."

Paul turned frontways, and put all his weight against the banner. "How's Conor?" Paul couldn't help but ask. Elizabeth looked at him, those eyes getting a little defensive within moments. "Not that it's your business… but, I don't know." She doesn't know.

Well, that's a tell-tale sign. And… to be honest, an expectant sign. It's been a couple of years, and Elizabeth… well. Like a knife through butter.

"But, I'm back in San Fran." Elizabeth extended both her arms outward, her eyes closing in that… Paul took a swing of his beer, looking away from that sight. Still non-alcoholic. "Hard to stay away from it all. I'm sure you'd know."

Paul nodded in resignment of that. He ran a hand over his growing blonde stubble, suddenly all too aware that he hadn't shaved since yesterday. He glanced over at her, smelling a strong odour that indicated something a little more potent than the old fashioned in her hand. "I know you mightn't believe me, but I had no clue you worked here."

"Well, it might surprise you to know I'm not surprised." Elizabeth turned around, that beige scarf draped over her neck slightly slipping. "That friend of yours has become a regular." Paul followed her gaze. Paul wasn't sure what he expected.

But, exceeding even Pauls high (or low, depending on your perspective) expectations, Lee was still there. Maintaining the attention of all four of the beautiful women, flashing that white smile from time to time, with his gloved hands flourishing, his intense eyes animated.

"Eh. Friends a strong word." Paul eventually turned away. "He's my new trainer." "Oh, wow." Elizabeth crossed her arms, and was staring at him again. "A new trainer? Well, I believe you now. You have changed."

Paul couldn't help but smile. But, something squirming in his stomach didn't allow him to accept that smile fully. Elizabeth exhaled, her cold breath condensing in the wind again.

Paul's lack of a reply, if one could ever come, prompted Elizabeth to continue on. "Marshall too busy with the family?" "Yeah, I reckon that's part of it." Paul leaned over the barrier himself, peering into Jimmy's Pizzeria with absentminded interest. "I think he's just got a lot on his plate right now." "I'm sure." Elizabeth took another puff, and once again, that deadly silence took control over their entire narrative. That seemed to be the defining factor in the end, Paul supposes. You don't really think about though, do you?

"Paul, what do you want?" Elizabeth suddenly turned to him, her brown eyes suddenly piercing him. Paul turned towards her, his smile growing a little wry. Blunt, and to the point? That's very unlike you, Miss Elizabeth.

Paul shrugged, leaning further out the barrier. "I dunno." His eyes drew behind the Pizzeria. He could see that bush slightly tremor, with the cage beside it rattling. He caught a glint of rustic orange, before it faded behind the bush. Is that a fox, already? It's barely 2 in the afternoon.

Paul cleared his throat, his eyes studying that fox. "Do you remember when we were walking through the estate, and we were talking about life meaning something different to every person?" Elizabeth tilted her head to the side, her brown eyes. "Yeah…"

"I remember I said fighting, and you just… " Paul raised a hand, that slowly clenched into a fist. "You just couldn't wrap your head around that. It was so far gone for you. Then, you repeated it on Halloween, after my contenders fight. When me, you and Conor were heading to 49th street. You said it there with such… disbelief. As…" Paul paused, considering his next words carefully. That care got tossed the wind with a sudden surge of resentment. "As if it was the stupidest thing you ever heard."

Paul shook his head, another smile rising in his face. Elizabeth still did not speak, staring at him attentively. Paul glanced over at the bush again… yeah. There it was. It's back turned, rifling through the garbage without a care in the world… hungrily, yet still jumpy. The fox was desperate for that meal, but it was still ready to run at a moment's notice.

"I guess what I'm saying…" Paul began again. He stopped himself once more. He had to make sure he got the words right this time. "I can see why you wouldn't understand it. Passion can be… it can be a scary thing, right? If that passion turns into obsession, it can be real scary to other people. I mean, fighting? If you ain't involved with that, having an obsession with that might seem insane."

Paul began to spin the empty bottle around in his hand, his eyes still fixed on that fox. There goes a little beer over his palm. "Suppose I never considered myself to be an obsessed person." Paul locked eyes with that fox once it stuck its head out.

A slice of half-eaten pizza was fixed in its mouth, and it was frozen to the spot. Paul briefly wondered, for only a moment, would it leave if he was still looking at it. Or, would he have to wait until he turned away. Fox aren't really creatures of conflict though, are they? They're scavengers. They sure know how to defend themselves against other critters, though.

Elizabeth fixed up her scarf, but Paul continued to stare out at that fox. "I guess, Paul, a lot of people don't see that side of you. You've always been good at hiding that. But, you.." Elizabeth only paused for a moment. "You're the most obsessive person I know."

Paul turned away from the fox at that. He stared at Elizabeth dead in her eyes, but for once, those brown eyes did not dance. There was no flames there, there was no passion there, there was no malice there. Paul stared back at brutal honesty, that he thought he would never find in those eyes.

Paul knew it was pointless to try find the fox again.

Session 1, Marshall Law

Jun: Testing, one… sorry… two. Sorry. I should probably move over here. It's not… okay. Here. Here?

Marshall: There should be good. It's lovely and fresh here. You can smell the gasoline and the piss. Hell, I can almost taste it.

Jun: I am sitting here today with accomplished Jeet Kune Do Champion, world class trainer, best friend of Paul Phoenix, and of course, chef, Marshall Law.

Marshall: World class chef as well. Wait, has all this been recorded?

Jun: It has. Many of this will have to be crossed out in the editing process… I don't mean to be a burden, Marshall. We could just reschedule this for another time.

Marshall: You're no burden, Ms Kazama! If anything, your presence here is a welcome distraction from the ugly meatheads I always see.

Jun: Jun, please. Well, you certainly seem to take pride in your meals. The Peking duck with soy sauce was exquisite.

Marshall: That's our delicacy, Ms Kazama. Exquisite, huh? That's a new one, alright.

Jun: A delicacy where I am from, Yakushima, is tobiou. It is a local form of flying fish. I am a vegetarian, so I can no longer enjoy it, but I would recommend it all the same.

Marshall: Tobiou? Yeah, I'll jot that one down… we need to start adding a bit more international flavour to our menus.

Jun: Well, speaking of international.. not a lot is known about your involvement in the huge international bout between Paul and Kazuya. I am just curious, now that Lee is Pauls head trainer, what is your role in Pauls preparations for the fight?

Marshall: My role is to sit back, and relax unless I'm really needed.

Jun: So… you are not involved at all?

Marshall: When I'm needed. But, there's not much I can offer Paul at the moment.

Jun: Forgive me, but I find that difficult to believe.

Marshall: As a trainer, Jun, it's important you know when to step back, and let a fighter learn for himself. Let him slip on a few stairs, bruise his elbows and knees a couple of times, bust up his nose and forehead once or twice. It's part of the process. I'm also not going to step on Lee's toes either. He's got his own ways, and I say just let them at it.

Jun: And, you're not privy to those ways?

Marshall: I can vouch for them. Just stay tuned for the fight. Kazuya's in for a shock.

Jun: Marshall, I don't mean to intrude here. But, may I make an observation?

Marshall: If this is about the peking duck, we only deep fry it on request. That's not standard fare.

Jun: No, I have just noticed… you seem very detached from this fight. Dare I say, you seem detached from fighting in general.

Marshall: Like I said before. I keep tabs on Paul. We're still friends, you know. Well, most the time. But, I've got other things to worry about.

Jun: Such as?

Marshall: For starters, I got a son at home who's barely out of nappies. That keeps myself and Laura, my partner, busy most days.

Jun: Congratulations. What is his name?

Marshall: Forest.

Jun: That's an unique name. What is the inspiration?

Marshall: Me and Paul once went camping once, and we were attacked by a swarm of hornets. Paul got stung in the ass, and for the rest of the journey, couldn't even squat properly to do his business. He couldn't even straighten his legs. The guy was walking like a praying mantis for the weekend, and shitting like a cow too.

Jun:

Marshall: Sorry. A little inappropriate.

Jun: That is… a strange inspiration for your first child's name.

Marshall: I'm just kidding. Laura is the one who named him, because her dad was a fire fighter out in the woodlands, up in Alaska. That Paul story is true though. Keep that on the record.

Jun: Well, I do not think many people could doubt how close you and Paul are. You met each other at a tournament, correct?

Marshall: Yeah, at the Under 16 karate tournament in South town.

Jun: Really? I did not know Paul lived in San Francisco at such a young age.

Marshall: He didn't. He travelled for it. We both won that day… I won the under 8s, and he won the under 7s tournament. I remember standing there getting my medal, Paul with his little ponytail next to me.

I glance over at him, see him sizing me up. I paid him no mind though. Till he leans over, a dead serious look on his face, and whispers to me: 'my medal is bigger than yours.'

Jun: That sounds characteristic.

Marshall: I swear, we almost got into a fight then and there. But, that became the foundation for our relationship, I suppose. The amount of times we'd get frustrated with each other, fight, ignore each other… but, we just seemed to grow closer when all the crap blew over. Smooth seas never make for skilful sailors, so they say.

Jun: Almost like a married couple.

Marshall: So, my wife reminds me. Daily.

Jun: I find it quite endearing. It's rare that friendships can last for such a long time, especially since you met as children.

Marshall: Of course it is. You change so much over those years. Like, the crazy changes you make in your teenage years.. people get so lost, you know? Almost like they can't figure out who they are now, without this set identity they had as a kid, or a teenager. There's a certainty you have when you're some little punk kid. You don't have the experiences in your little head to question anything. But, I definitely think those friendships that stick it out that long are the ones you make for life.

Jun: Do you believe that any of those changes you mentioned have changed the dynamic your relationship? For you and Paul?

Marshall: Well… damn. This has gotten deep all of a sudden. Wasn't prepared for this.

Jun: The best conversations come without preparation, in my opinion.

Marshall: Yeah. I mean.. I'm sure there are some changes we don't talk about. I mean, we spend so much time around each other because of fighting. Y'know, before Lee took over, anyway. I genuinely think martial arts has kept us together for so long.

Marshall: But, you know… life happens. I got married a couple years back. Had my first kid in January, on the 15th. Everything shifts a little when you realise family is such a huge part of your life now. It's like if your own heart came out your body, and start walking around, doing its own thing. Sure, it might piss you off some of the time, but it's still your heart. Shitting in nappies and crying 10 hours a day.

Jun: Well, it does seem you are the mature one in their relationship. You are often the one calming Paul down if he gets too riled up.

Marshall: Well, hey… that's Paul. I love Paul to death, but he'll tell you himself that's a mean temper he has on him. Something like that is going to come with advantages and disadvantages.

Jun: Apart from a motivator, what advantages do you think it brings? It seems rather counterintuitive to lose ones temper in a high stakes fight.

Marshall: I'm not gonna get into too much detail, because I know Mr Mishima is a good friend of yours.

Jun: I am just an unbiased journalist. Every interview I record is confidential.

Marshall: Better safe than sorry. All I'll say is I think drive is all he needs. That anger shows how emotional Paul is, and I think emotion is what's gonna help him beat Kazuya.

Jun: Emotion? What do you mean by that?

Marshall: He puts so much feeling into his fighting. Sometimes, it's almost unhealthy the pressure he puts on himself. But, that emotional connection is the x factor. He lets the losses get to him, but not the wins.

Marshall: I dunno how to explain it… it's like a constant mental warfare you play with yourself, your body against your emotions every second, every day. Paul has done that his entire life now. He loves it all, and there's nothing he loves more. That's what will give him the edge over Kazuya.

Jun: Have you ever put yourself through that?

Marshall: Of course I have. All fighters who want to be the best have. I had the same dream Paul had once upon the time. I wanted to be the best in the world. Love is complicated, and love is hard. Sometimes, when you love something that much, you're bound to hate it. That's what love is about, all the ugly shit with all the glorified, happy moments. Being the best in the world means you'll take it all to the extreme. And, I did for such a long time. Right beside Paul. But then… life happened.

Jun: Marshall, have you lost your passion for fighting?

Marshall: I haven't lost my love for fighting. But, I've lost my love for competing. I don't know when I can rekindle that passion, but for now… I'm happy cooking, and training when I'm needed.

Jun: And, keeping Paul in check when needs be.

Marshall: Of course. Who else will?

Jun: Thank you Marshall for your time. This was surprisingly enlightening.

Marshall: Before you finish up Jun, I want to say one more thing.

Jun: Be my guest.

Marshall: As a Japanese native yourself, you probably believe many of the stories, and the tales about the Mishima family. I know I have, and Paul is obsessed with them. But, sooner or later, they're both gonna get beaten. Not by each other either.

Marshall: Paul is our guy. Everyone in the city can feel it, all the fight fans want it to happen. Nobody has ever come close to being as good as Kazuya… apart from Heihachi Mishima himself. I've been there for it all.

Marshall: I've watched Paul train six days a week, every week, and take fights as much as they were offered to him, despite all the politics in this fighting world. Paul was right there when I opened up my dojo, and spent his free days helping to clean it up and furnish it for over a month. All Paul does is grind, and it sure may not seem healthy, but nothing about Paul has healthy as a priority. It's raw work ethic, and no Mishima can match that.

Jun: He must be a man possessed to challenge Kazuya so openly.

Marshall: I think this fight between Paul and Kazuya may be the greatest fight since Ali and Frazier. Heihachi better watch closely.

24

Little seemed to concern him. Kazuya would be able to recognize a carefree attitude anywhere, but certainly not in this line of work. However, any time Kazuya caught a glimpse of Bruce Irvin, he did not see any cause of concern crossing his eyes.

Searching someone's face is simple. That is the most simple part of the equation. Their mannerisms, and their actions are a more complex layer. But, you cannot train the eyes to lie. It is instinctive for the eyes to tell the truth of a being. Bruce Irvin was ignorant of the trouble he was about to be entrenched in, and he seemed to be content with that reality.

Kazuya clasped both of his hands together, looking back at the vast crowd meeting them. It was a crowd that was much rowdier than usual, with an English person who seemed to very popular. Again, Kazuya did not think much of Western music, so these Genesis people did not mean much to him, with their junk food music and infectious melodies.

However, gazing upon the entire arena, Kazuya could see Genesis had a power over these people. He was a showman, revelling in twisting and controlling their energy to his every movement, every word he sung. Music is intoxicating. Almost as much as fear. And, laughter. Laughter can be too. Please do not start this.

Kazuya stepped forward, lifting a gloved hand to shove back an overeager young woman, who almost had one leg over the barrier. When the woman's eyes widened in shock, and her mouth began to open, one look from Kazuya silenced any complaints she may have. That false mask of beauty you wear does not entitle you to anything. Not with me. If it were me, Kazuya, it would lessen her rights even further. Will you stop?

Kazuya turned back to Bruce, had swiftly hopped the barricade, and was revelling in the duties of separating another altercation. This Hong Kong issue cannot plague them. Kazuya may be well accustomed to a life alone, but for this fight, he does need another to train with. You must protect him until the fight.

Kazuya curled his lip, as Bruce managed to restrain both of the culprits, one dark, meaty arm vice like around both their necks. Until the fight. No. Kazuya has a duty. Bruce Irvin extended a hand when nobody would dare even look Kazuya's way. He made that gesture, and has not expected anything in return. He trains, he talks fighting…. But he never asked past that. He never pried into business that has nothing to do with him. That was something Kazuya would always appreciate.

Kazuya has little in the way of sway or control, but he will protect Bruce Irvin as much as he can. This Detective Wulong can fade away into the background. In the face of your families meddling? Kazuya locked eyes with Bruce, who nodded his way with a grin. All the more reason to protect with more ferocity.

Kazuya lifted a hand, and tightened the glove around his right hand. There were various strobes, and flashing lights that accompanied Phil Collins singing about his invisible touch. They were irritating enough to deal with, and even in spite of that, it did not do his rapidly fouling humour any favours. Kazuya craned his neck, a sudden pinprick rising up his neck. He is here. Kazuya's gloved fist immediately clenched, his lip twitching as he stepped forward.

Kazuya's eyes immediately knew where to go to search for him. He would not be in the cheap seats, up in front. Of course not… He would be up in the stands. No doubt having a section of seating reserved for himself, to flaunt the family emblem with pride, with arrogance. As if it meant something. Bastard.

Kazuya's dark eyes were deliberate with every movement, scanning every inch of the darker, upper seating blocks… until, he locked eyes with one seating section. It was alight from above, with all manner of pinks, purples and the dull lights of silver. Several women surrounded him… all of them sharing that same fraudulent masks of plastic, gloss and weak displays at confidence. Kazuya has no doubt that the man they blindly follow, and associate with simply for appearance will do wonders for their confidence. What a brave choice you all make.

There were cold buckets up there… the ice buckets that they would often prepare before the show. That Kazuya had to prepare before the show. You handed him a platter of wealth. Two tall, green bottles of champagne peeped out the top of the ice bucket, one steaming slowly at the head.

At the foot of it all, there he was. Wearing his extravagant chain, with an unbuttoned black shirt, and a glimmering golden watch around his wrist. Of course, the chain around his neck had that damn logo that haunted Kazuya's family.

Kazuya's cursed family. Not his.

Kazuya's lip curled into a silent, vindictive snarl, as he locked eyes with his… with his self-professed brother. The bastard needs to suffer. Kazuya stared Lee down, his rage.. it was a slow burner. It was taking its time, but it was bubbling up slowly, gaining more and more momentum with every passing moment.

Of course, Lee was in his stride… soaking it all up, enjoying it all with that serpentine smile and those careless glances. This is where you were made to reside, Lee Chaolan. Soaking up the labours of others, and living in the empty moments of dance, of partying… of false, primal interactions. This is you.

Kazuya locked eyes with Lee Chaolan, hidden behind his wine and women, clouded by the distracting rhythm of song, with thousands of people separating them. Lee, no doubt, could feel that resentment from below here. He is many things, but he is no fool. He is a mutt. You must put him down, Kazuya. Stay quiet.Yet, all Lee did was smile.

All he did, was put on that insufferable, arrogant smile. Why would he not wear that arrogance? He knows nothing but the life of resting on laurels.

With a tilt of his head, he raised his glass of champagne, that smile echoing his true, malevolent nature. This moment… this is one that could stretch on forever. Kazuya clasped his hands together, shuffling as he stared up. Forever can feel like home in some moments, but in others… it can define some aspects of one's life. Kazuya hates the fact that this moment, which dragged on forever in Kazuya's mind, seemed to define something that Kazuya would never accept. It was a sickening reality that Kazuya could never run away from. I must keep fighting it.

Kazuya hopes for anyone's sake they decide not to be the star of this show. Make him suffer. You promised us, Kazuya. Stay out of this.

Kazuya truly does hope that anybody does not cross that barrier, and ventures within a breath of Kazuya. Kazuya may be helpless now to strike out against Lee, but anyone can be that scapegoat. Anybody can be a lamb.

Kazuya removed his dark shirt quickly, almost throwing it in the locker. He placed his gloved hand against the locker, his breathing a little.. too strained. He purposefully waited until the others were changed, including Bruce, before he even considered it. He just looked direct at the ground. Kazuya just sat in the bench for several agonising, furious moments… allowing his stewing rage to fester into something more, that went into the territory of numbness, yet also sheer resentment. Kazuya only stared at the ground.

This is what that bastard wants. He's playing the same mental games he always tries to play, and he's succeeding. It is not enough he sticks his nose in, in that infuriating intrusive manner he always has. But, now he must stand up there, and try to act as if he places any high ground upon him.

Trying to draw out that damn side of Kazuya he is so adept at summoning…..Let him. Damn him if he believes there are no consequences, Kazuya. Kazuya lifted the golden locket out from his locker, and placed it carefully in the pocket of his jeans. He inhaled slowly… and exhaled.

Kazuya had little respect for Paul Phoenix as it was. But, he thought that Phoenix had some sense of dignity. Stooping this low, to employ a rat, a mutt, a two faced, honourless, spineless worm like Chaolan… You are awfully judgemental yourself, Kazuya. Perhaps she is right. But, aren't we all judgemental? She says what you want to hear, Kazuya.

Kazuya slammed his palm into the locker, feeling his breath quickening. That distinct sound of boots clacking against floor, along with a quiet chortle, was not what Kazuya should be hearing right now. Restraint. To hell with restraint. He should have known Lee would not just let it be. He never knows when to just let sleeping dogs lie. This is the damn wicked game that Lee excels at.

"Excellent show, was it not?"

Kazuya's hand remained against the locker, his breathing still quickening… as he made out the appearance of the bastard. Kazuya did not turn around, but he could make out Lee's hands were now gloved. He still wore that dark shirt rolled up, with a purple waistcoat now shrouding it. What is that waistcoat hiding? "I have to say, I was not a fan of the latest Genesis album. But, they included the classics in their sets, so an avid fan cannot complain."

Kazuya did not dare open his mouth, even if it was a much safer alternative to what he was imagining in his head. Why only imagine? Do it. There is nobody here. No… it had become instinct. Kazuya remained silent.

Lee folded his arms, his gaze fixing on Kazuya. Kazuya could see that his static nature was irritating Lee.. "Our dear father has been asking for you." Lee posed, but immediately took a step back as Kazuya spun on his foot. His nostrils flared, as his fists clenched… he has not taken his gloves off yet. What is to stop him doing it now? Silencing this loud mouth once and for all? That would surely solve so many issues, so many demons that tear at his soul. Maybe, that will finally get his father'sattention. It will.

"Now, Kazuya…" Lee brushed back his waistcoat, his face compromising, negotiating. But, there was no fear in his eyes. Not yet. A handgun rested in the waistcoat, and Lee, with a swift motion, unholstered it. "I do give my word, I have not come to fight." Kazuya did not move, his breath heavy as he glared at Lee. Your word. You may as well spit at my feet, you jackal.

Kazuya could feel his chest tingling, and slightly burning… he was unsure, but he would hope his scar was not burning. I am coming close, Kazuya. You will shut up, and remain silent.

Lees compromising hand finally lowered, as a smile crossed his face. "I'm sure you can imagine my presence here has more to do with Paul. Or, even Heihachi, believe it or not." Kazuya still did not trust himself to speak, but on instinct… he did flinch at the sound of that name.

Lee's smile did falter, as the silence reached on further. In Kazuya's eyes, it did not drag, it simply lingered… it simply clouded the truth. But, in Lee's eyes, Kazuya just knew that silence dragged. For him, it always would.

Lee extended his hands. "I'm still wondering why you weren't up in that skybox with me. You have Mishima blood after all… you should be reaping the rewards of your bloodline." Kazuya's face immediately turned back into a snarl. Lee raised his hand, that smile remaining. "Are you listening to what I'm saying? You may think I am being provocative, but I mean it, Kazuya. After all, no man is an island." You are not an island, Kazuya. We have each other. Just shut up.

Kazuya almost snorted. This is your new tact? You are going to kill me with kindness? The insincerity drips from you like wax when any flame of determination is held towards you. You are a fraud of an individual. Kazuya's pact of silence faded in a rare, regretful moment of impulse. "You will not undermine me with your puppet." Kazuya finally spoke, his voice a low growl.

Lee's smile faded then, his eyes rolling in derision. "Puppet? Really?" Lee shook his head. "Paul is my friend. You may not know what it means to have a friend, Kazuya, but it goes beyond using someone for personal gain." Lee extended that hand. "Now.. wait, Kazuya."

Kazuya was shaking his head, as he turned away. Personal gain. These are the unbelievable indiscretions that this worm gets away with, daily, weekly. He thinks he can twist everything around… he thinks his words, his mockings, his bellows, his screams have no consequence. The hypocrisy is disgustingly bitter, Kazuya. He believes his authority was earned when it was merely handed to him.

Kazuya is convinced that Lee lies on such a frequent basis, he has convinced himself of his own fanciful tales. Lee has convinced himself the power he holds weighs more than it actually does. Kazuya remained silent.

"I'll be honest, I think you've met your match with this gentleman, Kazuya." Lee continued, lowering that gun again. "I had my doubts at first, but I've grown rather faithful in his abilities. Paul is a strong ox, and his work ethic is unmatched." Kazuya does not doubt that. He would doubt Paul Phoenix's pride to even associate with worms like you, if those are the lengths he is willing to crawl to for merely an opportunity to defeat Kazuya. Tell him that. Then, rip his throat out.

Kazuya remained silent. Kazuya watched Lee's eyes, and he could see that the silence was… twisting at him. Twist. Drive it even further.

Lee shrugged, his eyes hardening. "Alright, I will stop my jabs. I shall get straight to the bone marrow, so to speak." Lee was slow in placing his gun back in his belt, but as soon as he did… Kazuya's lip curled. Again, though, Kazuya did not move. Lee paused, his eyes hardening again with that stare. "I understand extending an olive branch might not mean much to you now, Kazuya." Lee lifted both his hands, with a flourish. Mock surrender. Not for long. "But, the way the situation stands… I am the beneficiary."

Lee took two steps forward, until he and Kazuya were eye to eye. That arrogant sneer was still painted on the mutts face… Kazuya's lip twitched. "When the old man dies – whether it's by your hand or another's – I take everything."

Lee raised his gloved hand slowly, until it was an inch away from Kazuya's face. "The billions." One finger raised. "The land across Japan, the United States, Australia." Two fingers raised. "The Zaibatsu." The entire hand was fully extended. "Everything that old miser has built up over the years, is my inheritance. For me. And, Marshall. Of course, Paul… I shall distribute the wealth healthily among all my friends."

Kazuya's hand was buried deep in his pocket, clenching that locket for dear life. Lee tilted his head, that damn… infuriating, sickening, disgusting smile growing. He continued to stare. But, Kazuya remained silent. Of course, that only prompted Lee to continue. "And, what will you inherit, Kazuya? Your pride. All that resentment you've built up over your entire life, because all you do is stew. Surrendering, and allowing that silent hatred consume you."

Kazuya fingers interlaced with the locket, his hot breath loudly forced out of nose. He could feel Lee's minted, cool breath on his own eyes, and each one was like a hammered nail into his back. Kazuya did not look away. "Some ideals are more important than material wealth."

Lee looked away for a moment, with a smirk. Why would you do that? Kazuya hated himself.He fell right into that bait, and he should have just stayed silent.

Lee's smirk only grew, as his cadence began to slow. "That could be true. But, your ideals will leave you a broken, lonely man, Kazuya." Lees eyes flickered back up. "You'll never accept that is your reality."

Lee's malevolent smirk morphed into that glimmering, charismatic smile in a moment, that empty smile that Kazuya would love nothing more than to tear open. To expose to anyone willing to watch, to show that Lee Chaolan is a spoiled brat who plays wicked games where he's not welcome, and pretends his origins of 'hardship' give him a birthright to something he will never earn, or never 'inherit'.

Kazuya remained silent.

Without another word, Lee turned around with that same flourish, and with a wave of the gloved hand, he began to walk away.

Kazuya watched as he took his time, walking away. So, this is the product of the Mishima name. Kazuya should not be surprised. His father would have no problem giving everything to this bastard when it is all said and done, because all this bastard knows is how to play the politics of the world. He has chosen the wrong devil to side with, Kazuya. I've always known that.

I'll take the sin and you take the fame. Kazuya's just stared at him. That is all you can handle. He exhaled once again, feeling the tingles across his chest turn to a deep burn. All of those thoughts remained thoughts.

Lee licked his lips, turning around once more. "I will see you soon, Kazuya."

Kazuya has no problem letting the mutt get the last word. This is his fame, these are his moments. He squirmed his way into the family, squirmed his way into being….Heihachi's golden boy. That is all he cares about. Soon, he will realise his place as the family mutt. Paul is just the scraps that Lee is desperately scavenging on.

Kazuya grabbed his white shirt suddenly, only realising after he had it how close he was to tearing the sleeves straight off. He forcibly loosened his grips on the sleeves, forcing some control back over his breath… his eyes closing for a moment. The locket is still there, and he did not grip it tightly in fear of damaging the cover. When one searches hard enough in this world…

Well, Jun Kazama. Kazuya must work much harder to start searching for what you see. You cannot keep me repressed all this time, Kazuya. You are letting vengeance slip from your hands.

Kazuya always remained silent.

25

"I don't… I don't think we can help him." She huddled over, the tears streaking her face. Kazuya did not crouch down to her comfort her. In fact, he did not know what to do. He stood there, frozen, over the young woman. He just stood there, aware of the blinding whiteness surrounding him… aware of that violet hand, gently, painfully, resting on his shoulders.

Kazuya finally followed her gaze… she did a fantastic job cradling it, but the vicious remains were enough of an indicator to the young Kazuya. What remained of the rabbit was now a series of unsettling shades, mixtures of reds and pinks that had caked the young girls hands. Kazuya realised how useless he felt, watching as the young Jun sniffled over its mangled, and contorted remains.

Kazuya's gaze flickered away, and he made out the eyeball rolling away, down the beaten white path. "We have to bury him." Jun sniffed once again. Kazuya raised his head, his eyes narrowing… for once, he was trying to look past the tree.

The tree could not look past him though. Hulking over him, hiding behind a twisted face and an even more set of wrinkled and shrivelled, curled branches… Kazuya shook his head. He forced himself to look past the tree, until he could make out its silhouette.

Standing off in the distance, he could see it. Its glowing red eyes were a giveaway, its vicious glare striking an unsettling familiarity within Kazuya. Kazuya took a cautious step back. That piercing red glow, those blood red eyes were dead set on staring at him.

Kazuya was sure of that much. Kazuya swallowed, glancing back at Jun. Her bangs shrouded her tear streaked face. But, the subtle swelling, the slight bumps and puffiness gave away just how upset she truly was.

Kazuya inhaled, clenching his fists. "I see the wolf." Kazuya turned back towards that piercing red stare. He jolted… it had gotten closer, until it was directly behind the tree. Jun raised her head, her brown eyes watering. "Where?"

Kazuya lifted his calloused hand, and with an unsteady, crooked finger, he directed it right behind the trees. Jun sat up a little straighter, her eyes widening a little. Kazuya kept his finger pointed, his gaze fixed on those blood red eyes. He could not make out the colour of the fur, apart from a vague purple. He could not see its mouth, as it was careful in how it bared his teeth. But, those red eyes could be spotted from anywhere.

"Where?" Jun repeated, raising to one knee. Kazuya turned away from Jun. "I will kill it." He exclaimed. There was no malice in his voice, just a certain bluntness. He knew what must be done. The rabbit once had beauty, but he had no attachment to it. This was not another demon he must conquer. This was just the wolf.

Kazuya began to walk towards the beast, both of his fists clenching as he headed towards it. "Why?" Jun was standing now. Kazuya did not turn around, but he slowed slightly in pace. "It killed the rabbit." Kazuya paused for a moment, his head still tilted. He waited for Jun to respond. Perhaps, even chastise him. But, she did not. Kazuya turned around for a moment, furrowing his eyebrows.

She was just looking at him. Looking through him…? No. She was staring at him. Those hazel eyes were staring at him. Only, he could not… Kazuya narrowed his eyes. He turned back around slowly, his gaze searching for that wolf again. He stepped into pace again, his eyes once more scanning for that blood red… his gaze become more scrutinous.

The scrutiny turned to desperation. His head swivelled all around, searching his bright white surroundings… but, the blood wolf and its piercing eyes were nowhere to be found. Kazuya came to a stop, his hand resting against the tree.. he rested against it for a moment, his hand pressing against the tree. You will not play any games with me, wolf. Every action requires necessary retribution.

Kazuya lifted himself up from the tree, his fists clenching again…. Kazuya stopped. What was…? Kazuya lifted his left hand. Blood was oozing from beneath his fist, squirming and squeezing out from beneath his knuckles.

Kazuya felt his hand begin to tremble, as he slowly began to open his hand. With every passing moment, his heart slid further up his chest… he could feel it rise, trickle up with the bile alongside it, until it arrived painfully at his throat, where it pounded with far too much ferocity. Kazuya finally opened his palm.

Sitting in the middle of Kazuya's palm, was a squashed eye.

Wake up. It's time for more pointless show and tell.

Kazuya opened his eyes. he could feel the sweat on his brow, the stuffy locker-room not doing him in any favours. Kazuya sat up a little straighter, buttoning the top button of his white shirt. These visions may only feature souls he can trust, but they always remind him of those he can't.

He looked out towards the stage… he could see everything was set up. The tables. The microphones, the hundreds of hungry journalists ready to ask questions that was far beyond what they had a right to know.

Bruce was the only thing shielding him from the rest. Wearing his shabby blue shirt and slacks, he stood silently at the doorway, his eyes flickering around the entire scenario. There was a tiredness to Bruce, and how his eyes shot across the crowd… a jumpiness, that struck Kazuya unusual. This whole ordeal is an unusual, Western affair.

Kazuya lowered his eyes once more, staring back down at his calloused hands. He only stared for a few moments. Before a tremble could even begin, Kazuya clenched his fists. Now, Kazuya. Do not be like that.

Kazuya placed his sunglasses on, and stood up.

"Alright, just watch out for Henderson. He'll ask all the personal questions, and you know that's gonna be a pain." Paul nodded mindlessly, only glancing at Marshall every once in a while to provide that affirmation. It was great to have Marsh along for this ride, but the preparation for stuff like this just didn't sit well with him. "Yeah, Gibson too. He'll-"

"Marsh." Paul sat up straight. "Come on, man. You know I like doing this shit on the fly. I don't wanna hear about stuff like that." Marshall nodded, his eyes quickly accepting it. "Yeah, I know. Just thought giving you'd appreciate me giving you a heads up. You know, that's what a good friend does." Paul managed a smile, clamping a hand on his shoulder. "Well, luckily for you, that's all you are now."

Marshall shook his head, the mock offense fading into a small smile of his own. Paul turned towards Lee. He was leaning against the wall, his foot pressed against the wall.

Lee watched the whole gathering from out of their humble doorway, a small, mysterious smile on his face. Paul nodded slowly, standing up. He was at a point in his fighting career that this shit rarely gave him butterflies anymore.

Press conferences, weigh ins, even the fight itself… rarely would he feel nervous. Paul guesses that quiet confidence he has just does the job for him. But, now… coming face to face with Kazuya again. After what happened at the King fight? Paul isn't sure how he'll react. All of this progress he feels he built up in his head could all amount to squat when that time comes. Nobody knows how they'll react until they're in the situation themselves, sure. Paul slowly walked the doorway, and Lee was already waiting for him.

Lee raised his gloved hand, as Paul folded his. Eventually, Lee just extended his hand… and, gently, it touched against Pauls chest. Paul frowned at that, his eyes following where his fingers were pressing. Don't get too familiar there, buddy.

"All I can advise you of Paul, is that this wild heart of yours…." His fingers began to tap against his chest, and Paul could feel reverberations in his ribcage. Lee moved his other hand, until a finger was pointed directed at his head. "Must listen to the reason hidden in that mind of yours." Lee nodded, a… strangely genuine smile crossing his face. "You will win the hearts of all these people if you do that. I believe that."

Paul nodded in response to the sparkle in Lee's eyes, managing a small smile. The words of confidence were enough for Paul… his eyes travelled past Lee, and out towards the crowd of murmuring reporters.

That desk was set up for him, all the paperwork neatly folded with that thin microphone extending from the table… no wonder Paul is nervous. Sitting here, and talking would be more nerve wracking then going in there in throwing bombs. But.. if Kazuya is nervous, he ain't gonna show it.

Paul craned his neck all the way around. That thought the only motivator he needed, Paul took the first steps out onto the stage.

26

Kazuya appreciated the sunglasses now. It pulled a nice shade over his gaze, highlighting the ridiculousness of this entire event amongst two dark windows. All of these people, so called men and women, waving their notepads and cameras at him. Placing Kazuya here, to sign a piece of paper that grants him the right to fight. It has become an enterprise, and while a part of Kazuya resents that, he understands that is the nature of this culture we find ourselves in the 20th century.

Kazuya is well used to the circus show that fighting has become in most countries. He has sat through many of these press conferences in his travels. However, every time he is sitting here, he can't help but consider how nonsensical it was. If two men wish to fight… let them battle. If one surrenders, the other will know. If they have any honour. The most natural, and instinctive way to decide who is the most powerful. A method that is as old as time itself.

Kazuya stared at the piece of paper in front of him, ignoring all the obnoxious flashes of those cameras. He continued to stare at the paper, as the crowd erupted, in a much more positive reaction. He continued to stare at the paper as he made out Paul Phoenix, dressed in jeans and a dark maroon shirt, entered the fray.. carrying that worthless piece of tin.

Kazuya tilted his head to the side, his eyes pointed in the general direction of his opponent. But, that is the beauty of the sunglasses. They cannot tell what he is truly looking at.

Phoenix was still grandstanding. Raising his belt high, with another hand, he eventually sat himself down. Phoenix fiddled with his thin microphone, clearing his throat a few times. "Thanks, everyone. Always appreciated."

Kazuya could not help but notice the bastard had accompanied him, and was standing directly behind him. A rose was clipped to Lee's suit, and the sight of it made Kazuya's fist clench. His fist was placed firmly under the table. This is a ceremony for these fools. You do not need to play this game.

"Alright, let's get the contract signed." The crowd eventually silenced. The promoter, who Kazuya barely recognized from the brief telephone conversation, was already behind him.

Kazuya twitched as that hand came over his shoulder, rifling through the paper. Kazuya decided he would search this line of reporters, to see what manner of idiotic questions may greet him. Kazuya, as expected, was unimpressed. He could tell by the look of many of their faces… they were hungry. They were awaiting their next big 'scoop', having their set questions to ask to please their employers.

Of course, there were ones designed to rouse an emotional reaction from the fighters… the reporters out to 'create controversy'. Kazuya knew to expect questions about his family. He also knew well to ignore them, and make a mental note of those who posed the questions.

Kazuya could also see the lack… Jun Kazama. Kazuya sat up a little straighter, watching as Jun's curiously bright eyes watched the proceedings. Jun Kazama, of the Kazama dojo, got a reporters pass? Kazuya kept his face impassive, but it was difficult not to- "Sign here. And, here."

Kazuya's lip twitched, his head not moving. Without looking down, Kazuya scrawled across the paper. He dropped the pen, and sat back in his seat silently. Kazuya continued to look at Jun Kazama for a while longer, under the safety of his sunglasses. It is much more bearable when you respect the individual.

"Alright, give us a look." Paul turned through the pages, his lips pursed. He managed a smile, glancing up at the promoter. "Damn. I get that just for competing?" A series of chuckles rose from some of the reporters, as Paul grinned. Paul tilted his head backwards, towards Lee. He seemed to be on his pager, his eyes drawn downwards. "Just you watch. My trainer over there is gonna claim 50% as a management fee."

Paul eventually glanced down at the dotted line, carefully signing his name next to Kazuya's errant scrawl. Paul could just about recognize some obscure Japanese symbols… he forced his smile to remain as he glanced over at Kazuya. Hidden behind those sunglasses, his gaze was stretched out… well, fuck. Could be anywhere. All Paul knows is that it's somewhere dead ahead.

Paul handed the contract back to Carl Hogan, the blunt and laid back promoter. Another descended hush came over the crowd, as Hogan returned to the centre podium. "Okay….We're ready for some questions now."

The hands shot up immediately. Fuckin hell, it was like a classroom being up here. Paul found himself taking a sip of his water again, relaxing back in his chair. Shit, this ain't so bad. All he's gotta do is switch off when Kazuya is talking, answer some standard questions then we're rolling. Rolling straight to the face-off. Yeah, Paul is… well. Paul has come to this press conference in one goal in mind. That's where it'll become a test.

"Hey, Hello. Sorry, can I…? Ok. James Henderson, San Francisco Times. This is for Kazuya. Kazuya, the incident in the cage after the Phoenix-King fight has definitely stirred some waves. But, I think everyone's curious: what prompted you to slap Pauls title away?"

Paul turned towards Kazuya, who hadn't moved from his position. "Yeah." Paul spoke up, leaning forward. "I'd like to know, Kazuya."

Kazuya did not budge. His lips didn't even so much as twitch. He didn't move towards the microphone. He just sat there, staring straight ahead… hiding his eyes behind those fucking shades.

"Alright, I'll tell you why he did." Paul leaned forward again. "It's cause he doesn't respect me." Paul paused, turning back towards Kazuya. "Ain't that right?" Kazuya slightly tilted his head to the side. That was it. That's it, huh? That's fine. If this is gonna be Pauls press conference, then let's make sure it's Pauls press conference. This is my fuckin show now.

Paul grabbed the microphone. "Now, I couldn't tell you why. Maybe, it's cause I'm a loud mouthed 'Murican. Maybe, cause I called him out when he wasn't expecting it. Maybe it's just cause I can be a pain in the ass." Paul leaned forward again, until he was almost over his desk. "All of the above, maybe?" Nothing.

Paul tilted his own head. Yeah, you think you're playing mind games here? You're just giving me more room to breathe in this new skin, son. "None of that takes away from my accolades as a fighter. As a champion. I ain't asking to be your best buddy, Kazuya. I just want respect."

Paul turned back towards the reporters. "I promise you, if he won't shake my hand now, he'll shake my hand when I'm done." Paul leaned back, a heavy exhale forced out of him. Paul felt his entire back crack with that exhale… the tension, and the stiffness in his muscles suddenly becoming clear to him. Paul didn't need to glance back at Lee… he was making his point. It's all good. If Kazuya keeps up this bullshit the entire conference, then this will just be dandy.

"What's up everyone. Larry Lennox, Fight Magazine. This ones for you Paul. We know you bring grappling to the table, but do you think that's going to be enough to counter Kazuya's Mishima-style karate? What new tools do you hope to implement? It's safe to say nobody has been able to figure out how to combat the Mishima family fighting style."

"Well, Larry, if I told you that, I'm afraid Lee behind me might kick me in the back of the head." There were some chortles from the reporters, as Paul politely smiled. "But, that's the answer to your question right there. That's why I brought Lee on board. And, I gotta admit, the guy is as quick as a cat. I've learned a whole lot about how the Mishima's move, how they fight and how they react."

Kazuya curled his lip. He could see that look in this Larry Lennox' eyes. He was going to ask another question, and Kazuya could predict exactly what it was. If you ask this, if you give him a platform.. Kazuya tilted his head to the side, that dark shade reassuring him.

"Well, just to follow up." Do not even think of addressing him. "Lee, can I ask why you decided to join Pauls team? You'd have to busy with your responsibilities in the Mishima Zaibatsu." Kazuya placed his fist under the fist, and he clenched it. Why must he be involved? It began to tremble, as he kept his head straight ahead.

This is what he loves. He savours this, he savours making this about himself. You give that traitorous rat one opportunity to speak… that tongue will start lashing lies. He will lunge at any opportunity to place words in my mouth, to 'speak for me'… as if he ever knew of who I truly was. He speaks a word against you, Kazuya, you will not stop me interfering.

Paul had moved out of the way, and Kazuya turned his head to look over at Lee. "With all due respect, Mr Lennox." Lee smiled at the journalist, his eyes telling a different story. "You may not ask me that."

With that, Lee retreated back to hide behind his puppet. Kazuya turned back around to the crowd of reporters, trying to hide his lip twitching. I believed you told me the monsters came out at night. There is a difference between a monster and a demon.

Paul only shrugged in response. The urge to glance over at Kazuya kept plaguing him the entire time. It's like playing a game of mental pong, trying to keep the damn pupils right in the centre of the field. But, Paul had to keep tabs. The only time Kazuya reacted is when Lee spoke. Paul shuffled in his seat, readjusting the microphone. He gripped the base slowly.

Paul sees how it is. If you look past me… why the hell would you look past me, son? I brought Lee in, but this has nothing to do with him. You made it personal by disrespecting me. Don't even try to throw stones at an adopted brother who knows not to tolerate your bullshit as it is.

"Hey guys, how are you all today? James Farrell here, Sports Central. This one is actually for the both of you. I think it's safe to say this is the biggest fight both of you have had up to this point. I'm just curious: where do you both hope to go after this?"

"Well, I suppose I'll answer first." Paul glanced over at Kazuya, his eyebrows raised. "If that's… alright with you, of course." A few more chortles and laughs. But, no reaction from the stoned faced Mishima himself.

Paul cleared his throat, forcing composure back into himself. "Hell, you said it yourself. The biggest fight I've had. This is one I've worked towards for a long time, and dreamed of for longer. You can ask Marshall about that, I ain't talking out my ass." Paul tilted his head to the side. But, he did not look his way. "I respect the Mishima family a lot. Purely as fighters. To me, beating Kazuya is like beating fighting royalty. That's part of the toughest bloodline on earth right there."

Paul leaned forward, his mouth getting closer to the mic. "Naturally, the next step is to follow that bloodline to the top. Once I'm done with Kazuya, I want to make my claim to Heihachi. Get that old bastard out of hiding, and give him a hiding. I think at this point, beating his son proves I'm ready for the bigger challenge."

Paul was careful with his choice of words. And, he knew he was right in doing so. Because, he saw Kazuya turn his head, slowly.. until, he was head on with Paul. Paul looked over Kazuya's way, his eyes staring into those black squares. He met whatever was hidden behind them with another grin.

Lee was right on the money. Daddy issues bother you, huh? Paul doesn't like to take things personal. But, when a guy embarrasses him twice before a fight… hell, it's fair game. Paul leaned back in the chair, his smile finally feeling a little more genuine. Even if it was at that cost… hell, he doesn't care at this point. Kazuya's not a good guy anyway. Elizabeth said so herself, right? I'm the most obsessive. That's what intimidated her in the end, right? Well, I'll show them fucking obsession.

As imagined, her voice managed to tear Kazuya away. Tore Kazuya away from his glare at the right moment, because.. because, it was fortunate that Kazuya was wearing these sunglasses. Otherwise, many people would have been shocked about what laid behind them. "This question is for Kazuya."

Kazuya turned his head away slowly, his eyebrows furrowing.

Of course. Of course, she must ask a question. He sincerely hopes it is not an embarrassing one, because, either way, Kazuya will not answer it.

Kazuya found Jun Kazama in the crowd, and again, he had to resist the urge to smile.

Not answering the question would certainly irritate her… their next interview may be an aggravated affair. "I am curious: if you do not respect Paul Phoenix, then why would you devote so much time to confronting and fighting him in such a public manner? " Kazuya stared at her for several moments. He was not sure what he was expecting, but it was not.. not such a genuine question.

Kazuya stared at her for several moments… until, he leaned back. Kazuya's eyes remained on Jun, his lips sealed. Kazuya caught, out of the corner of his eye, Paul moving towards his microphone.

Kazuya leaned forward again, until his deep breath was almost audible on the microphone. Paul had paused, one large fist wrapped around the microphone… intense eyes remaining on Kazuya. Kazuya just stared at Paul.

Kazuya opened his mouth slowly, his hand clenching around the microphone.

"To break him."

Kazuya leaned back, allowing the silence to wash over him. He could feel hundreds of gazes upon him, most of which didn't dare to make a noise. Most of all, he could make out Lee silently approaching Paul… an intense, glaring Paul. And, placing a hand on his shoulder.

He raised his hand from under his table, which was no longer clenching. His hand reverted to his pocket, retrieving the locket once more. He turned his head back around towards Paul, and curled his lip.

"Alright, fellas. Time for the faceoff. Please, don't touch each other." Kazuya did not need any further instruction. He stood up quickly, kicking the chair back against the stage. Before he moved further, he raised his hand. Slowly, deliberately, he fastened his red glove around it. Kazuya could feel the eyes of every single reporter, security guard and his fellow fighter as he popped every single finger into that glove.

Kazuya turned towards Paul, who was standing centre stage. Arms folded, irritated glare on his face. Kazuya looked over at Lee, who was stood there, hands on hips, that fraudulent smile hiding his malicious curiosity. Kazuya turned back towards the reporters, and he unbuttoned the top button of his shirt. The next.

Behind empty eyes, behind hungry vultures, behind those sterile figures and those shadows of his mind...he could still make out the bright eyes of Jun Kazama peering up at him. He met those eyes once more, behind the safety of his dark glasses. Under the pressure of this silence, you still manage to surpass all these jackals and their disguises. You are an enigma, Jun Kazama.

Was she expectant? Was she excited? Disappointed? Kazuya could not tell you. To be frank, he's not sure why he even cares. He unbuttoned the final button of his shirt, and quickly, tossed it back on the desk. The lights beat down on his bare chest, illuminating his long, coloured scar to the world. This is agony, world.

Any of the murmurs by those vultures was soon silenced, as a hasty quiet descended amongst everyone. Kazuya finally began to walk towards the final podium, his gloved hand coming to his face. He stepped up opposite Paul Phoenix, who's own eyes grew wider, grew animalistic… just as Kazuya remembered them in his last fight. In his purest form.

They stood face to face for a moment or two, Pauls slow, steady breath hot on Kazuya's cheek. Slow, and steady… and warm. For now.

With a smirk, Kazuya removed his sunglasses.

Once he took them shades off, Paul realised what he was dealing with. The unblinking, unwavering stare. The coldness in those dark, vicious eyes. That cold fury that echoed all the way through Pauls body and bones, and reverberated down into his starving soul.

Paul didn't blink, or he didn't look away. He ain't gonna lie either. He expected this. Paul expected to be a little shook by what he saw in Kazuya Mishima's eyes. It's just being realistic to expect that. But, that don't mean he's intimidated. Just because he has a natural human reaction… it doesn't mean he's fuckin scared.

Paul echoed the smirk that was wiped off Kazuya's face. With a half-smile, his lips bared… Paul slowly stuck out his hand. That hand poked against Kazuya's stomach, and from the strange, rubbery sensation… he realised his open, welcoming hand had brushed up against Kazuya's scar.

Kazuya's gaze only seemed to intensify with that slight bit of contact. He did not look away, but neither did Paul. Paul extended his hand further. "I ain't gonna apologise for what I said." Paul spoke, in a low voice. He turned his hand upwards, until his palm was facing upwards. "But, I won't take it any further."

Paul stared back at Kazuya, slowly raising his left fist towards Kazuya's chin. Kazuya may have noticed this, but he should understand. The left is for the promotion. The right is for the man. Come on. Paul raised his right hand further, his palm almost touching Kazuya's chest again.

Kazuya hadn't even blinked… those jet black eyes were staring into Pauls soul, and Paul could not even tell if they were even paying attention anymore. Paul exhaled slowly, his nostrils flaring. Shake my hand. Kazuya's breathing was still and steady, his gaze even more so. Be a man.

Paul noticed movement. He did not tear his eyes away from Kazuya's, but that gloved fist of his was starting to move. Don't try it again. You slap my face, I knock the shit outta yours. Shake my fucking hand.

"Shake it!" Paul growled, shoving his palm forwards. As he did so, his entire body shifted. Everything was a little jarred, as he moved, as he shoved one hand forward… the other hand went forwards. Paul realised what was going to happen. It wasn't intentional… but, at this rate, he couldn't give a fuck. He ain't gonna pull it. His left fist knocked gently against Kazuya's chin.

As soon as contact was made, Paul could see Kazuya's gaze shift. Paul didn't take a step back, as he realised that fist was being raised. Come on. Show me how hard you hit, and I'll fuckin prove that I can take- Kazuya reared back, and lunged.

An entire glob smacked all over Pauls eyes, as he felt the hot substance cover his face. Paul stumbled back several steps, feeling that… slide down his face. Paul, with his sleeve, wiped away a large dribble of it that had gotten into Pauls eyes. There were specks of black phlegm hidden in there, but there was no mistaking that was saliva.

It was a good thing someone hooked their arm around Pauls. It was a strong arm too, as it managed to restrain Paul from swinging with his right hook, and knocking every tooth out of that little slimy fucks skull. That spiky haired cunt, who the fuck does he think he is? Paul snapped his arm away, breaking free.. but that arm was hooked back immediately. You fucking prick. That's the last fucking time. "Paul."

I'll fucking snap you in half, son. Don't you fucking look me in the fucking eyes, as if you have the fucking right… you think you're better than me? Look at you, posing there with your little fucking scar and your arrogant little smirk. I'll stick your fancy little smile up your fucking ass if you ever, in your fucking life- "Paul."

Paul glanced over his shoulder. Lee was so close to him, Paul could feel his silver hair on his own flattop. "Remember…"

"I know, I know, I know!" Paul shrugged Lee's arm off, giving him a sideways glance. "I'm good." Paul insisted, a little louder. Paul inhaled slowly, raising his hand. Quickly, with his bare hand, he wiped the remainder of the spit off his face. Paul lowered his hand, his lip curling in disgust… wiping it across his trousers. Kazuya had not moved, had not spoken…. He just stood there with his cocky smirk. Paul clenched his teeth, the urge to… had to go.

Lee was right. He can't. He won't play into this little fucking trap Kazuya's laid out. Paul looked at his now clean hand once more, before turning back towards Kazuya. Paul raised his own hand, and with a throaty hack, Paul spat in his own hand.

A half-smile crossed in his face, Paul walked back up to the podium. That half-smile, by hell or high water, still remained. And, Paul slowly extended his hand again.

Paul saw Kazuya's eyes change, those sharp features of his shifting to something… something, that Paul could finally recognize as uncertain. The smile slowly faded from Kazuya's face, as Paul raised his hand. Go on. Shake it. You think I don't have discipline? Fucking shake it.

That uncertainty was the last waver that Paul saw in dark holes. Kazuya had already turned around, and was departing from the stage… his boots clacking against the steel steps as he disappeared behind the curtain, gone as silently as he arrived.

Paul stared at his own extended hand for a few more moments, his own smile replaced within moments. That hand turned into a careful fist, as he turned back towards the crowd. "Get my belt." Paul exclaimed over to Lee.

Paul raised his fist slowly, as the fans behind the reporters erupted in cheers. Paul snatched the belt as soon as it was within sight, and flung it up over his head. Paul roared in response to the crowd, which had slowly gathered behind the small collection of reporters. The crowd responded just in kind… their infectious energy making him feel as if he was just about to enter the cage right now. "Phoe-nix! Phoe-nix! Phoe-nix!"

Paul roared because he needed to let it all out. Paul roared, because he knew he withstood all of the disrespect Kazuya had left in that bitter little body of his, all that he could possibly spit at him. That buzz, that roar… Kazuya just doesn't get it. All of these mind games he can play, but look who he has in his corner.

Look how many he has backing him in this fight. He wasn't born in San Francisco, but he was made there. He bled right from the bottom when he first landed here as an 18 year old kid, and now he's 24… it's been a long six years. It felt like so little came in those six years, except for brief flashes of greatness… yet, here he stands. This city finally appreciates him. His city believes he can be the Mishima Killer.

Paul could feel Lee standing behind him, joining in on the applause… as the promoters final words faded away. Paul turned around, and saw Marshall standing there, waiting. "Do you think I rattled him?" Paul muttered, glancing over to the dark curtain. Marshall followed Pauls gaze, the glimmer in his eye bright. "Paulo, I don't think he knows what to make of you anymore."

Kazuya had never underestimated Phoenix. Perhaps, he had turned a blind eye to what he was capable of due to extenuating circumstances. But, he had never underestimated him. However, now as he watches Phoenix gloat and pander. Now, as he watches Phoenix stand tall, stand proud surrounded by comrades, and by adulation.

Now Kazuya realises that he had been too one dimensional in his own approach. Kazuya's eyes flickered over to the figure behind him. The rat is realising that too. The rat is the one who outmanoeuvred him too… Kazuya will never give Lee credit, but he will accept a failure when it occurs. That was his own failure, and Phoenix capitalised. Not Lee. Chaolan does not have the bravery.

He silently watched as they descended down the stairs, the reporters immediately crowding them. He stood there, not hiding yet not in the open, as Marshall Law cleared the way for their departure, Phoenix murmuring to the bastard the entire way. "Mr Chaolan! Mr Chaolan!"

Kazuya's head snapped to the side. What is… Jun. Kazuya watched, as Jun had managed to reach the front of that crowd… her eyes set on… on… him. Jun stretched out her arm, that recording device an extension of her hand. "I was perhaps curious. Since you are such a critical part of this fight, would you lik-"

"Absolutely, emphatically, I would not." Lee cut across her, continuing to clear the way. Kazuya began to tremble. His fists clenched silently. Jun still walked in pace with them, unbothered in that bubbly way of hers. "Mr Chaolan, I am just hoping for a quick-"

"Nothing quick, nothing long, nothing meaningful, Ms Kazama." Lee placed his sunglasses on, a careful hand resting on Pauls shoulder. Kazuya's gaze returned to Jun. There it was. That stubborn determination, that fire… she stood solid. "I just believe your perspective would be a valuable addition-"

"Ms Kazama." Lee came to a stop directly in front of Jun. "I cannot make myself any more clear. There is unequivocally nothing I would like to do less than to sit down for one of your intrusive, and questionable 'interviews'. Now, I say this respectfully because I understand and appreciate your dedication travelling all the way from Yakushima." Lee raised his dismissive hand, turning away. "But, considering who you keep as company, there will never be a time or a place where I will sit down, and speak with you."

Kazuya stepped out from behind the curtain then, and he could feel his eyes had shifted another shade. That bastard… this has nothing to do with him. Why do you care, Kazuya? Kazuya paused, watching as Paul walked past Jun. "Sorry." Paul murmured to her, with a shrug. What are you inferring? Why would you care about this woman being insulted?

Kazuya turned to his fist, which was still clenched. The locket was still interspersed with his fingers, yet it was closed solid….. it was not needed open. He could see it was still trembling… it had not been this unsteady in a long time. Chaolan used her to insult me. That is a reach, Kazuya.

Kazuya stared out from behind the curtain, watching as Jun still stood there. She looked down at her recorder, a contemplative expression on her face. Kazuya could recognize something more though. He could recognize hints of pain across her eyes. Of open wounds. They mistake her kindness for weakness. What an insult…. Lee is a pathetic man. Do not be so free with that word, Kazuya.

Kazuya took a step back. I… I… Kazuya watched as she was close to turning around. Kazuya.. Kazuya curled his lip. And, stepped back behind the curtain. I… do not care. As I hoped you would not.

Kazuya stared at his hands for several more moments, aware that Jun was still standing there.. only a few short metres away. Hisinfluence rarely is something to be trusted. But… he brings up a valid point. Of all the people…

Kazuya stopped. A realisation dawned on him, one that he did not care to answer then. Or, in the heat of the moment. He did a full rotation of the small backstage area. But, it was still completely empty.

Kazuya's lip curled again, as he quickly grabbed his shirt. Where is Bruce?

27

Kazuya may not be aware of American customs when night falls. But, he is sure, that hastily placed planks over windows was not standard fare.

The warm air, even on the dusk of eve, still felt a little too cold to Kazuya. Perhaps, it was Kazuya's own inclination that put this dark air on the proceedings. But, Kazuya had visited Bruce Irvin's home on many different occasions.

On those occasions, he rarely went inside the house. It was a modest house, but in the state it had been left in, it was far from modest. Kazuya could already make out, from the superficial scrapes and the jagged remains of the plastic… there was something else far more sinister resting inside. Why do we sleep where we wish to hide?

Kazuya flared his nostrils, forcing himself to breathe. He has dealt with some similar situations. The last thing he can, or should do, is to sprint into the house like a wingless duck.

He has to be careful. No matter who he encounters, he must keep a level head. Kazuya's boots slapped against the stone steps, as he deliberately ascended the small porch.

Kazuya tried to peer through the gaps in those hastily placed planks, and he could already make out the mess that awaited him in the kitchen. Kazuya paused at the damaged front door. There was a faint creaking coming directly from it.. with every gust of wind, the door inched forward a slight bit. Creak. Then, dropped back. Creak. He is not here. Kazuya needs to confirm that for himself.

With little resistance, Kazuya shoved open the front door…. With a dim set of dancing shadows meeting him. Kazuya took a careful few steps into the house, each footstep squeaking in a tired old house. Kazuya reached towards the nearest light switch… that crooked finger paused. That smell.. Kazuya licked his lips, his eyebrows furrowing. That's a potent smell that is easily labelled. Kazuya withdrew his finger, and faced the wall.

Clenching his fist, Kazuya grunted. The sparks of electricity ebbed out from his chi, his entire arm momentarily crackling in electricity. That electricity only illuminated his surroundings for a fleet moment, but Kazuya saw all he needed to see.

Kazuya hunkered over, his lip twitching. The brownish copper colour only comes from one substance, and it's always turns that inconspicuous colour when dried. Kazuya stood up again, his eyebrows furrowed. This time, he flicked the switch.

With an orange glow, the scene could be painted clearly by Kazuya's mind. Whatever the scenario was, whoever the others involved were… Kazuya could not paint a picture that relieved his initial concerns. Tables and chairs were strewn all over the floor. The largest table had been completely snapped, unevenly so that the larger side was tilted upwards, with the legs pointing towards the sitting room. Vases left their coloured remains shattered all over the floor, illustrating the rainbow all across the small, tiled kitchen.

The sink was chock full of fractured and broken porcelain. The yellow markers everywhere indicated that police had already visited, and made their initial investigation.. if they did not already have a patrol still here. On top of all of that, everything had been gleamed in a coat of red. Crimson red patches were everywhere, scattered from the floor.. to the ceiling.

Kazuya was careful with his step, knowing how compromising this position he found himself in now was. He must wipe off his touch of the light switch.

Kazuya stopped at the head of the counter, one yellow label catching his attention. Placed perfectly on the kitchen table, the kitchen knife was completely splattered from the tip of the blade almost to the hilt. Completely splattered. That is too much blood. Kazuya… Kazuya would tend to agree. He stepped back, many questions rising to the forefront.

Why did no police patrol meet him on the steps? Why has key evidence, such as this suspect knife, not been confiscated? How did Bruce attend the press conference alongside him today, when some- some – of this blood is clearly days old?

It was the most obvious question was what eluded Kazuya, and the more he searched the house, the less answers were left with him. The sitting room was much of the same chaos. A destroyed trophy cabinet, the glass broken in favour for another layer of blood.

Scattered trophies and medals, each of which one showed once a great moment in his life, smeared with a staining shade of crimson. An overturned couch, with a bulky television tossed atop it for better measure. Kazuya was beginning to piece together a puzzle, but it all still felt purely… disconnected.

None of this quite felt right, because it felt as if he was witnessing two wildly different scenes. There are shades of crimson blood. But, also patches of rustic blood, in the same quantity and intensity.

In fact, it is only when Kazuya had wandered into a wayward bedroom, did it become a scene that Kazuya could make sense of. All the same, it was not a scene that Kazuya wished to witness.

The bedroom clearly belonged to the boy. The blue bedsheets, the posters of various basketball stars adding more colour to the ocean blue that brightened the room.

This is the room of a young boy. Kazuya stepped towards the window, a bright white light jarring him. The moonlight was deliberate in what it illuminated, as it always was. It came as no surprise that Kazuya found himself looking at more stains, more of the dried blood that had become one with this tainted house.

Do not ignore the obvious. Kazuya will. It was so crudely done, that Kazuya was disgusted it was even there. Still, Kazuya walked away from the moonlight, that cold white light bathing him no longer.

He looked over to the boys nightstand, where a white powder had been haphazardly ground into the table. Kazuya's lip curled, turning towards the bed. It too had its fair share of stains, slipped all over the bedsheets that even the blue could not disguise it.

Kazuya soon lost interest in the boy. The shards of glass beneath his feet soon attracted his attention. The wooden frame had completely snapped in two… Kazuya ground his foot.

He ground his foot into the shard of glass, his lip curling. Until, he heard that shard snap. Kazuya slowly hunkered over, his lip curled all the while. He swiped away the remaining shards, his fingers carefully wrapping around the faint photograph.

His thumb careful not to smudge the imagery, Kazuya lifted up the photo slowly.. and held it towards the light. Kazuya was unsurprised by what he saw. It was taken just on the front porch. There stood Bruce, a sheepish smile on his face, that Kazuya had never seen the brooding fighter wear before.

The sun almost blinded his eyes, but it did not blind the eyes of young Shawn. With both of Bruce's hands firmly placed on Shawn, Shawn stood there with a smile - a gold medal draped around his neck, a look of joy that traversed into sheer pride once you travelled further up the photo. The answers you find here will lead down a familiar path.

Kazuya was… he was… he was surprised he could even make out that much. Like everything else in this damned, cursed house, it had been tainted with some form of blood, fresh or dried. It has been tainted with a far darker shade.

Of course, the damn top half of the photograph was untouched. Bruce's face was clean, his smile obvious and the gleam in his eyes was still alive, from this picture alone. Kazuya clenched his fist, his breath intensifying. No… it was all on the bottom. The medal. His entire face.

Shawn's joy and elation was clouded with an entire smear of blood. It was not splattered on. It could never be that simple. The spread of the photograph showed the blood was smeared.

Kazuya was glad the moonlight could not illuminate his face now. His head lowered, his lip curled… that… that was too..too similar.

Kazuya lowered his head further. I will not feel this again. It has happened to another. Kazuya will swear. He swears on all that he believes in, in all that he fights for… if… if the boy… Kazuya began to tremble. You know what to do. Let me out. No.

"Let's see if you have what it takes to helm the Zaibatsu, Kazuya."

Words cannot describe what he will do to that bastard, if this is true. Only if. By all that he believes in. "I have to go pick up my cousin at school." Bruce smiled sheepishly.

You spoke of the boy so fondly. Kazuya raised the photograph, but nothing about his fists were steady now. I hope, for your sake, you understand he revered you. Only those faint voices raised Kazuya from his near comatose stupor.

Only the rapidly approaching sirens, that tore into his eardrums and ripped through his fantasies of exacting justice.. that's what caused Kazuya to lift his head again, and bask in the moonlight once more. Kazuya stood up, those voices became clearer. He already was long gone from this place. He just needed to physically depart.

Kazuya folded up that photograph, and placed it in his pocket. He must make sure the blood does not wipe onto his locket.

28

It had been a quiet and thoughtful ride home. Paul, in truth, had not expected himself to make this journey for another good while. After the fight, maybe… y'know, for celebrations and all that,. He was all good training in San Fran till fight day, considering a nice, disciplined routine he'd managed to keep up, and that kick in the ass of motivation that press conference gave him.

So many days your trudging through aimless training weeks, body beaten and mind numb. But, being at that press conference made it feel real. He's fighting Kazuya Mishima in under a week. Paul Phoenix is headlining that show. Sure, he might be bragging, but fuck it, Paul rarely gets the chance to feel like this anymore.

But, sometimes… sometimes, you just know a piece is missing. Y'know what I mean? Like, sometimes you need to shut it all out to make sure everything is all good. It's what's right for himself. This is gonna be the biggest fight of Pauls life, so he should check up on Ma one last time as well.

Still, Paul can't say the news didn't have anything to do with it. He remembers how it was. The usual morning training, Lee was putting him through his paces and working on his explosiveness. Marshall was around, keeping an eye on things and making some calls. Next thing we know, Lee's usual playlist of Billy Joel and Genesis was interrupted by the announcement.

"Muai Thai Champion, Bruce Irvin, is arrested today for suspicion of double murder. Reports state he was apprehended at his home, in the midst of assaulting one of his restrained victims. The 29 year old has gained recent infamy by training the prodigal son Kazuya Mishima, for his upcoming fight with dominant champion Paul Phoenix. Kazuya is the son of Mishima Zaibatsu owner and CEO, Heihachi Mishima…'

Paul gripped the handlebars of his bike, his face wincing on instinct. The highway was far quieter this early in the morning, with the cars coming up behind him giving him plenty of distance. It's just… you never expect it to be the ones you know. It just seems foreign someone you talk to, shook hands with, shared opinions and compliments with… fuck it. What the fuck is Paul even talking about, who knows. Paul never really liked the guy, but still…. He'd come by Marshalls dojo. Paul would see him at his fights, exchange nods and the odd handshake. He was polite, if even respectful.

The way this business is, you see the same faces cropping up time after time. You'd know them within the fighting world, even if you never saw them outside of it. I guess cause he was on the other side.. Paul never considered even talking to him. Not that it was a conscious thing, but it was just… he was on their team, y'know?

As stupid as it sounds, he was one of them. He had become a 'them'. He wasn't really a guy to Paul anymore. That still means Paul didn't want to believe it. Fights can be business, they can get personal. But, this doesn't just hurt the person. It hurts the entire fucking industry. This stuff hurts Pauls world, man. There's little outside of Pauls bubble at the moment, so he has to take a brunt of the backlash the 'fighting industry' is gonna get over one man's actions. We all do.

Just cause Bruce was the trainer, doesn't mean Paul had a problem with him. Pauls beef is exclusive with Kazuya, and that's it. He doesn't hold stupid grudges by association like his opponent would. Paul glanced around at his brightening surroundings once more.. well, looks like they're deep in midlands now. The fields surrounding the highway, the barns off in the distance. Paul could even make sight of – and fuckin smell – the windmills off in the mountains.

Paul didn't have to deal with the details, thanks enough, but.. but I'd say it's causing a nightmare for making the fight happen. That wasn't even the part that bothered him most.

Course, it bothers him – y'know, it just puts into question… well, everything. It was just how Lee…Paul glanced up at the next sign that was rapidly creeping up on him. What, how the- Paul shook his head. But, there was no doubting it, alright.

Paul could already see a few of those wandering, peaceful mountain goats strimming the mountain side, and that accompanied that sign that Paul knew like the back of his hand. Paul slowed down for a moment, taking a few moments to really absorb it again.

Nebraska…The good life. Jesus, man. Now he thinks about it… how many times must he have driven past this sign in his lifetime? Jesus, the number must be well over the thousands at this point. He always saw it, but he never really took the time to look at it anymore. The good life. That's it… a nice cup of some hot southern hospitality. A quarter glass of some shine, and another quarter glass of dull, reassuring solitude. Some dangerous comfort, the addicting drive of a small minded farmers life. That's the good life.

Paul slowly pushed his foot onto the pedal, the engine roaring louder and louder. Maybe, I'm thinking a little too much. Who the hell knows. It's just… he saw that look in Lee's eyes. The words he spoke. How he spoke them so easily. The same way he always does…

Paul hunkered down, silent for several moments. Most of the dojo had fallen silent, an uncomfortable reality dawning upon all of them. It wasn't just a cruel reality, it was a shocking one… Paul could tell what most of them were thinking.

It was a slap to the face.

To the Muay Thai community, to the fighting community as a whole. To each and every one of them that ever trained, sparred or fought Bruce in any professional capacity. To every man and woman who shook his hand, or who those who managed to connect to him in any capacity.

An unwanted, and unknown representation. But, he represents all the same. That's the burden the select few of us wear.

Paul was thinking all of this, but it rushed past far too quickly for him to focus on any one part. It all flitted by in a mishmash of garble, that it made his brain hurt among other things. "Jesus." Paul finally uttered, sitting down slowly.

Lee walked slowly towards the radio, his eyes narrowing as he stared at it. "I hope for the Devils sake this is not true." Lee gripped the radio, his eyes lowering. "But, I would not be surprised at the least." Paul furrowed his eyebrows, his mouth soundlessly moving. It's hardly surprising that Lee would act in bad taste. But, it's not even that. "Wha.. what'd the hell does that mean?"

Lee looked at him, a dangerous glint in his eyes. Paul stared back, at that calm, impassive poker face. "There is a saying that was told to me during my upbringing, Paul. Over, and over, and over until I could recite it as if it was a personal mantra." Lee turned back towards the radio, that gloved hand coming to his chin. "'Most men falter at the first sign of a self-revelation, of intimacy. Once the thrill settles in, they'll drown.'"

Don't ask Paul what the hell that means. Even now, he just keeps turning it over, and over in his head… the words were lost in his head, some fuckin vague meaning turning around in there somewhere. Whatever it was, it rubbed Paul the wrong way.

That was probably the reason he's on this bike now, even if he doesn't want to admit it out loud. The way you can just simplify shit like that… a guy they knew, just snapping and going off the rails, and offing two people. Course, context is everything. Paul has been furious in his life, and he'd be a liar to say fantasies haven't rushed through his head in regards to some moments in his life. All the same, though.. Lee can be as eccentric as he likes, but there's a fuckin line that has to be drawn.

That's not something you can condense into some tough love shit that your daddy told you when you were a kid. It just ain't. Paul knows the guy means well. So much of that corporate shit Lee puts forward is a facade. Paul reckons if Lee was in charge, he'd have the entire Mishima Zaibatsu in swimsuits, and serving him pina coladas on some beach in the Maldives or something. Paul couldn't tell you about all the weird little… things that Lee does, but he could tell there was a human hidden in there.

Like so many people in the fight game, he just hides a lot of it behind this demon he brings out at the right moments. We all feed that demon, and bringing out the nastiest side of it right before we step toe to toe with the poor guy across the cage from us.

Maybe, Paul is overthinking the shit Lee says. Hell, Lee may realise just how bad this is for the publicity for the fight too, who knows. He could be suffering through this mirror we all hide behind. Paul doesn't hope he does, but that would be the most preferrable option he could think of.

Paul just wants to fuck off from it all sometimes. Detach himself. He's here to do his job, train, fight and go home. Fuck all the other bullshit. Not like Paul can change shit about it anyway. Fuck Bruce, fuck people with him, fuck people against him, fuck people who have opinions about him, fuck people who want to share those opinions with anyone willing to listen as if this is a matter that is up for debate in our stupid little heads. Fuck all the little cliques that come out the woodwork, pushing their agendas in a world where politics shouldn't belong. Fuck them all.

Paul could see he had already flown by the turn into Omaha….. he didn't much care. He needed some time to sort out his head, because he can't take any risks anywhere near the vicinity of this fight. It was early, but it was not that early. Someone will be standing at the doorstep, waiting on the rickety ranch porch, right where the wooden plank creaks and squeaks when you step on it, to meet him.

Funnily enough, a porch he was deeply ashamed of when he first left at the age of 18, to pursue an impossible, and unknown dream. It was exciting back then. But, it also felt way more unrealistic back then. Guess it was that blind wonder that drew him in the end, that made him so hungry to get the hell out of Omaha.

Now, getting back to Omaha was like throwing himself out of the window of some kind of everlasting sauna, to land on a massive, springy mattress.

It feels right at first, but it's still just a mattress. You could sink into that relaxing, comforting feeling for only a short while, before you go mental, and you want to punch the shit out of someone. What else can you do on a mattress except sleep, and lie there? You need to get back to that damn sauna. Even though putting through your body through it is hell, it tests your minds to the very end, and it plays on every emotion you've ever felt. It's fuckin addicting, man. That's why Paul limited his visit to a weekend.

Three days, whatever needs done, can be done…. no telephones at Momma's either. So, no Lee. No Marshall. No anybody from that world. That world that he's exclusively immersed himself in until it's his absorbed his small minded little world. Paul exhaled slowly, forcing the wince away from his face. It's his fucking life, but this is his little slice of his past that will always be there for him.

All it is him, Paul. Not even Paul Phoenix, Superfights champion, hot blooded champion. Just Paul. The flattop comes down, the San Fran attitude leaves him a little while. He can.. he can be a farmer for a few days. Without anybody seeing. Without the world noticing. Without opinions, judgments, feedback or connections.

Paul extended his hand to the left, seeing the next turn closing in on him quickly. The sun had already nearly risen, and for some reason, that also gave Paul reason to be bothered. Fuckin hell, Paul hopes this whole bullshit thing hasn't burned him out… Paul released the handlebars of his Harley, leaning back in his seat.

What the fuck is he thinking? How the hell could this burn him out? Kazuya is the one who has his training regimen damaged. The guy is probably shitting himself… if he didn't already know. Paul snorted.

Would it even surprise Paul at this point? All the rumours you hear about the Mishima's… Paul leaned forward, and quickly gripped those handlebars again. Whatever it is, it don't concern Paul this weekend. Pauls here to train the old fashioned way, with nobody but himself to keep kicking himself in the ass.

The dirt road was slowly leading him to the outskirts of Omaha, where he was already approaching the Lake. There was another big mountain goat waiting for him there. Looked like she had wandered down from the mountains, with her thick black mane and her long horns.

It looked satisfied enough sipping away at the Lake's water, with nearly all of the water life giving her a wide berth. That's the mountain goats. Not even the swans would mess with them.

Well, look it… Paul is going to hand draw a nice little portrait of Kazuya. He's going to tape it to a few brick walls near the farmyard, and he's going to punch a fuckload of holes all over the place. Lee can go and immerse himself in his work. Marshall can go to his family.

This is how Paul mentally prepares.

29

It would not surprise you to say that Kazuya has faced the familiarity of these places before. The cold grey walls, the reinforced windows, the hastily attached telephones on either side of the glass. Those subpar white lights, that are a little too bright for anyone's appreciation. The prison guard, his eyes lazily scrutinizing you, because the tedium of their work leaves them with little better to do.

Kazuya is no stranger to the cold aura that rises from prisons, and his travels have not been free of nights staring out from behind barred windows. Kazuya believes that most of those arrests were suspect at best, but perhaps that is just his sceptical nature. Sceptical of your own actions? Either way, Kazuya does not wish to be sceptical.

Kazuya clenched his fist, as he reached into his pocket. However, it was difficult… it was difficult to ignore his instincts. Kazuya's hand initially clutched at his locket. Some moments in life…. A fleeting opportunity may be presented to you. You cannot see others suffer as you did. But, if you see those that have already suffered, you can offer the most deserving form of solace.

Kazuya eventually forced himself to let go of the locket. And, he gently picked up the photograph. In that moment, the loud buzz filled the room… and, the electronic door whirred open.

Accompanied by two guards, who in most cases could not hold a candle to him, Irvin shuffled out from behind the door. And, a sorry state he was. Kazuya could already make out those tell-tale signs he has seen in countless other men.

Tired, bagged eyes. Neck craned downwards, drooping facial features. The gleam or sparkle of mischief was gone. The sullen, cynical man that trudged towards the phone seemed wholly reluctant, but Bruce Irvin was no fool. He would not dare walk away from Kazuya.

Bruce slowly sat down, his hands still cuffed. Kazuya stared right through him as he sat. Bruce's eyes were firmly lowered, drooping as if they had been bloodied themselves. He lifted his hands limply, his hands brushing against his ragged mohawk. The guard complied roughly, his key jamming into those handcuffs.

Kazuya studied his face for several moments. He tried to search for any sign, any indication… any reason that it could be more than what it seemed. When Kazuya was thoroughly unsatisfied, he leaned back. He leaned back, and picked up the telephone.

Bruce took his time. He took his time to rub his wrists. He seemed to analyse the desk for far too long. Kazuya stared all the while, breathing slowly down the empty receiver. Eventually, Bruce complied himself. Without raising his head, Bruce unhooked the telephone, and lifted it to his ear.

"Kazuya, listen.. don't believe everything. When-" "Did you harm the boy?" Kazuya could see his entire face morph into shock. Kazuya glared into those eyes, that finally raised to meet Kazuya's. that widened in shock… in sheer surprise. "What? You fucking serious right now?"

Kazuya did not respond. Nor, did he blink. His expression should have told all. Bruce's slack jawed expression eventually turned to that frustration. "What the… not a fucking chance! Where the fuck did you even get that idea? I'd… Shawn's like my little brother, man! I can't fucking believe you'd even say that shit to my face!"

"Who?" Kazuya's questions may have come across as cold and abrupt. It may have resembled an interrogation, but Kazuya is not here to exchange pleasantries.

He is not here to relate, to sympathize, or to comfort Bruce. Kazuya's presence here is for the sole purpose of this stained photograph. Bruce's eyes were furious, they were stained, and they were foolish. But… Kazuya believes they were truthful. Belief, Kazuya. A powerful drug.

Bruce lowered his eyes, his teeth gritting together. Kazuya could see the flashes of the dangerous beast behind those eyes, the possessed demon that may have overtaken him. "Thompson, and his wife."

Kazuya was no more enlightened, and Bruce should realise that. What use will the truth do? It will not change the consequences.

"Shawn's wrestling coach." Bruce explained briefly, his fingers coming together. He began to fidget with his forefingers, fiddling with the sheet of paper in front of him. "He always was tough on Shawn. The guy was a fuckin clown, but I didn't pay attention. He seemed pretty harmless. Just a bit of shithead, who took his job a bit too seriously. How the fuck could I know?" There must be suffering.

Bruce's eyes hardened on the segments of his work, his fists clenched. "I…should have known. The signs were there… the way Shawn was.." Bruce trailed off, his head lowering again. Kazuya continued to stare at him, impassively. Kazuya could hear the emotion rising in Bruce's throat, a flooding set of dangerous water rising through his body.

Kazuya remained silent.

Bruce tapped his fist against the desk a few times, forcing himself to control his breathing. The paper pieces were crumpled, absorbing the sweat moisture generated from his palms. "Shawn… he finally told me. It had been going on for months, every time that sick piece of shit gave him a ride back to the house…" Bruce's fists began to tremble, those shreds of paper reduced to mere scraps.

Bruce slowly began to nod, his expression shifting to that vicious shade. "So, I gave Thompson a call. I told him Shawn wanted some extra practice." Bruce paused. "I already sent Shawn over to a friend's house. He knew something was up. But, he didn't say a word… I guess, he didn't want to know." Bruce shook his head, snorting. "Thompson bit on the bait. He was at my house within fifteen minutes, that sick look on his face… I invited him in. Got him a beer."

Kazuya slowly raised his head. His eyebrows slowly unfurrowed. There was no smile on Bruce's face, but there was something… some kind of satisfaction hidden in his tone. Bruce raised his fist. "And, I smashed it across the back of his fucking head."

Bruce slowly began to… shake his head. With a noticeable gulp, his expression flickered away. His fist had unclenched for a moment, dropping miniscule paper balls all over the desk. "I'm not proud of what I did. But… that part of me was- hungry. Hungry to just – take it back, y'know? Take back…. everything he took from Shawn.

I couldn't let it be quick for him, man. He didn't fucking make it quick for Shawn, so why the fuck is he owed that privilege by me?! I knew I probably only had a couple of days, tops with him. So, that's what I did. All I needed to do was tie him in the spare room…" Bruce fist clenched. "He's lucky he made it a couple of days. The truth was, when I was finished training with you, I'd go home, and I'd beat the shit out of that freak."

Bruce shook his head, his lips pursed. "It's like… I stopped questioning it after a while. It just became habit. And, every time I saw his damn face… cowering in fear, pleading for his life… I could only think of Shawn in the same position. I felt like I was the damn judge, man. I had all the power to end this scumbags life, and I made sure… I made sure he served."

Bruce looked up, his eyes finally reaching Kazuya's. Kazuya stared into a fire, a pleading vulnerability… Kazuya stared back, impassively. "Kazuya… listen, man. I know I fucked you over with this. And, I'm sorry. But, if you want me to say I regret what I did, I… I can't. I would…. I would do it again in a heartbeat." Bruce jabbed his fist onto the counter. "He took away Shawn's innocence." A touching triviality. Shut up,

Kazuya remained silent. He leaned back in his seat, not blinking. He just stared back at Bruce, his cold eyes telling a story in themselves. "The wife?"

Bruce sat up straighter. "This is where you can't believe things, Kazuya. I have no problem taking accountability of what I did to that… monster, but what happened to her…." Bruce raised a compromising hand, at the sight of Kazuya's intense glare. "She came looking for him. She probably put two and two together, and I knew I had to do something to throw her off.

At first, I was just gonna tell her the truth. Fuck it, he's lost too much blood at this point. There's no way out, I'll just pay for my sins. But, she…" Bruce raised a hand, shaking his head again. Kazuya could already see his eyes were getting glassy… Kazuya leaned forward, his suspicions finally rising to the forefront. What? "She… she knew."

Bruce raised his head, his lip curling. "I looked in her eyes, man. The eyes don't fucking lie, and I didn't see the horror on her face when she found out the truth. Just… panic. " Bruce beat his fist against the counter, and Kazuya could see that the tears were finally coming through in his former trainer. Weakness. Not now.

"I wasn't … I wasn't, man… I fucking put her where she belonged!" Bruce slammed his fist against the table, a single tear rolling down his cheek. The guard took a step forward, but a look from Kazuya even restrained him.

"I beat her around a bit, but I didn't… I didn't fucking kill her, man! I just, I just-" Bruce stopped himself, his head swaying madly from side to side.

Eventually, he slowly lowered his head, until it rested against the table. "I don't know what happened to her… I don't know, man. I dunno, I dunno…. I… I dunno." Kazuya leaned forward, until he was almost touching the glass separating the two.

Bruce's face had become a tear beaten travesty, his brown eyes still glazed over. He was still searching for something, anything… Kazuya remained silent. Kazuya remained silent this time, as he knew that was what was right.

Bruce eventually cleared his throat, snapping out of that momentary reverie. "I'll get life. It… it doesn't even matter what happened to her. First degree murder, and torture… the wife was just a nail in the coffin." The wife. Kazuya realised how dehumanising it must be for this late woman, referring to her as merely 'the wife'. The wife of a monster. Kazuya shrugged that line away, when he realised he did not care. That is all she will ever be. There is an irony in that.

Bruce shook his head. "I'm sorry again, Kazuya. Listen man… I know a few guys I can hook you up with. To be honest, this close… I'm pretty sure you can beat Phoenix alone." Bruce managed a shallow curl of the lips, which Kazuya imagines was meant to be interpreted as a smile. "Not like you needed me in the first place…" Bruce trailed away, his eyes drawing downwards.

Kazuya felt his hand wrap around that locket again, his jaw clenching. Bruce sat back in his own chair, exhaustion crossing his own face. Bruce wiped away his face slowly, with another shaky exhale. "What… What you gonna do?"

Kazuya remained silent. His hand refused to let go of the locket, no matter how he tried. Eventually, he found himself staring at Bruce silently. He wasn't searching for any answers, any assurances. Searching for any trustworthiness anymore.

Kazuya found himself staring at his training partner. Kazuya…. Kazuya remained silent.

Unfortunately, the guard could not be deterred by another gaze. "Alright. Come on, times up." "Wait a second, man." Bruce tried, but the guards seemed to lack patience today. Kazuya finally released the locket. His hand closed around it gently. Taking the photograph out of his pocket, Kazuya quickly slid it under the small gap in the glass.

Bruce hung up the phone immediately, his hand snatching down on the photograph within moments. Bruce's eyes turned back to Kazuya, his eyes regarding him with a new light… but, not before the guard hauled up by the arm. "Hand it over." Bruce turned to the guard, shrugging the arm. "Are you serious? It's a fucking photo, how-" "We don't know that." The guard repeated, his hand clamping around the arm. "Hand it over!"

"Not a hope." Bruce insisted, before he was roughly shoved out the door. The rough shoving was followed by the guard quickly latching onto Bruce's arm….. just before the other guard slammed the door shut. "Try it, try take-" The deafening noise of that door whirring shut completely blocked out all other noise.

Kazuya sat back in his chair. Kazuya could not help but draw his own eyes downwards… his hand retreating back to his locket. No. She cannot help you. Kazuya quickly withdrew his hand. Be quiet. For how long will you keep me quiet?

The silence of this cold prison facility, with the sole guard watching him… it echoed back a cold, familiar place to Kazuya. One he was comfortable in, but one he would never find happiness in. Time after time, you let this world pass you by, and step over you. How? I will exact payback for those who have wronged us. Why can you not help Bruce? How can I? This is not something I was ever involved in, or could even remotely control. You could control anything you wanted. If you let me out.

Kazuya's breathing intensified, his lip twitching. He needs someone to blame. Bruce did not kill the woman, that is what he said.

Lee must be behind this. Lee is trying to place him under pressure, Lee is…. Damn you. Damn you, Thompson. I will beat your face in, Phoenix. I despise you, Lee. You bastard, Heihachi.

Kazuya swore to himself. He swore at everyone he disliked, everyone he hated, everyone he abhorred… because, because Kazuya needed someone to blame for this. Casting stones upon himself is simple, and the others easy. Casting blame upon Bruce makes the most sense, but Kazuya just…

He couldn't bring himself to hate Bruce, no matter how much he wished he could. No matter how much he blamed Bruce for exacting his revenge in such a careless manner, in such a foolish way… in a right way. Why must these societies complicate their ideas of justice? Why must I tackle all these needless obstacles, to get a justified vengeance?

This is bringing out your weakness. You are acting far too weak to even aid him, and we both know that is untrue, Kazuya.

All you do is twist everything to your favour.

I would break it all.

Twisted mirror

"I'm finished for the day. Please?" The small boy could only focus on his mother. Everything else was a little too bright, a little too white. The small boy could never get used to the white. It was a savage thing, that pulled the comforting shade away with vicious intent.

I am lost without this dojo.

His mother sat, crossed legged, just in front of the shrine of the dojo, the flames illuminating parts of her face. The small boy stepped forward again. "Please, mother. I have been training all day!" She tilted her head to the side, but part of her face was shrouded by the flames of the lanterns. The small boy narrowed his eyes. He could see. He must be able to see her.

Why is…. what is stopping him? What is stopping her? He must see her. The small boy has put that pressure on himself, and he needs to see her face once more. "I know it may seem difficult, Kazuya." She turned back towards the flame. "But, he is only trying to prepare you." "For what?" The small boy stepped forward. "I am prepared! I…I want to meditate with you!"

She tilted her head to the side once more, and all the small boy could make out was a faint smile. A smile? That is not the smile the small boy remembers.

That is not the smile the small boy remembered for so long, that he held onto for some abstract sense of comfort when lost and alone. That is not that smile. "Don't look back, Kazuya." The small boy… what? He doesn't…

"Don't look back." She repeated. "There is no solace in the back."

The small boy took a step away, his eyes widening. Why… that is not what she said. It is what she should have said. Be quiet. No, she told me something more. She told me…. She told me… She told me something of greater importance.

The small boy slowly turned around, and once more, he saw the hulking figure of – the wolf. No. The small boy retreated back several steps. You cannot tamper with this. Show me his damn face. This is all you cling to, you pathetic wretch. Yet, you never strike against him. Shut up. Just be quiet. Now, you look upon me. Now, you remember who you truly are.

The small boy could not tear his eyes away from the wolf… it's glowing red eyes stared him down, completely blocking the door of the dojo. Why do you hope to escape? Just let me be. OUT. This will change nothing!

OUT. LET ME OUT.

REALITY.

Kazuya slammed the door shut, clutching his head. Why… now… Kazuya's leaned against the wall, his breathing growing heavier and heavier… you bastard. Sometimes, I cannot sit here and let you fall apart. Kazuya desperately stared around the small apartment, but it felt as if the walls were shrinking in upon him.

What was once foreign, now felt completely alien… Kazuya scrambled towards the living room. On his staggered journey, he knocked into the table, and knocked away all of the decorative content. Vases and bowls shattered on the ground, but Kazuya was.. Kazuya wretched. He is too strong today. Kazuya cannot… UGH. This will help us both.

Kazuya hunkered over, beginning to gasp. His chest… Kazuya grabbed at his shirt, and tore it off desperately. His scar, it was… there. His scar began to glow that dangerous shade of red, feeling as if a thousand spiders were prying out from his skin. Kazuya latched onto his chest with a clawing hand, as if trying to claw away this demon inside. No… he had gone so long. Kazuya had gone so long without… without… You want to be strong, Kazuya. You need to be reminded of why.

People will arrive, they will go on. They will let you down in the process. That is real.

Is this what justice has become? Forcing Kazuya to be ashamed of a man who was protecting his family? A child? How can you be ashamed of that? Kazuya forced his eyes closed… he can barely… catch his… ragged damned - breath. The telephone… he can get… old man. The old man. If he can… telephone Wang… he can prevent this – The old man is thousands of miles away.

Kazuya collapsed onto hands on knees, and retching – a puddle of black liquid flowed from his mouth. It burned his mouth, it caused his entire stomach to wretch as his lungs broke into a disgustingly foul hack. The telephone… the telephone… this is… rise from…Devil.

Kazuya would exactly have done what Bruce Irvin has done. In truth, Kazuya plans to do just that. When I am wronged, who are I to trust men who wear uniforms and talk to me as if I am a lifeless drone to do right by me? Am I to trust a bitter old man who waves a belt instead? Should I trust the man who cares for me only due to a fragmented last name and shared blood? Should I care for the man who utters empty platitudes, tells me to 'let it go', and returns to his unobstructed, relaxed life? WHY?!

You chastise me for showing loyalty to anything except my cursed blood. You curse me for my silence, but you shun me for my honesty. You seek to suppress my physical violence, but you seek to ignore my own emotional torture. Let me do something about that.

It will never happen. That is not justice. I am told that is justice, but by all that Kazuya loved, that was never justice. I must right my own wrongs, I must do that myself. Do it. Only I know how I am wronged. The rest will never know. That is how I serve myself. Kazuya believes that. Yet, you never enforce it.

I do. I… I need to. Another flood of dark liquid came flowing from his mouth, seeping every little drive, every little thrust of resistance Kazuya could have put forth. Kazuya turned his bulging eyes towards his skin… it was -faster than usual. His skin… his skin… was already turning violet.

Kazuya almost collapsed onto his stomach, his dark eyes fading… Kazuya grunted in pain, feeling- arm- twitch. It jumped….off the ground, and Kazuya could see…. Could see his skin was turning a…shade darker. I never asked… Kazuya can. He will exact revenge. Then, why here? What do you hope to accomplish, wandering to places like these? Away from your legacy? This is where I sleep. Please. This is not your home, Kazuya. No. I am sick of living in this house, I need to find a home. But, you will always prevent that. Why must you be so stubborn?

Believe in me. Help me believe in anything. I want to believe I can. It's the only path… Kazuya pushed himself off the ground, with an agonising shout. You will not defeat me. The old man… I do need him. Now, you do not need him. There is someone.

You are pathetic. Are you seriously considering her? Kazuya raised himself to both hands and knees… There is a reason you despise her so.

Kazuya forced his eyes closed, trying to block out that agony – The look on her face was so easy, so relaxed…. So peaceful. It suited the greenery around them perfectly… she was almost glowing. Jun tilted her head. "Well, I suppose focusing defeats the purpose of this, doesn't it?"

This is not real. Let me out. Through his dreams. She sprinted to and fro, searching far and wide for that rabbit…on repeat, she would always run through his dreams. Jun Kazama would not be satisfied – Enough. Believe in me. Kazuya pushed himself up further, his… his damn purple arms trembling with every movement…

Truth be told, I am resigned to this lifestyle. The life I live is a lonely one. I have accepted that long ago. I have seen friends come and go, I have seen interests fade away, I have seen life leave eyes and have seen passion drain away from the heart. I have watched men's soul shatter, I have watched women's heart fracture and fade to dust. I have been left all alone, nothing but the haunting curtain of family shrouding over me. I have been at peace with it at times. I have despised it at others. But, I have never lov- ENOUGH.

What else can I possibly have? I am alone, with the same voice in my head. DEAD. I am left without nothing, so why can't I enjoy these moments while they DIE? It becomes so dark to see sometimes, and knowing my fate will always end up with these brief moments of solitude… it is a dreadful thing to believe this will repeat. Alone in the latest place I could call 'my room', endlessly destroying body and mind for the sake of REVENGE. Believe in me.

The most important goal I ever wanted was to exact revenge. But, that is not… that is not the only goal I ever wanted to achieve. I have to be lost in these moments, because so many times, they're all I have. Everything else is fleeting in my life. I cannot simply demand that they give me what I can never ask for.

I cannot connect with them through sheer willpower, if my pride and power would suffer through that. My path is scattered with thorns, and it is one… it is one I am forced to walk alone. The path to revenge is so lonely, even if the destination is satisfying. Give me these fleeting moments. Damn you, just give me these moments of solitude. Believe in me. Everybody else would IN YOUR HEAD taking my journey. Words will never do my intentions justice. Only my actions. And, my fe- my fe-

ENOUGH.

Kazuya collapsed onto his stomach. His influence is exactly what you need. Kazuya felt that clatter on the floor… that glint… that glint.. of gold. Kazuya turned his head slowly, agony coursing through his blood with every movement. This is in your best interest, Kazuya.

You used to run through my veins. Kazuya forced his arm out from under his stomach… the locket was open. He could make out her face… a faint picture, but one that was painted beautifully, straight from his memory, as only a woman of her stature could be. Even Paul Phoenix would leave behind such whimsical thoughts.

Kazuya reached for that comforting embrace of gold.. his arm was more than trembling now. The natural colour of his skin was almost long gone, vicious purple having its way with him…

I'm not afraid of the true thoughts that rise from my genuine feelings. This is for your own good. I must remedy this. Kazuya's fingers stretched out once more, his growing fingers clawing at the wooden floor… only inches away from the locket.

Kazuya gasped… and, that would be the last gasp Kazuya would make. Do not leave me blind, Jun. Stop trying to reach for her.

She will never do the same for you.

Kazuya felt his gasps become more inhuman. He felt his entire body thrash around, the heat from his scar finally… helplessly, powerlessly… overwhelming….

"Let me out."

30

Session 1, Paul Phoenix

Jun: Testing… one, two. Everything is… sorry. Everything is clear.

Jun: Well, I never believed this would happen. You are a difficult man to get a hold of, Paul.

Paul: Man, if you're willing to come all the way to Omaha just to talk to me, I think you've more than earned your time, Ms Kazama.

Jun: Please, it is Jun. I would not call it a long journey. Besides, it is worth travelling to hear a story such as yours.

Paul: Try making it six times a week, pal. Then call it short.

Jun: If you have not connected the puzzle yet, I am sitting here with the current Superfights champion, two time Judo world champion and San Francisco's favourite son, Paul Phoenix.

Paul: Favourite son? That's a new one… that's a good one.

Paul: Thanks for putting up with me when I'm at this. Has to be done, though.

Jun: Paul is currently building some kind of wired wall outside of his parents barn. I assume it is to keep out the fox and other wildlife animals?

Paul: Wired wall? Serious? You takin the piss outta me, Jun?

Jun: I'm sorry? Did I offend you?

Paul: Alright, for the record, this is what we call a barbed wire fence over here. So, I guess in Japan you ain't familiar with that, but it's a spiky metal thing designed to keep things that come from the outside, getting in.

Jun: That could just be me. You see, I also come from a rural region. Yakushima, off the coast of Japan. We live a secluded life out there.

Paul: How do you keep fox outta your chicken coops?

Jun: Chicken aren't commonly kept in Yakushima.

Paul: Right, it's a big fishing place or something? I've done my research, Jun. Know your enemy.

Jun: Enemy? Have I offended you, Paul Phoenix?

Paul: Well, the company you keep ain't exactly a best friend of mine.

Jun: The company I keep is for the sake of my work. I am unbiased journalist.

Paul: I'm just messing with you, Jun. Don't worry.. my beef is just with Kazuya. If I went beating up everybody who hung around with my rivals, there'd be nobody left.

Jun: 'There is always a bigger fish'. As my father would say.

Paul: Watch your feet. Think there's a badger burrow round there.

Paul: Miss… Jun, who did you say you work for again?

Jun: I do not. These are confidential interviews, for the Kazama dojo.

Paul: You go around interviewing fighters just to show your parents?

Jun: No, not… it is for the Kazama dojo. That includes the entire Kazama clan.

Paul: All due respect, Miss Kazama, but I have no idea how you've gotten this far.

Jun: Why is that?

Paul: Well, you ain't got credentials, and you haven't even asked me a question related to the fight.

Jun: Oh. Apologies, I often get side-tracked. Some of the stories I hear are quite immersive.

Paul: Hey, I ain't complaining. I've been talkin' to the same heads recently, about the same old shit.

Jun: Paul, you are quite a….direct individual.

Paul: Direct? Ain't that a polite way to say someone can be an asshole sometimes?

Jun: Of course I do not think you are an… hole!

Paul: Hey, I'm sure that's not what you've been told.

Jun: Hmm. I only say that as…you do remind me of someone.

Paul: Don't think I do, Jun.

Jun: You would be surprised.

Paul:

Jun: Well, what has surprised me is Omaha. I would love to know more.

Paul: Is it that interesting?

Jun: Of course.

Paul: Yeah… I guess it is. That's just the cynic in me. I'm gonna need those pliers behind you. The yellow ones.

Jun: I was not expecting you to be born in a rural region such as this.

Paul: I ain't a rural guy.

Jun: How so?

Paul: I dunno. I just ain't. I mean, my family are part redneck, all my childhood friends were farmers… but, I never was. It just wasn't a part of me. I was an Omaha city boy, above all else.

Jun: Forgive the intrusion, but you were raised in rural Nebraska. Surely, that will always remain a 'part of you'.

Paul: See, that's the thing about Midwest states. We ain't city folk, but we're also not full bred rednecks. We're stuck somewhere in the middle… without a stereotype foreigners can recognize, I suppose. Could you pass the hammer? The one with the fork on the other side.

Jun: Well, stereotypes are a funny concept. More often than not, they are self-fulfilling prophecies.

Paul: What'd you mean?

Jun: Most people do not fall in the category of their stereotypes. However, due to people's expectations, they eventually fall into the role of that stereotype. It is almost like somebodies perceptions becoming reality.

Paul: That's kinda cynical for you of all people to say.

Jun: It is?

Paul: Yeah, I mean, you're coming from the point of view that everyone just lives to pleases others. Lots of people'd be too stubborn to end up like that.

Jun: You are assuming people do not enjoy the role of their stereotype. Some may revel in embracing it, and making it their own.

Paul: What'd you driving at here?

Jun: To be frank, that was my first thought of you, Paul. You fell into a certain 'tough American man' persona, but it seems you've made that identity your own.

Paul: Thanks for that… compliment, I suppose.

Jun: You are welcome. You should be honoured.

Paul: What about you? What stereotype are you then?

Jun: I do not know, yet I am sure someone can identify what group I may fall into.

Paul: What do you think of the birds in Nebraska?

Jun: I… they are beautiful. Many of the most colourful do not come out until winter, but I did notice two American Goldfinches. Magnificent creatures, with a gorgeous yellow coat.

Paul: You see any robins around?

Jun: Yes. They seemed to be the most common bird in the local area. Robins are elegant creatures.

Paul: Yeah, elegant. But, it's hard to notice them after a while, right? There's just too many of them around.

Jun: You do. But, that is true of much things. Not just bird watching.

Paul: Suppose. I guess I don't really think about things that way.

Jun: Could you enlighten me of how you do think?

Paul: Sorry. Can't tell personal stuff like that to the enemy.

Jun: I would not be the enemy if I was not persistent.

Jun: I apologize, this interview has gone sideways. We are talking of things that may not be of any interest to you.

Paul: Interest? Nah, it's a break from the usual shit a reporter would ask me. Waffling is some of the most enjoyable chats to have anyway. Just ask Lee Chaolan.

Jun: I would like to ask you about Lee, rather than ask him directly.

Paul: You still hurt over that? Don't take it personally, he's a weird guy.

Jun: No.. well, yes. I am insulted, to a degree, about that incident. But, I am referring to your relationship with him.

Paul: What about it?

Jun: Well.. how did it occur? The general consensus seems to be that you two seem like an odd pairing.

Paul: It was just a natural thing. It felt natural, y'know? I had my reservations, but once we got into training, everything began to flow. He's unorthodox, but once he gets his point across, I can feel it click in my head. Body just follows after, y'know? I finally got what he was trying to teach me. He's a great trainer to have.

Jun: You did not answer my question.

Paul: I ain't gonna. Ain't your business.

Jun: That is fair. So, you feel Lee is the cause for your edge that will help you theoretically beat Kazuya?

Paul: Without a doubt. Before him, I had holes in my game. Holes that are hard to exploit, but Kazuya would have ate me alive. Lee has cut all that out.

Paul: He's forced me to sharpen out the rough edges. Perfectin' my weaknesses, work on some new tricks that are specifically designed to target Kazuya's weaknesses. Lee has this idea in this head, and only he knows how to do it, y'know?

Jun: That is a conception I hear about Lee. His director role in the Mishima Zaibatsu may lend credence to this, but many have coined him a 'mad genius'.

Paul: Yeah, that's what I'd call him. I mean, have you ever seen the guy tinker with that fuckin watch of his? The things gotta about three arms, a tail and its own tongue at this point.

Jun: He is a mysterious man.

Paul: Runs in the family, by the sounds of it.

Jun: Speaking of, I am surprised by how welcoming your mother was. She is a very sweet lady.

Paul: That's my momma. She sees a mouth that needs feeding and ear that's not lent, she'll oblige.

Jun: How does she feel about your fighting career? Is she involved in many respects?

Paul: You love getting personal.

Jun: The most fascinating stories are the true ones.

Paul: She ain't thrilled with it. To be frank, none of my family were. I was fighting an uphill battle trying to get to San Francisco.

Jun: What changed?

Paul: Her willpower. I guess she realised I wasn't gonna stop, that this wasn't just a phase. I've always been hellbent on fighting, and I needed to become the best. Nothing else made sense.

Jun: So, your journey began with the path of most resistance.

Paul: That's an understatement. All I've ever faced is resistance. Hell, do you see a fighting scene in Nebraska? Back before I could afford the crazy rent, I drove myself down to San Francisco five times a week just to train.

Paul: Back then, too, I was just a kid with some amateur cred. I wasn't getting any pro fights, so all I was doing was training, with nothing else going on and no kind of.. of income at all. Giving, and not getting back. Well, I had my hope, I guess. My hope that somebody would finally fuckin notice me.

Paul: Sorry, I'll watch my tongue.

Jun: That is alright. English swearing is not a problem. So, do you believe your resistance got greater, or lesser as your fighting career progressed?

Paul: Both. When I started winning tournaments, when I picked up a few national championships, I started getting respect. In that way, I felt a lot more established. I was only 21, 22, and guys were coming up to me for advice, for help.

Paul: That's always a little jarring, and kind of an honour. It still feels weird to me. I may feel like a big man with this big fight, but I'm only 24, y'know? I know I can't be the best of all time being that young. But, I can be the best for now.

Jun: But, you still face resistance?

Paul: Oh yeah, of course. I've got tougher competition, I've got to hustle more to live up to the opportunities I've earned. I gotta train way harder than I've trained yesterday. I got way higher expectations now.

Paul: A guy like Marshall will show you that. He won't give me an inch, man. He'll chew me out, he'll pick apart all my fights. Getting a compliment from that guy is like finding a needle in a shed full of hay. But, in a way, that's the best compliment you can get. That means someone's genuinely trying to help you. If someone tells you how good you are all the time, you'll never improve, y'know.

Jun: Your mindset is admirable.

Paul: Nah, it ain't my mindset. It's routine.

Jun: Routine? So, your routine is more stringent than others?

Paul: Sure. I'm no more mentally strong than Marshall, Lee or anyone else I train with. I'm just a man at the end of the day, y'know? People seem to forget that. I just have a routine, that I force myself to follow every day. That's what keeps my work ethic in check. Fuck that 'built different' shit that I'm always hearing.

Jun: I'm sorry if that was offensive. I meant nothing by it.

Paul: Nah, I don't take it personally. I just don't like when people try to give me the 'you're a machine', 'you're cut from a different cloth' deal. I ain't no different to anyone else. I'm just the guy who gets up, and does what all those other idiots preach about.

Paul: It's all ass licking bullshit. I grew up with nothing, not an ounce of natural talent or toughness to my name. I was just a speccy kid who daydreamed a lot and got bullied. But I just got that routine, to make sure I end my career with something.

Jun: You are uncomfortable taking compliments?

Paul: Yeah, sometimes. That's not the kind of attention I want.

Paul: Can you just keep the pliers near me? Thanks.

Jun: Surely the respect of your peers is the greatest honour a fighter can have.

Paul: Yeah, course. But, there's a difference between respect and begging. Some people beg for attention by licking your ass. It's a like a game for some fighters. They give you a compliment, only so they can get a compliment outta you. I swear they get some high out of it, it gives them some sad little thrill. I don't have time for that shit, and it pisses me off to no end about this industry.

Jun: Do you not enjoy the positivity being shared around the community?

Paul: It's not honest. It's fake shit for the sake of ego. One guy will tell you 'great fight, man' to your face, before slating your entire performance once your back is turned. It's that kind of bullshit that makes me tighten my circle in this industry. Hell, I've been guilty of it myself, cause I spent too much time around that bullshit. It will just drive you to bitterness if you allow yourself to play into it. Which everyone does anyway.

Jun: Paul, I will make an observation here. I hope you do not take any offence to it.

Paul: That's never a good line to hear.

Jun: I think neither you nor Kazuya realise how similar you are.

Paul:

Jun: Perhaps, bringing those similarities to light will help you both respect, and understand each other.

Paul: Don't start this shit.

Jun: Excuse me?

Paul: So, we share one opinion? That makes us similar human beings? That means I'd share a drink with him in a bar? That means in another life, we'd be best friends?

Jun: I cannot tell you what it means. I was only making an observation.

Paul: Jun, I hope you do not take any offence to this. Regardless to what the hell goes on between you and Kazuya.

Jun: I will try.

Paul: I am going to fucking break Kazuya's face.

Jun: Paul, I assure you, what I said was true. This is a confidential interview. You do not need to put on a public pe-

Paul: Nah. I mean that. It doesn't matter if somebody goes in there, and I respect them or not. It matters if they respect me. Cause, when I go in there, I want to hurt people. I go in there looking for blood, looking for pain, looking for fucking death. It's how I have to think.

All that I've sacrificed for this, and they don't respect what I'm fucking capable of? They better respect me.

Jun: Paul-

Paul: This is all I have. I'm an angry guy, Jun. I've had the woman… the woman I loved tell me that. I had every person who's called me a friend say I need to fucking 'calm down'. My own fucking mother has told me she's afraid of who's on the wrong side of my temper!

Paul: That's the reason I'm a champion. That's the fucking reason I give, and give, and give, and GIVE for this. I have to walk into that cage carrying demons nobody will ever know. I have to- obsess over that. Don't even try to play the comradery card, cause I guarantee you Kazuya feels the same!

Jun: Of course he does. That is what worries me.

Paul: Well, it's the truth, Jun. I'm sorry if that's too much to hear, but you wanted an honest interview. So, don't try tell me we should be friends. Don't push your fuckin bullshit agenda on me.

Jun: I…

Jun:

Paul:

Jun:

Jun: I'm sorry if I overstepped any boundaries. I will cross this interview out of the record, if you wish.

Paul: Nah….nah, don't do that. Jesus. Sorry. Sorry, I shouldn't have gotten worked up, man.

Jun: Well, I was quite enjoying this interview beforehand. I hope you could say the same.

Paul: Yeah… yeah, I was. It was going good. Sorry again.

Paul: Listen…you're more than welcome to join us for dinner. My mother makes this lovely beef stew, and she usually has an apple crisp in the oven too.

Jun: I… I would love to. I have not tried any Nebraska-home cooking.

Paul: I'm sure it's almost ready. I'll….. I'll go in and check.

31

Shame. Is that the most degrading emotion a man can feel? Perhaps, it all depends on who you define as a man, or in that case, which of those men you would classify as warriors. Kazuya knows he would not call himself a 'man' at this point. It is… well, this is why he would not. Kazuya may still have claim to the title of warrior, however.

Kazuya slowly stepped out onto the pavement of the quiet road, his exhausted eyes scanning the horizon. Kazuya imagines this is what drunkards must feel as they awaken in the morning, after an evening of embarrassing their entire identity for the sake of validation and potential female companionship. At least the pathetic drunkards can control if they consume alcohol.

Kazuya began to slowly cross the road, his eyes fixed on the pole ahead. Some of us are not granted the luxury of choice. Come now, Kazuya. You and I both needed that. Panic rose in Kazuya for a moment, as he grasped his pockets… oh. Yes, it was left in the apartment.

The last being Kazuya would possibly need to hear from is you. You will thank me when it is all said and done. At the rate you are dragging me along, I may not live to be granted that choice. Kazuya finally reached the pole, leaning against it for a moment to steady himself. Kazuya, I will not let you die. Oh, you will not let me? Noble of you. Please shut up now.

Kazuya took a few steady breaths, blinking back against the breeze. How long must I feel this way?

His shirt was still discarded on his bare apartment floor. Kazuya cannot remember if Devil had locked the door. Kazuya cannot remember anything Devil does, and frankly, it is one occasion where ignorance can be bliss. That is the one privilege he has over the drunkards. No control, yet no memory.

Kazuya drew his gaze downwards, to his tattered jeans. Many might cut holes out for 'stylish' reasons, or whatever these people do, but Kazuya can allow you, this is not by design. This is not how a respectable warrior should dress.

Again, why should Kazuya care? He is not a warrior here. Out here, on the outskirts of… wherever he is. He is no warrior. He is just… he is just there. With the wind, and this lone pay telephone accompanying him, he is just here lost near nowhere. Kazuya slowly trudged towards the telephone, reaching into his pocket.

It would not be like him to destroy, but thankfully, Kazuya had enough spare dollar coins to make the right call. A shaky hand was raised, that eventually found its way to the slot. Once again, Kazuya found himself reciting a telephone number he had recited to memory. Each time a calloused finger struck the large pad, there was a faint red smear left on the numbers.

Kazuya paid it no heed. He was well used to his callouses bleeding. Whatever wounds he caused in his…ventures aren't ones that he will be scarred with. Or, perhaps they will scar. He has never had a scar on his finger before.

Once more, he could hear the loud ringing fall on empty ears. Kazuya pressed the receiver to his ear silently, his head bowed all the while. It is relieving to Kazuya that no cars were potentially passing him by, even if it seemed so unlikely.

The solitude of shame is something he must share alone, or else more harm may be caused within the clutches of shame. I cannot bend any further. Kazuya clutched the receiver tighter at those words, forcing his hand to stop shaking. Eventually, he heard the receiver answer. "Hello?"

Kazuya did not speak for several moments. He stared at the silver buttons, completely smeared by the blood left across the keypad. "Kazuya?" Wang repeated. "Apologies, my young friend. This modern technology continues to confound me."

Kazuya still remained silent. Do not call me that. That is what he would say. An instinctual response. Kazuya could even feel his mouth tracing the words, his tongue striking his pallet on each one. But, he did not utter a word from behind his throat.

"Do you seek more advice?" Wang asked, his weary voice growing a touch gentler. Kazuya raised his hand, and placed his finger against the '0'. He did not apply any more pressure, to cause the key to compress. But, as he slowly removed his finger, the most vivid smear of blood remained across it. "Wang, why do you live…?" Kazuya trailed off. He had intended to add more to that question, but once again, his eyes was drawn to that blood. His mouth fell silent again.

"That is a simple question that never shares a simple answer, Kazuya." Wang eventually replied. Accommodating, as always. "I live… well, I live to honour my friends. Their memories." Kazuya raised his head slowly. "That is why you live? Or, is that your purpose?"

Wang fell silent once again. Kazuya leaned against the pole, his eyes not able to leave the tainted keypad. "Kazuya, do you know what the most seductive sin is?" Kazuya raised his eyes to the keypad again. "Greed."

Wang paused, and allowed that to settle. The wrong answer. "Passing judgment on others." Wang finally answered, his voice less hoarse than before. Kazuya raised his bloody finger again, carefully wiping over the '1'.

Wang cleared his throat. "The only justice is to follow the sincere intuition of the soul, angry or gentle. Anger is just, and pity is just, but judgement is never just." Kazuya withdrew his finger. Not this again. He clutched the headset tighter. Let him without sin cast the first stone. Kazuya exhaled slowly, his hand returning to the keypad. Sin is a western concept, and one Kazuya would never expect Wang to make reference to. However, Wang has lived for so long… there must be so much he merely accepts now. There must come a time in ones life where questioning becomes obsolete.

"When are you to return, Kazuya?"

Kazuya remained silent for another few moments. He slowly pressed his hand against the keypad. "Soon."

"Please do." Wangs voice raised an octave, his strained voice finally softening. Kazuya narrowed his eyes, his hand pressed against the keypad for several more moments. "Kazuya?" He heard the old man call again, his voice still a little hoarse.

Kazuya slowly removed the receiver away from his ears, and placed it back on the empty phone receiver. It clattered shut silently, and Kazuya found himself staring at the keypad once more. Suppressed. Be silent. Kazuya stepped away from the pay telephone, the breeze meeting him as soon as he was out in the open.

Kazuya craned his neck in both directions, but still witnessed no sign of any vehicles. Any people. Nor, even of any animals. Kazuya found himself staring up at the sky for a few moments. He is sure that even perhaps… Kazuya's dark eyes finally found it.

There. Flapping its dark wings, the crow seemed to be in a hurry. Whether to catch up to its flock, or perhaps to get away… the crow flapped its wings gracefully, yet with purpose.

Kazuya watched it silently, as it flew overhead, and disappeared over the gloomy horizon. "A beautiful bird, but common. One wonders why it moves with such purpose." Kazuya shook his head. That is what Jun Kazama would say. Kazuya slowly lowered his head, staring at the empty pavement ahead. You're in my mind's eye, but I still cannot truly see you. His blooded, dirtied fists were clenched within moments. Kazuya curled his lip, his eyes growing a shade darker. Purpose, or life. No matter what I believe, they are one and the same for me.

I will be this way until it is over.

32

He would never admit this to anyone, but secretly, he loves this. Just the simplicity of doing something like this right, and getting done the way you need it done. Paul pulled his sleeve up further. He's gotten into a nice rhythm as well, y'know. For housework, tasks and similar physical labour shit, it's important to get into rhythm. Paul will tell you, it doesn't matter if your mowing a lawn, cleaning out a shed or washing the dishes. Once you step into that rhythm, you're sorted.

Course, no one wants to admit that. Especially, in this industry.. it's all about work hard, and party harder. All for the sole goal of sniffing out some poor girl to top off a victory you had that night, or to commiserate a loss. But hell, how do you find a rhythm there? Off your face on alcohol, shouting in some random girls ear when she's dancing, all to showcase to your friends which one of you has the biggest dick. Because, in a world full of fake personas and macho auras, that's another bullshit scenario that apparently matters. There is no rhythm in that.

But, washing the dishes? That rhythm is just what Paul has fallen into. With the tune of 'Omaha' bursting out from Momma's small radio, (you know the Crows have to come on again) Paul was nice and collected in his rhythm washing all of these dishes here. In the middle of the night, there's an old man treading around in the gathered rain. Dip it in the sink. Scrub it clean. Place it on the drying rack. ""Hey mister if you want to walk on water. Would you drop a line my way?"

Simple, not easy though. You gotta be deliberate with the way Paul eats. Omaha. Somewhere in middle America.

There'll be chilli sauce all over the plate, not just in the centre or on the rims. Sometimes, some curry, and carbonara, depending on his diet and his patience on the day. "Leave that Paul. It's ok." Get right to the heart of matters. It's the heart that matters more.

Paul placed the dish carefully on the drying rack, before picking up a sizable handful of forks. "Nah, it's alright. I got it." Paul lifted his scrubber to the forks, but felt a miniature shove against him. I think you'd better turn your ticket in. And get your money back at the door.

Paul furrowed his eyebrows, before turning a befuddled gaze towards the sharp hazel eyes of his mother. "You're a guest now." She wagged a meaty finger at him, circling it around his face. "I won't have you cleaning up my mess." In the middle of the night there's an old man threading his toes through a bucket of rain.

"All of these were my meals." Paul started, but did not resist as his mother shoved him again. Paul stepped back. He was well used to his mother taking the wheel. It was something he did greatly appreciate in sentiment more than anything else, but Paul supposes that would also depend on the mood he was in. "Hey mister you don't want to walk on water. Cause you're only going to walk all over me."

Paul stepped back, as he glanced over towards his humble, beige suitcase. His mother had suggested another one, but Paul refused. He supposes that is where the controlling… it bothered Paul. The micromanagement used to drive him nuts when he was a teenager. He does remember clearly getting into a huge fight with his mother, because she tried to repack his bag when he first moved to San Fran. Omaha. Somewhere in Middle America. Right to the heart of matters… it's the heart that matters more.

It sounds fucking ridiculous, but Paul vaguely remembers she was going through a serious phase of micromanaging at that point. Paul guesses he felt his privacy had been invaded for the last time, and he just wanted to pack his own damn bag. Think you better turn your ticket in. And, get your money back at the door.

Paul leaned against his bag silently, watching his mother work away tirelessly. It is what she does though… she works.

She probably doesn't know much else, to be honest. Paul has never seen her know much else. Paul supposes the reason young people can't really imagine parents at their age because they just evolve another layer of their personality. Being a parent is like adding a completely new veil to your personality, rounding out those all exposed edges.. all that stuff that makes you more human. Well, if you're aiming to be a halfway decent parent, that is. You've gotta control a little more, you've got to be a little selfless, and a little more tolerant. Paul reckons having a kid must be like walking a cat. In the middle of the day there's a young man tolling around in the earth and rain.

It's so rare she can sit still these days. That's why Paul has had to… well, for the last while, he's had to just detach himself from everything that went on. He'd just step back, keep his mouth shut and stay out of the way. Arguing or convincing does take a lot of energy, and Paul needs that energy to prepare. "Hey mister if you're going to walk on water. You know, you're only going to walk all over me."

"I don't want to be late for training, Momma." Paul picked up his suitcase, his gaze flickering towards the awaiting front door. That whole cacophony of coats was waiting to stop him. The rainy coats, saved for rainy days – which were rare as it was in Nebraska – always were hung up by the door, and Paul felt like he had to battle his way through them every time he left the house. Omaha. Somewhere in middle America. Get right to the heart of matters, it's the heart that matters more. I think you'd better turn your ticket in. And get your money back at the door.

But, his momma does have a point. It ain't his house anymore, so he should respect the rules. "I'm almost finished." She called, in that breathy, rushed voice of hers. Paul silently nodded, turning towards the door once again. He had already taken care of the chickens and made sure the goat was well fed for the day, so those fulfilling duties were finished this time around. Oh, sweet Omaha. Sunday morning, I'm coming home today.

Paul had already moved his stuff by the doors by the time his momma had finally turned around. Her sandy blonde hair couldn't really distract from those exhausted bags under her eyes, that seemed to be a constant every time.

A thin smear of red lipstick, which enhanced those piercing eyes, was the only constant every time. Once more, when Paul locked eyes with her, he felt an overwhelming pang of sympathy. He's not sure why he does, and it always felt a bit condescending to entertain those thoughts.

"Are you sure you don't want to just throw the bike in the luggage area of the bus? You could still make the 7.30 bus." "Nah, that's alright, momma." Paul gripped onto the handle of his suitcase, a smile crossing his face. His momma folded her arms. "So, who are you training with this time? This new guy, right?"

"Yeah. Lee." Paul leaned against the bag. "He's a part of the Mishima family. They're the best fighters in the world right now, and not many come close." "Hmm. I see." His momma stared at him for several more moments, that gaze a little too intense for Paul. "Aren't you fighting someone from that family?"

"Yeah… His brother. Kazuya." His mother raised her eyebrows, before a smile crossed her face. "Well… I hope there's room for your mother on the night." Paul leaned against the bag slowly, his smile somehow remaining. "Yeah, course. I can get you ringside tickets."

Paul paused, his glance going towards the coats again. It was always the yellow jacket that caught his eye. It reminded him of that kid Georgie, from that It film. The first kid sucked in with the clown, with the paper boat or whatever.

"Momma, it ain't gonna be pretty." Paul turned back to his mother, his gaze finally matching his own mothers in intensity. "This guy is…. On another level from anyone else I've fought. He's a multiple time… champion. He's real tough." Paul cleared his throat, watching his mother's concerned eyes. "I'm gonna get hurt."

Paul looked into his Momma's eyes then, for the first time in a while. She still stood by the wall, her gaze remaining as the concern showed openly in her face. "Well.. I suppose that's the risks of moving up the ranks, right? You said this guy is the son of the greatest."

Paul tilted his head to the side, resisting the urge to look at the coats again. He had looked at the coats a lot. "Yeah." Paul did not know what else to say, as his gaze extended towards the window. It seems his mother shared that sentiment, as the silence stretched on for several more moments. He could see the goat from here, messing around up by the hedge. He swears there's something wrong with that Dotty.

Every time he sees the damn thing, it's always jabbing and slicing at the barbed wire with its horns. It's fairly desperate to get out onto the road. Paul knows the thing ain't stupid. She knows there's nothing but road there. But, that's goats for you.

"I have to go visit Cassie at the hospital. Her condition is getting worse… they think it's dementia." Paul raised his eyebrows. "Send her my well wishes." His mother nodded, looking away for a moment. "I'm trying to get into the habit of visiting her more often."

Paul turned back towards his mother, and met another warm embrace. His hands were loosed around her for several moments, again made aware of the sheer difference in stature. Remembering more words his momma told him, Paul wrapped his arms around her a little tighter, and squeezed.

Paul exhaled slowly, feeling his back unravel. His back rarely cracks these days. It's all those slams he takes on the mats, all that impact has just tightened up from years of wear and tear. But, sure, Paul will take his cracks when he can get them. Nothing like that little bit of relief he gets from those moments. They're like little endorphin adjustments.

"I suppose I'll see you next Friday." His momma's muffled voice finally came through. Paul pursed his lips, slowly loosening his grip around her. He could got a good look at the sink there.

Pauls pace had been fairly slow, but his mother just zipped through those dishes. She didn't rush them either, he bets every single one of them are spotless now.

Paul began to nod slowly, his gaze wandering again. "Yeah. See you there."

"Think about it… there must be higher love…" No wonder why… every step he takes is so disjointed. How the hell would most fighters even prepare for that? The clacking of the keyboard, along with the faint singing, didn't really distract Paul from his studies. "Without it… life is wasted time…"

Paul can't say he appreciates this makeshift concert that he's found himself in, but Paul also realised you have to get used to that spending any amount of extended time around Lee Chaolan. "Look inside of your heart…. I'll look inside of mine." Paul placed his hand on the tape player once again, and slowly began to rewound the video tape.

Every time he rewound it, Lee's singing began to bounce around the room in the brief silence that happened. His typing echoed alongside it, like some kind of mismatched, warbled rhythm. "Bring me a higher love! I could rise above, want a higher love!"

Paul stopped rewinding. Right there. The way he moved… He wasn't even bouncing off his toes. He was using the balls of his foot, and spinning in that unique way of his… like, is that even Mishima karate? The only person Paul has ever seen move like that is Kazuya. Nobody else could replicate those movements…. "What's the deal with that dash hook he does?" Paul asked.

Paul did not look over at Lee, intent at his desk working on his project. Paul had no doubt Lee did not look away from his own work either, as the clicking of the keyboard again. "He mostly utilises it as a counter maneuverer. It depends on his opponents stance. It will be a much faster counter if he's facing a more power based opponent. He will become more deliberate if he is working against a quicker opponent."

Lee's clacking intensified for a moment, before settling down once more. "Kazuya has always been a reactionary fighter. If your instincts can be a moment sharper, you can see begin to react to his erratic assaults." Paul nodded, grunting in response. His eyes glued to the screen, he played the tape again.

Studying tape has been hard for Paul recently. I guess, he just finds it hard to study to learn anymore. He likes to sit back, and just enjoy the fights for what they are. He has his own stuff down, and he feels like he can adapt that to any opponent. But, he'd be a fucking idiot if he didn't study every little counter, move and mannerism Kazuya relies on.

"Paul, I do not mean to intrude, but you seem rather sombre today." Paul heard the clacking had come to a stop, and heard an uneven clinking noise. Paul could tell Lee was fiddling with that little thing on his desk. Last time Paul caught a look at it, it looked like some kind of metallic bird… it would totter around the desk, offering out pens to Lee. He heard the thing caw once or twice, and Paul just reckons it's on the hour. Multipurpose, he supposes, but you could just get a clock.

Paul doesn't know what half the other machines in Lees office do. But, they look fairly interesting, and he's never seen anything like them before. Wherever the hell he gets the idea to make metallic birds is a weird one, but hey. Some people are just naturally creative. Only thing Paul feels halfway creative with is the art of his own fists.

Paul did not tear his eyes away from the screen, as Kazuya hit that.. brutal uppercut. "I'm good." Paul eventually answered, remembering Lee had asked him something. Paul quickly leaned over to the machine, and paused again. There it was. "See that, man?" The footage was blurry, and it was hardly a good indicator of what he thought he saw. But, he swears. Every time Kazuya hits that electric wind… uppercut of his, he sees it. It's brief, but he always sees it. Pauls fingers were fixed right on the digitised look on his face. "Lee, c'mere."

The clacking would come to an eventual halt. "Paul, while I am glad you are so invested in studying Kazuya at 2pm in my office, I do have a corporation to manage." Paul kept his finger fixed on that spot in Kazuya's face. Lee's saunter came to a stop, as he hunkered over. Paul kept his finger pressed against the screen, until Lee had that elusive gaze right where Paul was directing him. "That commonly happens with video and photos, Paul. It is due to how the flash reacts to the red connective tissue in the back of the eye."

"Nah, can't be." Paul removed his finger, and rewound the image again. Kazuya's arm wound back, just before the vicious impact. "Every time he's hit that uppercut, his eyes went red."

"I suppose you would not believe that the image has conveniently corrupted every time." Lee placed a gloved hand on his chin, licking his lips slowly. "These tapes are hardly of superior quality."

Paul lowered his hand again. Silently, he pressed play on the tape. As fast as lighting, Kazuya moved. The electricity soaring through his arm, he spun, and caught his poor opponent right under the jaw.

Paul paused again, right at that spot. That vicious snarl. The eyebrows furrowing. His eyes widening, as they… for a split second… turned a vicious shade of bright red. That look of pure hatred that crossed the young Mishima's face, even for this second, was a fuckin twisted one. Paul clenched his fist, and slowly turned towards Lee. The look on Lee's face didn't give any Paul any satisfactory answers.

Lee wore that smile again. That coy one, that slightly…. Slightly unsettling one, that Paul did not like to see on his trainers face in the slightest. "Paul, have you ever heard of the theory of unknown knowns?" Paul tilted his head to the side, his eyebrows furrowing. He just couldn't tear his eyes away from those… those fucking eyes. But, he knew Lee wouldn't say another a word without Pauls attention.

"An 'unknown unknown' is ignorance of something someone does not know. An 'unknown known' however, is a reflection of wilful ignorance. You purposely ignore the existence of something, to suit your own narrative or simply because it is more practical to ignore, than fear the truth."

Lee placed his hand on Pauls shoulder. "I sincerely mean no offence when I say this, my friend. However… I remember one of my favourite quotes from a novel I just finished, 'Crusaders Cross." Lee slowly stood up, that contemplative gaze fixed on Paul. "'Jimmie would forever be the Renaissance humanist. Bearing his faith and optimism like a white light inside a broken chalice.'" Paul finally turned his head at that, his eyebrows furrowing. He had… well, fuck. I guess he did have an answer of some sort, even if it was Lee's usual bullshit. "So, you're telling me ignore what's inside of him."

The clacking began again. "I am saying that white lights in general are rarely always as pure as they seem, Paul." Paul turned back towards the screen, looking at that snarl, that grimace… that twisted, almost… almost inhuman expression. The Mishima's are a complicated family. Everyone and their momma knows that.

But, I suppose, Paul has treated them.. well, sure Lee just said it. He's treated many of their reputation as an 'unknown known'. He admired them as fighters, and paid no attention to anything else. Paul doesn't regret that decision. All the same, Paul does hope that Kazuya has good reason to carry around such demons. Paul will not back down from facing that expression. But, it's off-putting.

"Lee." Paul called once more, his voice a little quieter. Paul paused, as the clacking continued throughout. Paul tilted his head, licking his lips. He cleared his throat, before he asked the next question. "What happens when this fight is over?" Paul turned all the way around, until he was staring at Lee sitting at his desk.

Lee was gradually slowing his typing, his hand coming to the metallic bird, still tottering around at its own pace. Lee laid a gentle, gloved finger on its head, and it immediately came to a stop. "Well, are you referring to your inevitable victory, or in the unlikely case of a loss?" Paul sighed, shaking his head slightly. "I just mean when it's all over. What's next?"

Lee's mouth slowly opened… he raised a gloved finger, and brushed a strand of silver hair out of his eye. Lee placed both his hands, palm down on the table…Paul was waiting. Paul waited as Lee finally met his gaze, those eyes airing that confident, eccentric aura once more.

"I can tell you what I will do." Lee began, his eyes reverting back to the desk. Lee licked his lips slowly again, before breaking into a smile.

Lee nodded then, that mischievous smirk slowly spreading across his face. "Paul, I will buy you a well-earned glass of bourbon."

33

Session 3, Kazuya Mishima

Jun: Kazuya, you have been difficult man to get in touch with.

Kazuya: Have I?

Jun: Yes. You have not been answering your telephone.

Kazuya: I did not believe you were in San Francisco

Jun: Where did you believe I was?

Kazuya: Interviewing Phoenix.

Jun: I did interview Paul at his home. Does that bother you?

Kazuya: Would it matter if it did?

Jun: Not professionally.

Kazuya: Professionally…

Kazuya: Why must you be so coy?

Jun: Coy about what? I do not understand?

Kazuya: You are the one who is supposed to understand.

Jun: Kazuya, I am not sure what is the matter. But, do you not think this is something that can wait?

Kazuya: Recorded or not…Why does it matter? It is all the same. None of it will make a difference. The lines in the sand have already been drawn. You are the only one who can read them.

Jun: Kazuya….

Kazuya: You ask so many questions. Yet, all you have ever done is shroud yourself in mystery.

Jun: No more than you.

Kazuya: Have I not been honest and forthcoming?

Jun: At times.

Kazuya: I want honesty from you, Jun Kazama. Why are you truly here?

Kazuya: Do not tell me about journalistic integrity. Who are the Kazama dojo? What are their intentions?

Jun: They… Kazuya. Do you wish to know my families intentions, or mine own?

Kazuya: I want to know there is a difference between the two.

Jun: What I want may not be easy for you to understand.

Kazuya: I will try.

Jun: I want to…. Help people.

Kazuya: That is what they all want.

Jun: 'They'?

Kazuya: Be in my corner come Friday.

Jun: Sorry?

Kazuya: I want you to be in my corner.

Jun: You have a funny way of prepositioning a lady, Kazuya Mishima.

Kazuya: Will you be in my corner or not?

Jun: Would it matter if I was?

Kazuya: Not to the fight.

Jun: Kazuya, I understand that losing Bruce must be hard. I… I am not sure what you went through over the last week. I am more than willing to share an ear if you need one.

Kazuya:

Jun: Kazuya, I truly do believe making decisions like this in impulse… they are not always wise.

Kazuya: Damn wisdom. Will you record this?

Jun: Only if you want me to.

Kazuya: I can fight without Bruce. His trouble is his own doing.

Jun: Yet, you need me in your corner.

Kazuya: Not need.

Jun: That is what you said.

Kazuya: I said I… I want it.

Jun: Kazuya, may I ask you a question? Before you interrupt, I swear that I will answer any question you have for me as honestly as possible.

Kazuya: What do you swear upon?

Jun: The confidentiality of our sessions.

Kazuya:… Ask.

Jun: Why is this fight with Paul Phoenix such an obsession for you? Despite a clash of personalities, there must be something else driving you.

Kazuya: He is the final obstacle.

Jun: Obstacle. You have used similar verbiage in the past. What does that mean? Obstacle to what?

Kazuya: To Heihachi.

Jun: Is that truly it?

Kazuya: On my mother's memory.

Jun: You have gone this far, only as preparation for your father?

Kazuya: Jun Kazama, nobody will ever understand why I must be the one to defeat him.

Jun: Paul is just a means to an end.

Kazuya: Yes.

Jun: I do not think you believe yourself as you say that.

Kazuya: What did you say?

Jun: I have no doubt the issues you have with your father drive you. I also respect you enough not to ask you about that at this time.

Kazuya: Good.

Jun: But, you do not take a rivalry this far, simply to progress another rivalry. This has evolved into something else.

Kazuya: I am a bitter man, Jun Kazama.

Jun: You are not that bitter.

Kazuya: What do you wish for me to say?

Jun: I want you to honestly admit why you detest Paul Phoenix.

Kazuya: As long as Phoenix remains undefeated, I will never be deemed worthy to face Heihachi.

Jun: That is why you spat in the man's face?

Kazuya: Will you answer my question?

Jun: Kazuya.

Kazuya: I see no point in divulging in my philosophy now.

Jun: Why is that? That is exactly what I want to hear from these interviews, Kazuya-san.

Kazuya: Because, my philosophy will never be shared, nor understood.

Jun: That is what they all say.

Kazuya:….

Jun: Kazuya, if your philosophy is never shared, then how can you expect it to be understood?

Kazuya: I hate everything Paul Phoenix represents.

Jun:

Kazuya: I know exactly what a man like Paul Phoenix fights for.

Jun: Pride? Ambition? Fulfilling a dream?

Kazuya: Immaturity. Ego. Arrogance.

Jun: I have never seen such traits in Paul.

Kazuya: He preaches his work ethic for validation. He travels and trains, puts his body through beatings and punishment… for dreams of bright lights. Of infamy, of being beloved, of becoming a god in his own little world. All of his flaws will be forgotten, because Paul Phoenix will be our fighting hero.

Kazuya: Ego comes with a blindness, a blindness that is fuelled by adulation and fed with acceptance. The boy knows nothing of being tested. The boy can claim sacrifice, but he has never lived a life of suffering like I have. Yet, he claims he can stand in battle with me? He can defeat me?

Jun: Well,-

Kazuya: I have been seen death and loneliness far too many times in my lifetime, Jun Kazama. I know I will see much more where I plan to go.

Kazuya: I will not let any man deter me from what I must do. I see a great fighter in Paul Phoenix. But, I hardly see a great man. I hardly see a tested man, nor a scarred man. He does not have the willpower to sacrifice all – ALL I have left behind.

Kazuya: I see a naïve little boy. A naïve little boy that will never understand the true reason a man like me must fight.

Jun: I…. I understand.

Kazuya:….

Kazuya: I am aware.

Jun: His path may seem shallow to you Kazuya, but yours seems so…. So lonely. Lonely, and resentful.

Kazuya: So I am told.

Jun: Very well. You have honoured your side of our agreement.

Kazuya:

Jun: You are not going to ask me about my family?

Kazuya: I truly do not care.

Jun: That was a rather quick change of heart.

Kazuya: Some mysteries… I don't think I should ever know the answer to, Jun Kazama. Perhaps, it is best I accept that, in order to continue down the beaten path I have bound for myself. However, I…

Jun:

Kazuya: Do you believe me to be insane?

Jun: Insane?! Of course not.

Kazuya: Then, why do you hesitate much more than I?

Jun: Hesitate…

Kazuya: Do you believe in my reason? Is that why you found me?

Jun: ….

Kazuya:

Jun: I believe we both may have found each other. Something has drawn us together, Kazuya-san. Though for what purpose, I am not sure yet. Something much greater than what we both originally believed.

Kazuya:

Jun: Well… I am not sure what else can be said.

Kazuya:

Jun: Now… it is the time you have been waiting, and training for. This fight with Paul means so much to you… it does to him too.

Kazuya: And to you?

Jun: Of course it does. In a battle of philosophies, it is the greater will that will prevail. And… Kazuya. If this was any other circumstance, I would be in your corner. But, I cannot. I… I hope you will understand soon.

Kazuya: You hope.

Jun: Yes… I am not sure when we will get the chance to speak like this again.

Kazuya: Hmm.

Kazuya: It is a small world, Jun Kazama.

Jun: Well, there you go. Unlikely optimism coming from Kazuya Mishima. I never would have believed I would see the hour.

Kazuya: You do not know all you think you know, Jun Kazama.

Jun: I see… well. I do wish you the best, Kazuya Mishima. I hope you do know I did consider you a dear friend over these months… despite… despite all that has unravelled this last week. If it is a small world, I have no doubt our paths will cross once more. I hope circumstances will be different.

Kazuya:

34

It made no difference to Kazuya. He was so accustomed to unwarranted attention, to several eyes drawn upon him with scorn…. It had become his ethos. What would one expect doing what Kazuya did… travelling to defeat the heroes of the land. However, even he did not a reception as…. raucous as this one.

As soon as Kazuya stepped out from behind that curtain, and the crowds of the stadium met him… the resentment bellowed through the entire building. Kazuya stopped, his eyes drawn across the entire crowd.

You could not look anywhere without seeing an energetic observant, and all of these… 'fans' were making their voice heard. Kazuya expected no less, and it made very little difference to Kazuya. However… as Kazuya looks across the entire crowd, as Kazuya locked eyes with several of the jeering, bellowing fans. Kazuya could feel their energy.

It is rare he could these days. He has competed in so many different scenarios, from alleys to jungles, from exercise halls to stadiums. Very few of those appearances had seen genuine support, even in Japan. But, none quite matched the energy of San Francisco. Kazuya turned his steely gaze back towards the cage, and began his stride again. There were no bells and whistles attached to his entrance.

Despite all the pomp and circumstance displayed in this arena. The custom made banners pitting him and Phoenix. The bright white light trailing his quick stride to the ring. The camera men following his every move, almost getting so close that Kazuya would have to intervene. All of it did nothing compared to the reception Kazuya received… that was all the energy one needed.

Kazuya stepped in front of the cage, placing his bare foot on the steel steps. He paused for a moment, quietening his mind once again… the boos simply continued. Kazuya glanced over his shoulder – someone had already thrown a paper cup at the cage. Terribly aimed. Their anger will fade into fear. Kazuya began his slow ascent up, his head craning all around the crowd.. letting them all see the look on his face.

Continue. Soak me up with all of your redundant rage… I am already a bitter man. I am already a hateful man. Give me more reason to be. Give me more motivation to leave Phoenix a bloody mess in the middle of ring, and Lee an embarrassed, upset rat at his feet. Give me reason to break all your hearts. What would they see if they looked in your eyes, Kazuya? They would not know what to think. Kazuya paused. Some would know what to think.

Kazuya's gaze stretched out towards the crowd. He was far more deliberate when he began to search. There could be… Not now, Kazuya. Get a hold of yourself. I am fine. Kazuya shook his head.

Kazuya's hand wrapped around that cage door, feeling his feet pounding against the mat for the first time. Kazuya looked down at the mat.. this is no sacred space for him. It is a therapeutic space, as I am sure it will become.

It will become a canvass smeared with pain, with crimson. A canvass imbued with raw emotion. A canvass that Kazuya has no doubt he will be brought to his knees upon. A canvass where you must scratch and claw for power. This canvass will never be the same once Kazuya is finished here, and he has no doubt the mere sight of it trigger some brutal, some vicious and some cathartic memories for him in the future. Power is not gifted. It comes from pain, from agony and from rage.

Kazuya hunkered over for a moment, his fingers momentarily crossing over it. Kazuya's gaze turned back towards the wall of the cage, his eyes looking out at this faceless sea of an abhorring crowd. Kazuya does hope Phoenix finds a way to be at home in this place. Kazuya finds the cage restricting, but it is homely in a way.

Once that door is locked, once all these others step out… it is only two men left in this ring. There is no chance for any interference, any advice, any meandering or speaking. It is two men, their fists, their feet, their hearts and the true willpower of their souls. Kazuya can call a place like that home…. Even if it is here, so far away from anywhere he has called home. And, where would that be, Kazuya?

Kazuya slowly stood up, and walked over to his corner. Kazuya looked at the lone stool sitting just outside of the cage. It was a small, pathetic little thing. It was also bright red. Kazuya turned his back on the crowd then, and slowly folded his arms. Kazuya could see the camera was coming towards him… it was an intruding presence, but… Kazuya paused. But, it allows some to watch this fight up close.

Kazuya turned towards the camera lens, and slowly, Kazuya felt a half-smirk grow on his face. The resentment in the crowd quickly reached a boiling point with that. Kazuya's grin remained.

Give me back my bullets. Nothing mattered when that hit. You know, Paul doesn't like that term 'the flip switched'. Sure, he knows how to turn on that side of him, get that competitive, focused side of him out. But, it ain't an easy process.

All the pacing around in the back, going over what you'll do, what you could do and how to be better than the last time: all of that shit only gets you so far. But, the closest thing to switching Paul Phoenix's switch is when Lynyrd Skynyrd hits.

Paul bounced on both toes, peeling his lips back. He leaped one more time, for good measure. He wasn't too aware of anybody around him. Fuck should he be. Gimme back my bullets.

Paul burst out the curtain. The reception was so raucous, that it took Paul completely by surprise. He came to an abrupt stop, feeling… someone bump into him. Paul placed both hands on his hips, exhaling slowly… Jesus Christ. Holy fuck. This place… this place is hot. This place wants to see them take lumps out of each other.

Paul raised a single arm, his fist slowly extended to the sky. The crowd responded in kind, exploding in a guttural… roar. Those were not golf claps. That was not applause. That was not cheering. That was… a roar. A sheer, primal roar of support. Of energy. Of… Of pride. Paul lowered his arm for a moment, exhaling again. He turned his attention back towards the cage, as he tilted his head. Paul did not bring out the belt. He knows Kazuya doesn't give a damn about it, and Paul wanted to make it clear he was fighting for much more. It seems though, the crowd didn't seem to give a hoot.

Absorbing this moment, living in it…he could see that guy wearing the Bears jersey in the front row. He could see that woman cradling the child in her lap, who waved around a foam finger excitedly. He could hear, smell… just about see Marshall over his shoulder, his own expression of surprise painted over it. Paul nodded, seeing Marshalls gaze fixed on the cage. Paul rolled his shoulders quickly, and curling his lip, he began to stride.

It was like he could feel them all walking in pace with them. That reaction followed him for every step he took, without fail, they were rising with him. You see so often fighters begging for crowd attention. Trying to manufacture support, yelling to try get some golf claps, any kind of reaction. Never in Pauls life has he faced a reaction as visceral as this, and all he did was step out of the curtain.

If that does not validate a man….Paul did not enter the cage. Quickly, his eyes boring into Kazuya's back… he began to circle the cage. Kazuya was not moving. Arms folded, gaze averted… Paul could not make head or tails of Kazuya's gaze. That is alright. He feels all he needs to right now.

Paul felt a thousand hands slap him. Paul looked to his left, where the guard rails were. He could see the kids rushing out of their seats to get to the front row. This would… Jesus, this would humble a man. Years of preparation, destroying his body and killing himself training every day… this made it worth it right here.

Paul always believed he was the best. But, believing an entire arena would have his back, would blindly and emotionally support him against someone like Kazuya Mishima… this is fighting. This is what fighting should be.

Paul had made his full rotation, but he could still feel that rumble deep. Paul stepped up to the steel steps, opening his mouth. Marshall quickly obliged, squirting a quick dose of water on his tongue. A dose of reality too… he has to keep this grounded. The crowd are hot to see a fight, but that doesn't mean this is the great moment he's been fighting for.

Nah… that still needs to come. A pair of careful hands lifted his fists up, and Paul could feel his judo gloves slowly get tightened. It's just insane, man. Paul can't put it into word. Those hands that tightened his gloves eventually placed both hands on his shoulders. Paul was grounded a little bit more when the intense gaze of Lee met him again.

"Remember.. keep your reactions sharp." Paul nodded quickly, bouncing on his toes. Lee nodded himself, patting Paul on the shoulders. "Kill it out there, brother." Marshalls hand slapped him on the back, his own gaze fixed on Kazuya. "You've got this."

Paul slapped both hands on the stairs, and sprinted up there. The referee barely had time to get the cage door open, before Paul barrelled his way through. Paul dominated his way straight to the centre of the ring… breathing it all in once more. This is a once in a lifetime moment. A once in an eternity fight. So… he needs to enjoy these people as long as they'll stick with him.

Paul thrust both his fists up in the air, with a loud, hearty bellow. The entire crowd rumbled responded just in kind… coming to a fever pitch, Paul was sure the roof would blow right off this stadium, and blow away to somewhere in the Atlantic Ocean. Paul lowered his hands, inhaling slowly. He spun quickly on his heel, and looked straight at Kazuya.

Kazuya looked as if he had staring at him the entire time. Unmoving, unflinching, those black holes of eyes just glared at Paul. He made no move to step towards Paul, or around him. Kazuya just stared, and he remained silent. You can't stay quiet when you're fighting for all that bullshit you keep up your sleeve.

Paul stepped forward again, licking his lips. "That's right, boy. You think I'm a pushover now, huh? They fuckin don't think so!" Kazuya… well, what the fuck do you think Kazuya did? He stayed fucking silent. Paul stepped forward again, a snarl crossing his own face. A minute, a couple of bullshit rules and a bell is all that's separating us now. Do I look like I'm scared of you? Sounds like it should be the other fucking way around, kid.

"Let's take it to the middle, gentlemen."

Paul stared at Kazuya all the while, moving from foot to foot. He took his fucking time, but he was getting there. As slow, and as deliberate as he always was, Kazuya unfolded his arms. Slowly, he walked towards Paul. Those dark holes stayed stagnant as Paul glared at them… each passing step, Paul could see that cold, furious determination stretch further and further towards him.

Paul wasn't too sure Kazuya was gonna stop, and he was ready to sock him right there to get a little jumpstart going. But, Kazuya came to a stop behind the referees arm.

"Let's keep this clean, gentlemen." The referee began, his concerned eyes switching quickly between the two of them. Kazuya hasn't blinked once. Is that meant to intimidate Paul? Is he meant to be impressed? Like I said, boy. You can play the silent game all you like, nobody stays silent inside the cage. Everybody's demons come out then, son. I'm well past being intimidated, scared or confused by you. We're both well past understanding now, boy.

"This is a hybrid fight." The referee began. "There are no rounds, no points and no scoring system. There is no time limit. The only ways this fight ends is by submission, knockout or if your opponent is otherwise unable to continue. I'll… I won't intervene unless things turn drastic. All I ask is that you keep it clean, and you respect my presence in here." The referee clasped his hands together. "Touch gloves."

As expected, Paul saw no movement from Kazuya. Well, I fuckin know what Kazuya expects. A hand, or fists, Paul knows he's gonna meet the same fucking reception. Paul raised both gloves. "You're gonna thank me for this ass whuppin." Kazuya remained silent. Kazuya remained still. But, Paul did see a lip twitch. "Alright!" The ref intervened. "Back to your corners."

Paul almost dived back to his corner, bouncing on both toes. Kazuya… of course, he was far more fucking deliberate. He slowly walked back to his corner, his dark gaze turning a shade darker as he backstepped. He did not tear his eyes away from Paul with every step, his head lowering. Paul searched those black eyes for.. for any sign of what he saw in those fucking tapes.

Hell, Paul searched those black eyes for that well covered emotion he needed to draw out. But, Kazuya was still as solid as rock. Moments away from the critical moment… Pauls bouncing began to intensify. Kazuya was still… his arms were unfolded. Both fists were raised. But, apart from that, Kazuya was completely still.

Any moment now. I don't give a fuck if you didn't shake my hand or not, you know that? You just gave me more fuel. I'm gonna murder you if I can. If that ref knows what's good for him… I will try to murder you. I can look into your dark fucking eyes, and I know you will try do the same.

You don't need to even get as fucking furious as I am to do that. You don't even need to channel your demons. But… you better channel them. I'll be fucked. I'll be fucking fucked if I'm another write off, if all my wins, all my time and all these peoples support is just to be another statistic to pad Kazuya Mishima's undefeated streak.

The referee waved his arm. You won't be a statistic on my streak, Kazuya. You'll be the defining moment. You were always meant to be.

The bell rang.

35

Kazuya always imagined Paul Phoenix would be an aggressive fighter. It is in the boys heart… he treats his temper as if it is an infinite resource.

Kazuya did not have a strategy as he sprinted forward. He rarely does. He taught himself to react, and to strike… to strategize, even against the aggression of Phoenix, would be counterproductive.

Kazuya, still, was unsurprised to see Phoenix breaking into a sprint directly across from him. Kazuya matched his pace immediately, his feet pounding against canvass.. a final snarl escaping him as he bolstered forward.

Kazuya came to a stop directly in the centre, as did Phoenix. Their eyes did not break once, Kazuya not relenting against those growing blue embers of Phoenix. The greats may watch an opponent's chest, but the dominant will focus on the eyes. Kazuya slid one foot back, and he swung a hook with all his speed and might.

Kazuya may have managed a smirk, but as soon as he threw that hook, he noticed something soaring through his peripherals.

Kazuya did not have time to register the fist, as Kazuya's punch made contact. The electricity soared through Kazuya's body, and shot out of his fist. The fire blasted through Pauls entire aura, and exploded out of his fist.

Both fists made their brutal contact, and Kazuya was sure that Paul felt the same painful contact as he did.

They both followed through. They both reacted. They both stumbled back, the electricity and fire doused quickly with their identical blows, a mirror image of power and intensity. Kazuya stumbled back, with a grunt… his hand coming to his face slowly.

Kazuya curled his lip again, looking at Paul… who's own fist was raised over his cheek, which was also rapidly reddening. This will be a far more complicated game than sheer aggression, with far more layers than just willpower. Kazuya knew… no. Kazuya always felt it would be. And, even looking into Phoenix's eyes… he felt it too. You are no idiot. I know why you fight.

Kazuya stepped forward with a snarl, reacting just as quickly to that growl of Pauls. He shoved away that powerful punch by Paul, and countered with a quick kick to his calves. Pauls arms blocked the kick, his teeth baring for a split second.

Now, Paul threw the kick. Kazuya blocked it. Kazuya followed up with a punch… Phoenix blocked it. Paul shoved Kazuya back, but Kazuya would not be deterred with this. Kazuya backstepped before the shove could take any prominent affect, and threw a round kick at just the right time.

Kazuya may have expected it to connect. However, he also knew to expect for it not to connect at all. Paul lifted both arms, and blocked the kick. That's why Kazuya followed all the way through, and spun around, catching Paul across the jaw with a vicious follow up kick.

Kazuya smirked as he felt the impact. His the front of his foot cracking against Pauls cheek and jaw, the bones bending to the will of his blow… as Paul stumbled back a step. It was a kick that caught Paul off guard, caught him by surprise… it did not hurt him. But, it gave Kazuya that pure, raw opening to inflict some true pain.

Kazuya was on Paul. Paul had no time to recompose himself, with the blows upon blows that Kazuya rained down from all angles. Punches, kicks to the legs, elbows… Kazuya was ruthless with his offence, and treated Paul Phoenix with absolutely no surcease. Even a moment with a man this dangerous could cost him far more than defeat.

Paul would have no time to raise any kind of defence up, and Kazuya made sure to keep it that way. Each blow backed Paul up to the cage, his face, chest and legs rapidly growing redder and redder from the impact. One final punch sent Paul smacking against the cage, with a wince.

As he backed out slowly, Kazuya kept his smirk fixed on his face. This is the tactic Paul Phoenix has. He will not wear me down. Kazuya lunged forwards, with a front kick aimed right for the centre of Pauls chest. Kazuya's kick came to a jarring halt, and Kazuya almost stumbled himself. You damn…. Paul had one hand extended.

That colossal arm of his was wrapped around Kazuya's foot, as he lowered his bruising face. Kazuya planted his remaining foot on the ground. His smirk had turned into a frustrated snarl within moments, his face curling up as he flexed his fist. This is all I need, boy. One mistake when you take back control.

Paul raised his face, and Kazuya could see the composure painted across his eyes. It was barely contained, but his face was cloaked with a hot, razor sharp focus. Before Kazuya could swing, Paul reared forward… and hit Kazuya.

He punched Kazuya right in the face, with one of the hardest blows Kazuya has ever felt.

The foot snapped out of Pauls grip, as Kazuya slammed to the ground. Paul exhaled slowly, his nostrils flaring…. Kazuya had hit the ground like a sack of bricks, the impact so hard, that Paul could feel the vibrations beneath his feet.

He'll be honest… he didn't expect that punch to take Kazuya down like that. It was a hard one, but this is Kazuya Mishima. He got fuckin floored. Though, he didn't expect Kazuya to be down for long.

Kazuya quickly rolled back to his feet. Yeah, you ain't smirking now. You ain't taking your fucking time now. You will not step into my cage, in front of my people, and not take me fucking seriously.

Paul threw a kick of his own, catching Kazuya in the stomach, and followed up with a punch in the same spot. Kazuya grunted, but the fucker just did not back off. Instead, he spun around, on one foot… and began to kick low. Paul had to jump to get over the leg sweep, but the fucker just kept spinning.

That one leg extended, he was like a damn bat outta hell with the way he was fuckin rotating. Paul tried to find an opening at some point, but he couldn't – Paul wheezed. That punch caught him right in the sternum, and there was some.. Jesus, there was something behind it.

Paul looked down quickly… there it fucking was. The volts of electricity coursed through Kazuya's hand, and Paul could feel – Paul jolted. He could feel – Paul gasped, his hand clasping Kazuya's fist. Kazuya's snarl was unforgiving, his fist pushing further and further… he could – barely -Paul latched onto that arm for dear life, his teeth bared, and gritting for their fuckin life. Lee said… Paul grabbed onto the arm tighter. Lee said this would – Paul latched onto the arm.

He could barely fuckin… he needs to…. Paul latched onto that arm, and dropped to one knee. Kazuya's slightly befuddled gaze soon turned to frustration, as Paul latched onto the top of his arm, and he roughly yanked Kazuya over his shoulder. Kazuya once again hit the mat, and Paul immediately followed through.

His fist slammed against a bare canvass though, so hard it dented the metal bars beneath the padding. Kazuya was up and throwing within moments… Paul ducked under one punch, ducked under another. One more duck, and Paul dropped his offence with another knee to the sternum. Before Kazuya could double over again, Paul grabbed his arm, and yanked him over like a sack of shit.

Like that sack of shit, he plopped to the ground with little resistance. Learn all that Mishima bullshit karate all you like, nothing will stop you from the classics of judo. You can have cardio with punches and kicks, but get a man down and grapple with him. That's where you see the measure of a fighter. Now we'll see how long that endurance of yours lasts, boy.

Kazuya was quick on the money, trying to scramble away quickly. It was Pauls turn to be relentless, so he was. Kazuya lashed out with a kick, that caught him in the stomach… Paul wheezed, and in furious reaction, drove his fist all the way into Kazuya's face.

That caused his resistance to ease up a little, but only for a moment. Paul mounted him fully, wrapping his legs around those massive tree trunks of Kazuya… Kazuya spat and snarled all the while, but the fact of the matter is there ain't much you can do in the face of being trapped in a submission.

That's exactly how Paul is gonna humble, and take out the great, unbeatable, unstoppable Kazuya Mishima.

It ain't fuckin easy. Paul was met with scratching, and clawing resistance every step of the fucking way. Kazuya punched, he kicked, he elbowed, he kneed… any opening Paul allowed, for even a split second, he was feeling the agonising impact of it. Paul clawed in response. Every time he got hit, every time he nearly lost his grip… he'd grab onto something. He'd throw elbows himself, he'd throw knees when he could….. everything deserved a fucking receipt.

It felt as if Kazuya was fighting for his fucking life.. but, so was Paul. He was fighting for his damn life, cause this fight was his fucking life. Paul won't retreat into his apathy for this… this isn't another day of training. This isn't another day of the same old grind. This is everything he's worked for.

The crowd are telling him that. The faint yells in the corner, of Marshall, of Lee… that tells him that. His mother, watching silently and no doubt in worry, told him that. All of the memories, the hearts and the feelings of every son of a bitch who ever doubted him, they told him that. Every fibre of his body tells him that, that strikes out any remaining doubts that he may have left in his mind.

Paul felt his head smack back again… he didn't even see that elbow coming, and couldn't fucking see after it went across his eye. Paul blinked a few times, feeling something come loose.. Jesus Christ, don't tell me he's knocked loopy. Paul latched onto Kazuya's chest even tighter, squeezing the life out of the Mishima with every bit of pressure his aching muscles could manage.

Hit me another punch. Hit me another fucking elbow if you want. Do it fucking all, cause I ain't letting go. I ain't stopping until you're fucking gassed, so I can finish the job.

Kazuya had to rip and tear. Perfect form doesn't always matter. Kazuya would even be a proponent that it is hardly the most important factor. Sometimes, if your offence is a little unclean, that is where it is at is most effective. But, here… here is where Paul Phoenix excels. Kazuya has no problem admitting that. The oaf has managed to turn this into a wrestling match, and Kazuya must take issue with that.

Kazuya slowly dragged himself onto all fours, attempting to sprawl… his grip was like an iron vice. Kazuya threw back another elbow… he felt it connect with something, underneath that… that ridiculous hair. Kazuya threw it again, but felt that squeeze come again… Kazuya wheezed, almost falling onto his face. This is… Kazuya could feel the sweat pouring from his face.

This oaf is crafty… he knows what he is doing. I am here.Stay out of this. Kazuya slowly lifted himself onto all fours…but, was quickly dropped as a hammer like forearm slammed across his face. Kazuya, I do not get tired. No, you get reckless. Kazuya made that promise… Devil will not be involved. This is Kazuya's fight. Kazuya could feel himself slowly getting lifted… his grip iron like around Kazuya's waist, there was very little he could do.

The anaconda arms just kept tightening, and somehow, Phoenix could just keep… squeezing. Kazuya did not struggle when he is being lifted. He did not writhe, he did not elbow, he did not kick…

Kazuya remained limp, as Paul lifted him as if he was a child. Kazuya only kept his fists clenched, as Paul was at full height… Kazuya's toes trailed across the damaged, and bent canvass.. Kazuya closed his eyes.

This was not a matter of dominance, but simply the way a fight will ebb and flow… with a worthy opponent, one must expect punishment. But… but, you should never let that pain, and punishment become suffering. That is the difference between a fighter and a warrior. And, what of a nomad? Shut up. Should he take this needless punishment you are undergoing?

Kazuya closed his eyes, holding onto Wangs words… holding onto that brief snippet, those words of judgment, that briefly… briefly travelled through his head. Until, it finally happened. Kazuya felt the lurch, he felt his entire body contort… Kazuya opened his eyes, to see Pauls arms violently release him. Even more helpless in the air, Kazuya realised that if he did not course correct soon… he would have no more fights. No more opportunities at vengeance.

He would land directly on his neck, and no amount of willpower can save him from a shattered, broken neck. You and I both know that is untrue.

Kazuya closed his eyes again, inhaling deeply… before, he threw his head back as far as he could. It was much quicker than he could imagine, so he needed to react quickly. Fortunately, his body was aligned with his mind… it was unsteady.

However, he took all his weight on his legs, his knees almost buckling from the landing. But, Kazuya had landed on his feet. Kazuya landed on his feet, shaking off the feeling of his knees… his snarl returning.

He was panting, yet he was not yet tired. He was sweating, but he was not yet exhausted. Kazuya could see, when Phoenix turned around…those blue eyes burning in fury - he knew just as much.

Kazuya lunged, and threw a punch. But, Paul was that much faster… he ducked the blow, and with a low kick that caught Kazuya right at the bottom of his scar, Kazuya could only double over.

That was the worst possible preventative measure, as Paul reared forward, that cursed fist burning… and caught Kazuya with another vicious punch. The sheer power of this blow was as powerful as the rest of Paul Phoenix's punches, and that enough caused Kazuya to sprawl to his stomach. But, it was not the power.

It was not the fact he failed to block it. Nor, was it that he lost the advantage. It was where the blow caught Kazuya. Kazuya raised his hand to his nose, already feeling it to be a little too misshapen. A little too swollen. Kazuya cares not about his damn looks, but… Kazuya raised his fingers slowly, his snarl turning uglier.

You are a rotten oaf. You damn bastard… I will tear your head off. Kazuya removed his hand from his nose, and looked at a hand covered in crimson. He does not spill our blood, Kazuya. He has. Kazuya raised his head slowly. He has.

That damn bastard has spilled my damn blood. Kazuya lifted that bloodied hand, as steady as it ever was. He slowly clenched it, and soon, it began to tremble. I will tear his head from his damn body. I will take his life.

That punch was sweet. But, Paul was worried. You wouldn't think he would have any cause to be worried, but he was. Paul caught him sweet right on the bridge of the nose with that blow… but Kazuya has not moved since.

Paul has kept the pressure on. He's kicked Kazuya in the side. He's tried to kick him in the face again. Paul even attempted to drive his heel into the back of the Mishima's head. All of these blows were merely blocked, or… or they were just shrugged off. They were ignored, as if Kazuya barely felt them. No gasps of pain, no grunts of exertion… nothing.

Paul kicked him in the side again. Still, Kazuya, with head bowed and on hands and knees, did not react.

Paul kicked him again, harder. "Come on." Paul urged, his voice hoarse and demanding. Another kick. "Get the…. Fuck up. Or… I'll fucking come…. Come down there." Another kick.

Kazuya began to stir.

Paul stared down at him.. he was like a fucking zombie. He rose like fucking Jesus… coming to both knees. And, slowly standing onto his feet. All the while, Paul was hitting, kicking, elbowing… none of it had any impact. Paul frowned, taking a cautious step back. What the fuck…. Paul glanced over to the corner.

Marshall looked just as confused as he was, his eyes wide and confused. But, it was Lee's face… it was fucking Lee's face. There was no surprise on his face. Simply a grim expression, something that… something that could only resemble dread. Paul turned back towards Kazuya, with another roar. "FUCK THIS!"

Back still turned, Paul did not give a fuck. Paul is going to clock him in the back of his fat fucking head. Paul reared forward, and swung as hard as he could….

Kazuya turned around.

Pauls blow almost came to a stop there, when he saw the expression on Kazuya's face. Smeared with blood, a swollen and fluid filled nose… there was a look of vicious determination, of pure… pure insanity Paul had never seen on a human being before.

But, the worst… it wasn't the blood, the expression or the demeanour. It was those eyes. They were as black as ever, but Paul swears he saw it… unless it was a trick of the eye. No. It was fucking there. Paul saw it.

Paul saw that flash of red.

Paul threw another punch desperately, but it was useless. Kazuya had become a demon, and it showed in his offence. He was fucking relentless. Paul felt his face get pummelled in moments. His vision became a blur, his head snapping to and fro, back and forth, here and there like a damn fucking jack in the box.

A series of punches that reduced Paul to the same bloody mask that Kazuya was wearing. Paul grabbed desperately, but Kazuya slapped the hand away, and grabbed Paul by the back of the neck. As hard as he humanely could, Kazuya kicked Paul right in the kneecap.

Paul bellowed in pain, but he didn't have time to check that explosion across his knee was a blown knee cap. Kazuya wrenched on Pauls arm, and dragged him to his feet roughly. Paul still scrambled at Kazuya threw bloody eyes, trying to blink away the remnants of the crimson that had coated his eyes.

He could feel the hot blood all across his face like a watery sunburn, and he also had no doubt his face was completely covered at this point. That didn't make much a difference to Kazuya.

With a snarl, Kazuya swung his leg around, and kicked Paul across the side of the head. Paul slumped over, but Kazuya was not finished.

Still clutching to that hand, Kazuya did not stop the momentum of his leg. He swung his leg all the way around, and kicked Paul on the other side of the head.

36

Phoenix fell slowly. It was almost comical, or scripted in some manner the way he toppled… like a wall of bricks being knocked down. But, he fell, and Kazuya had no doubt that was the fall of a man who had lost all grasp on consciousness.

Back first on the ground, legs and arms sprawled… blood still leaking slowly from a jagged cut above his eyebrow. The motion of his fall meant all his limbs were limp, with nothing protecting essential body parts, and nothing behind dim blue eyes. He had left a pool of blood that was slowly beginning to colour his flattop, turning that filthy blonde into a filthy shade of ruby red.

Kazuya slowly regained his breath, his eyes drawn down at his work. Phoenix's eyes were still open, and he was still gasping for breath… somehow, that fool was still trying to move. But, there could not be much fight left within him. His words never could live up to his will.

Kazuya wiped the blood from his own forehead, as he walked towards the downed Phoenix. Kazuya stopped at the foot of the bloodied, and agonised Phoenix. Kazuya met those pained, struggling eyes… and he smirked. You know what must be done.

Kazuya… Kazuya ignored that voice. His smirk fading for a moment, Kazuya placed his foot across Pauls chest. And, turning his pained neck upwards… Kazuya only had his focus on one other man.

Lee had already been standing, but now Kazuya could see he was pressed against the cage. Both hands gripping it, Kazuya could see that mask of arrogance finally dropped.

Now, you feel pain. Now, you feel sorrow… now, you pretend to feel the things that you claim I have never felt. Now you claim to care for him, when all that is truly wounded is your damn pathetic pride.

Lee's eyes were darting between Phoenix and Kazuya, growing wider with every glance.

Are you finally going to acknowledge your fear? Are you finally going to admit how much of a cowardly, spineless rat you are? You could not hold a candle to what I am capable of. Come in here and stitch up your puppet, you rotten bastard.

I may be bloodied, but I am far from beaten. Those manipulative eyes of yours bear such anger, why not act upon it? Lee would never.

Kazuya knows he would never.

It…. It… I should have expected this. I can't even… think….Paul coughed again, another shower of blood escaping his mouth. This is what they all said would happen. Paul coughed again, trying to move his head… trying, desperately, to meet the eyes of Lee. Of Marshall. Of any of his friends, of… Paul stopped moving his head, as he gasped again.

Trying… what's the point? Everything requires effort. Lifting his head, opening his eyes, desperately trying to claw away from the snatches of his terrifying dreams… threatening to drag him into a darkness that will end all of this. It all terrifies Paul down to his desperate, fleeing soul. But, who is he to admit it? He is Paul Phoenix. Paul Phoenix would never admit such drowning… such drowning exhaustion.

He could not… he would not meet his mother's eyes. They all believed… this would happen. They all had faith in him… but they believed in this being the outcome. This is a Mishima. Paul weakly lifted his hands, grabbing onto Kazuya's pressing foot. You can't escape the feeling of hopelessness. You'll never beat him. Paul slowly raised his head… he gripped onto Kazuya's foot.

Maybe, becoming numb can stop that hopeless feeling for one more moment. Paul.. he doubts it though. You'll never make it. Paul felt his arms slowly wrap around that leg… his head finally lifting up. I am way too young to be feeling so hopeless. Country boy. Who cares if you train six days a week? That doesn't make a great fighter. You're the token redneck. We'll make fun of your accent, you can train as much as you like and we'll put you on the card. You're a token attraction, kid. There's an it factor your missing. All your training, all your sacrifice means nothing. You don't have 'it', kid.

Paul latched onto that leg, his teeth bared… his eyes wincing, trying to see through a shards of blood. There's a plateau. Someone that doesn't have the gifts… have that natural aura. you've already hit the plateau. Paul slowly clenched his fist, feeling that only worsen the agony bursting forward in his head. Not everyone can be the best. Kazuya wasn't looking over in his fucking corner anymore. We all have our role. They think we're just the dreamers.

He had slowly turned around to stare down at Paul, his eyebrows furrowed. Paul slowly turned his head, and he met the eyes of… of Marshall Law. They'll never know that we sacrificed that much more.

He saw those brown eyes….he saw the fire in them.. Paul could see Marshall staring at him, pleading, willing him on… a single hand on the cage.

Paul could see Marshall was not defeated yet. Paul could see Marshall… despite what he said… Marshall thought the exact same. Marshall always believed the exact same. Our dream is so close to being reality.

Paul felt his hoarse voice return to him. That hoarseness was lent to itself by a fury, a fury that was channelled his voice to become more than a hoarse. Despite his exhaustion, despite the agony, the punishment, and despite his doubts… his hoarse become a yell, and that yell became a bellow.

Kazuya was glaring down at Paul now, and he realised what he had done. That son of a fucking bitch realised. That tearing his eyes away from him, and getting all cocky with Paul was a huge mistake.

Cause, Paul still has enough… for just one more… and just another… and just one more after that… it's all he has.

Paul has enough.

Paul shoved away Kazuya's leg, and leaped to his feet. Kazuya snarled, and reacted quickly… but not quickly enough. Every ounce of rage in Pauls body, all the fire that remained in his tired, destroyed body channelled into that right fist of his.

With that bellow, with all his might, Paul thrust himself forwards… his fist alight, the flames dancing around his body. Paul struck.

Paul hit Kazuya Mishima with the hardest Burning Fist he has ever hit in his life.

As soon as he made impact, Paul could feel everything change. Paul knew the dynamic of this bout had been dropped on its head, and wrenched the whole other way. Because, Paul followed through with that fiery fist, and he could feel… he could hear the cracking, and shattering of several bones all across Kazuya's chest.

Paul… with fury in his heart. Raw anger in his soul.

Paul just followed through.

I am a damn fool. Kazuya soared up in the air, and smacked down to the canvass in his brutal moment of weakness. The landing was the most painful part, as it made the agony apparent to him. Kazuya writhed in pain, with a groan… everything… Kazuya gasped. Even his breath, it… it..

Kazuya inhaled, but felt everything in his chest pierce him, puncture into… Kazuya felt something rise in him, something unfamiliar. Panic? Kazuya, get a hold of yourself. I cannot breathe.

Kazuya slowly rolled onto his stomach, every movement sheer agony for him. He could see the traces across his chest…. The ugly red, the distorted blue and purple, that put his scar to shame. How many were broken? Was it his sternum? No, it could not be… everything…. Could…By my soul, Kazuya, who are you trying to fool? You are the only fool here. Damn you. Damn you for your carelessness.

Kazuya… he hated it. He hated admitting it… Devil was right. Kazuya crawled slowly… that other side had become blurry, through sweat or blood Kazuya could hardly tell. Each breath felt like a blow in itself, as if he was scratching for the right to take another second on earth, clawing for his right to life… every part of his existence now was a fight.

Kazuya reached towards the cage. What.. what was he thinking? He could… he could have finished Phoenix. You were distracted. Where is your mind? Kazuya would snarl, if he could. This is your doing. Kazuya was fingertips away from the cage… it was blurry, but he was reaching past it. Kazuya realised he was starting to look into the faces of all the damn members of the crowd here.

I would never leave you in this state, Kazuya.Kazuya… he knows himself. The weak attempt to blame Devil for this travesty was just that, an attempt. Kazuya gasped again… it was getting more difficult. His lungs felt so… so damn strained. All of this could be fixed if you allow me to clean this travesty up.

Kazuya… reached. He reached towards the cage, and he tried with all his might to just…. To just… to just ignore him. Why? What could you hope to accomplish? You could not do what Phoenix just did. I don't believe you have the willpower, Kazuya. All I cling to is willpower. Why? You are lonely. You know nothing else. All you have is brief glimpses of joy, amidst all that hatred that keeps you breathing. I… I…. Shut up. Shut your mouth.

Kazuya did not want to look at the faces of these damn people. In a weak moment, he did not want to see their damn concern. Their false concern, that is self-serving and would be forgotten about within moments. He did not want to see their damn fear, their damn silence… Kazuya did not want… he did not want… He could not ignore it. Good. This is the only way.

Kazuya's hand began to tremble, as he felt… that pain in his chest being replaced.. with a whole other pain. A far more familiar… a far more…Why must it be this way? You have given us no other choice.

Kazuya's eyes widened…. He could not ignore… this. Somehow, he had managed to find her. Perhaps, it was the white clothes. Perhaps, it was the concern on her face. It could… it could very well be her aura. Nevertheless, she stood there, and Kazuya could not do anything else but stare right now. Do not stare. Look away.

Jun Kazama was standing, so bright, so shining away from the rest… Kazuya continued to look at her. Her hands were over her chest, where that camera would always rest… her eyes were glassy, and clouded with a watery mirror of concern. A deep… a deep sense of shame fell over Kazuya then. Lines in the sand only you can read.

Kazuya looked out at his hand, reached out… trembling, shaking. I should have told you. Kazuya, this is hardly the t- thinking about you.

Kazuya felt his hand trembling… that tremble reducing to a slight shake. Thinking about you, you're always in my head- not in your soul.

Her eyes spoke to him, and Kazuya felt the shame replaced with… with something rising from deep within. It could be his heart, but he would not be so foolish… no. To hell with that. He would be. He would dare to be so foolish, because this… this is how he feels. This is making you weak. This is his honesty. You are lying to yourself. Without you, I just feel – DEAD.

Kazuya's fist had stopped shaking. I do not care anymore. NO. Kazuya's steady hand slowly began to clench. Kazuya always has his reasons, and his driving force. It has been the most important driving force he had… the one that has driven him ever since he was a young boy. I admit I did not take the chance to hear what you believe.

But…I do not mind… admitting I want to fight for you too. Kazuya would not listen anymore. He has stopped. Kazuya's fist fully clenched. Even if you never feel the same about me.

He was fuelled by something new. He could not tell you what it is. He could not put a label on it, like everyone else does… because, Kazuya never wants to admit it to anyone else. This is his feeling. And, that feeling… that feeling is stronger than anything else Kazuya has ever known. You run. I'll always stay.

Kazuya did not roar. As he rose, he did not bellow. He felt the rage coarse through him, but it felt so focused. It felt like… he must fight. He must fight, he must end this… Kazuya felt like he had an anchor. That anchor is what propped him up, and her hope is what caused Kazuya to rise. I can only wish you would come back some day.

And, rise Kazuya did. Kazuya rose up, and focused on the hunched over Phoenix. Phoenix could barely react, his standing already unsteady. Wishes are empty vessels, but they can still hold meaning if you carry them true. But, Kazuya rushed forwards. Electricity coursed through every muscle fibre, every bone… through all of his shattered ribs, and his sternum. You do not have to be the one to lose. Not because of me.

Kazuya spun around quickly, the electricity gathering itself. With a final burst of energy, fuelled by that… by that hope. Kazuya leaped, and hit a vicious uppercut across Paul. Kazuya could feel the electricity leave his body, like a rush of adrenaline shooting out of his fist… as Kazuya felt Pauls jaw completely implode.

Kazuya knew Paul will feel the agony Kazuya now felt… as he soared up in the air, and he careened down to the ground. Kazuya crumbled onto both knees, the blood rushing down his body… smearing across his chest, the internal bruising growing worse. His scar fading into brown, Kazuya remained on his knees.

Kazuya watched as Paul slammed, face down, his face twisting down into the canvass. Kazuya knew that Paul felt the agony that Kazuya now felt.

Kazuya now… he was now confident that would be enough. But, he was… Kazuya gasped for air, the struggle of his breathing becoming apparent. It became too apparent.

Kazuya leaned back, as he watched… he watched Paul slowly push himself off.

Kazuya stared, incredulously, his eyes widening…as a groaning Paul slowly pushed himself up. How is this… this bastard…. Yet, Pauls arms gave out. His arms gave out, and Paul too dropped to his knees.

Both men gasped, they both struggled to catch their breath. Kazuya could barely breath. Paul's jaw looked to resemble an overgrown baseball, the fluid swinging to and fro grotesquely. Still, they remained on their knees. Neither… they have gone too far.

But, who will step down? Kazuya swears by… the end, and the few he fights for, he will not. He is sure Phoenix shares that sentiment.

But, here they are, in ruins… still on their knees. What we put ourselves through the dark, is nothing compared to this carnage in the light. Yet, perhaps, the insanity is that these moments of agony, of pain could be the most whole moments of our existences.

Half dead, awaiting a fresh start… but, only one can stop the other.

Nothing will change unless someone falls. That is the way.. that is the way they have bound it to be. That is the only closure they will have, to continue their stories.

Both men locked eyes.

37

"Do you really approve of this?" The boy did want to ruffle any feathers. He sat on the brown couch, his head turned the other way… staring at the pamphlet eagerly, as he scrolled through the details.

"There can't be any harm in him trying it out for a summer." His mother's voice countered, a little pleading, but also a little authoritative. The boy glanced over his shoulder for a moment, watching the two as they debated.

He crossed his legs, before turning back to the pamphlet. 'SAN FRANCISCO SCHOOL OF JUDO' 'OUR TRAINING FACILITIES HELPS PEOPLE OF ALL LEVELS AND AGES' At the San Francisco School of Judo, we aim for confidence on the mats, and confidence out in the world.'

"God damn, Winona. Is he ever gonna grow out of this?" 'FREE 1 WEEK TRIAL FOR ALL BEGINNERS' "He's still young, Dickey. Let him try it out, even if it is just for the summer. The worst that can happen is he wants to go back next year."

The boy peered down at the number. His heart was thumping, he could feel a cold sweat breaking out… but he looked down at the number. "We'll see." The boy clutched the pamphlet tighter into his chest.

Paul exhaled. A sprinkle of blood spurted out from behind his lips. He couldn't see much, but he could see… he could see Kazuya. He blinked back more drops of blood.

"It's fake. It's all fake anyway." The young man shut his locker silently, glancing down the busy hallways.

The lines upon lines of pubescent guys in this place meant the hallways were always rowdy. Especially if your locker was in the main foyer. "It's been proven that Chuck Norris is a fraud. He's a movie star."

The young man picked up his school bag silently, forcing his lips into a smile in response. He slung it over his shoulder and began to walk out to the yard. "Why would you want to learn a fake style like that-" T

he young man snapped round in a moment, grabbed the boy by the throat and slammed him up against the shoulder. Is this fucking fake? The young man grabbed the boys arm, and looked down at the tiled floor below. The chatter was starting to die down. Good. Let everyone watch. I've had enough, and I'll make them see they won't take shit from me ever again. Never.

Paul pressed both fists into the canvass. He inhaled again, and exhaled. Where's… is there water? Is Marshall allowed to come in yet? The ref did say… he'd keep it going until…The young man had to piss in the bottle. He had only brought a small, 500ml bottle. No matter how much he rationed, it was inevitable that he would drink all the remaining water.

You would not think water would be his biggest concern, but the young man was feeling it now. Stumbling off the road, into the unsteady ditches below as the dazzling headlights of hurried cars sped by… completely unaware of his presence.

The moon being the only reliable light to guide him in the right direction. The young man hunkered over for a moment, catching his breath. A portable radio would be nice. The young man slowly stood up, and began to walk down the pitch black, dingy road once more.

All of this to just do crew. He wasn't even competing on the show, all he did was help with the setup. He went out of his way to do this. The buses don't run on Sunday… but he found his way up.

Now, the way down, he has to walk in ditches, and drink piss just to manage his way home. All… all to sit on the side-lines, and watch his training partners compete. The young man slowly climbed his way out of the ditch, and glanced up at the sign. Only 20 more miles to Omaha.

You know, Paul can still feel their energy. It's a little bit blurry, and all the noise sounds like a blanket has covered it… as if the blood was drowning out that anticipated roar. But, it was still there. All the people, they were still there… there, deep in the fight with them. Paul could barely feel them. Paul wasn't sure if he could look anywhere else now. So, he glared into Kazuya's eyes.

"I don't think you're ready." The young man folded his arms, and looked at the promoter. The bulky promoter sat in his chair, his legs folded behind his desk. The young man placed both his arms on his hips, feeling some nerves. "Why's that?"

"I don't see… I don't see the appeal to put you on a show like that." The promoter sat up straighter, his eyes fixed on the young man the entire time. "You're a good fighter, Paul. All your techniques are solid, and you're a reliable addition to the midcard of these gym shows.

But, it takes more than being a good fighter to get onto the arena shows. If you aren't the absolute top of the pops…" The promoter shrugged. The young man leaned against the wall, his eyes narrowing as he fixed on him. "You gotta have some personality to make up for it. We're in the business of selling tickets here. You need… you need a presence." The promoter placed both hands on his desk. A definitive gesture. "Some things you just can't teach, bro."

The young man nodded silently, bouncing from foot to foot. It was a feeling he was well used to. That sinking numbness. That feeling that awoken the cruellest, the most neglected parts of his mind… jumping to life, with claws and knifes attached to its thoughts.

It was a ruthless part of him, and the young man knew exactly what faced him on this long drive home. The young man gritted his teeth, glancing back at the promoter. He stared at him for several more moments, before he decided to respond.

"That's fair enough."

These mad hairstyles… fuck me, they ain't working out now, are they? Paul almost managed a smile, as his head tilted back… he internalised it, as he leaned forward again.

More blood in his eyes. My hair probably looks like a badly used tampon. Kazuya's is almost turning this dirty shade of purple… fuck knows, that won't wash away easy.

Well after the fight, once they wash away everything else… that iron stink of stale blood will still linger on top of their heads. Is that poetic or something? What counts as being poetic anymore anyway? Paul wonders what Kazuya has to think about that.

She said it so bluntly. Here he was, sitting on her bed, staring her straight in the eyes… those brown eyes, that now looked like a pair of cold, brutal shutters. The man would ask her to repeat it, but he was sure she was say it in the same blunt, weary way.

"I know this might be a shock." Elizabeth began, leaning forward. That curly brown hair fell slowly over her face… it almost stood on end. Is the man going to turn to stone? "But, I do love him. Conor just… we've connected."

The man leaned back on the bed. He almost flopped back on top of it, his head in his hands… that faint smell that rose from her nightstand caused him to sit back up straight. He stiffened up, his hands on his knee.

"Alright." Paul finally responded. He sat on his hand quickly, before he clenched his fist. His knuckles in the back of his hamstring caused him to grit his teeth, and he refused the urge to bite his tongue. Elizabeth placed her hands on her legs, her eyebrows. "Alright? That's it?"

Paul pursed his lips, his other fist clenched. "Alright." That's it. That's all that's expected of him. God forbid he breaks that too.

Was that Marshalls voice? Hell, he could notice Lee's voice from anywhere. That posh Jap accent… or, Chinese, he supposes. Who knows? Paul felt like a knuckle dragger now. Knuckles dragging into his legs was the only reminder for him to stay fucking conscious.

His teeth gritted, his fists driven into the canvass, he was slowly shoving himself onto his feet. It was slow, it was fucking hard.. but, he had to keep pushing. Nothing that was a part of the plan has lasted. Paul continued to push.

"Come on." He felt those arms yank at his… that signature moustache of the wrestler trying to yank him along, where many of the others were waiting. "Nah, man… I'm good." Paul glanced at Marshall again. Well, Marshall was standing solid.

He stood solidly away from his moustached compatriot, arms folded. Paul turned back to the moustached wrestler again. "Come on to fuck. We'll have a few at the place on the corner of 14th street, then we can head to Monarch." Paul stood solid, glancing back at Marshall. "Marshall, you sure you're not going?"

Marshall snorted. "Not a chance in hell, Paulo." Marshall paused, glancing back at the moustached culprit. "You can go if you want…" He trailed off, turning away.

Paul felt himself get yanked up again, across his shoulders. Paul quickly dragged himself off. "Paul, will you fucking come on!" The moustached wrestler insisted, his voice raising. Those intense eyes of his were fixed on Paul… and Paul could see the many, many others behind him. Faces covered in shadows, some briefly illuminated by the neon lights… all staring back at Paul.

Many didn't disobey the champion. Marshall did, because… well, Marshall is just Marshall. It's just customary to go out when the champion goes out… he calls the shots. That's the culture. But, Marshall… Paul glanced back at his best friend. He supposes Marshall did not get into fighting for this shit.

Paul shrugged away the champions arm, and his gaze turned serious. "Nah, man. I told you I'm good." "Paul-" Paul tilted his head at Marshall, as he threw his leather jacket on. "Don't have any cash on me. But, I'll pay you back if you grab the cab?"

Paul had managed to make his way to his feet. It was slow, and Paul was fairly sure it would not last long. He almost toppled right away when he glanced down… his fucking jaw.

Jesus Christ. It was like a fucking football. My momma kept one of those, some old, tattered leather football from back in the day.

Pretty sure it was from her grandfather as well. Played for Nebraska state, apparently. Paul spat out another glob of phlegmy blood, and he met Kazuya's eyes once more. What the hell are you thinking about right now?

"What was that shit?" Paul came to a stop, furrowing his eyebrows. "What shit?" "That shit after the fight! You beat the lads face into the ground!" "He stuck his thumb in my eye, Marsh. I'm not putting up with bullshit like that anymore. I'm past that." Paul sat down, throwing the towel over his shoulder. "Everyone else said it was a great performance anyway."

"It was." Marshall leaned against the lockers. "But, everyone else won't tell you what I will." Paul didn't like where this shit was going, and he wasn't in the humour for it. "Don't come training tomorrow." Marshall folded his arms. "Take some time off." Paul stared at him incredulously, just fists clenching again. "Are you serious?"

"Yeah, I'm fucking serious." Marshall challenged right back. "You might hide it from the others, but you're going down a bad path, man. You're gonna burn out. Seeing what you're like now, I don't wanna know what'd you'd become if you got that low."

"No." Paul began to stand up. "No, fuck that! I can't… I can't afford to take time off! I need to work on some shit, I need to get my stamina-"

"You need to work on your damn head, man!" Marshall stepped in front of Paul, his hand raised. Paul glared at him for several more moments, but Marshalls gaze showed no confrontation… it only showed concern. It only showed worry. "There's no point in training if your mind isn't in it."

Marshall placed his hand.. carefully, on his shoulder. "And, you know what, man? I don't wanna train someone who's going to kill themselves, just for the sake of padding their ego."

Have you ever gotten that slap in the face? That wakeup call? Fuck knows if you've ever faced that kind of doubt, Kazuya. Maybe you have.

Paul doesn't really give a shit anymore, because what he's holding onto is more than that. Paul has had a conversation like that with himself every damn day. There's been so many days where he's hated fighting, because his love has been so strong… it almost killed him that love was so rarely returned. But, fuck it. The fight business owes him nothing, right?

So, yeah. Here we are, blood in our hair, about to collapse and fall over, with a crowd roaring for more. How's this gonna end? How should it end? It doesn't matter how it should end, it matters if it would end. It could end at any point. But, how would you have it end?

"Listen, man. I'm sorry if I haven't been there for you." Paul continued to walk down the street, unable to look him in the eyes. "I haven't been all there. I guess… I guess this Elizabeth thing has had a bigger impact on me than I thought I felt."

Paul glanced over his shoulder, his gaze trying to find him. It was a lonely city this late at night… but, then Marshall stepped in pace. "No, man… I'm sorry. It's been rough for both of us."

"Yours is a little more justified, I think." Paul responded, with a faint smile. Marshall just looked off in the distance. His gaze was faraway, his hand trailing over the stone wall that was rapidly growing around them. "Look, man. There'll come a point where we both realise shit like this doesn't matter."

Marshalls fingers continued to trail the railing, his gaze stretching outwards. "But.. it's easy to back off, and give up. The hard thing is to keep working for that greater happiness. Sometimes, you work so hard for this business, and love it even harder, to get none of that love back. That's just how it is. That's… I guess that's why we call them dreams. They're far out, but they're still possible."

Paul slowed his pace, feeling his eyes go a little blurry. Paul will never let Marshall see the tears in his eyes. But, still… dreams. Dreams. Such a simple word. But, Paul remembers so much with dreams.

Paul feels all he ever wanted to feel with dreams.

Paul stepped back on his left foot. Of course, rage is still driving him here. It's all he can cling to. All he has is these moments. He doesn't believe there's anything better.

The adrenaline that fuels him to the impossible, the ecstasy that elevates him to the superhuman. This is all he has. He's put all his eggs in one basket. There's no plan B, there's no other path for him. Just this.

Like Chuck always said.. there is no finish line. When you reach one goal, find a new one.

Something stronger is focusing his anger here. Paul knows exactly how to harness that, even for a few more moments. Only for a few more moments.

Paul sprinted forwards, in a half stumble.

Paul threw his final punch.

Obstacle. Kazuya meant that in every sense of the word. There is nothing to this man, there is no heart, soul or mind that Kazuya could possibly relate to. What does separate them all? Bags of flesh, and similar organs? Thoughts of similar existences, driven by a carefully cultivated society? What are societies, but pointless boundaries? Completely unnecessary. None of it truly matters, yet it does matter. It defines what separates me from you.

All he sees when he stares at Paul Phoenix is that final obstacle, and that obstacle… that obstacle separates him from so much. So many memories he replays in his mind.

So many wounds, so much trauma… so many things he cannot change. Kazuya can only… he can only control what will happen. He can only do his best to right what he can.

"Let's see if you have what it takes to helm the Zaibatsu, Kazuya."

Paul Phoenix pretends his scars, his barbs, can equal to mine. He pretends his pain is more justifiable than mine, and he pretends that my silence equals my guilt. Leave me be. I am not here to measure pain per capita, as if this is some kind of competitive suffering league.

This has nothing to do with you, and someone like you would never understand. You are as empty minded, and as full hearted as I knew you would be. You are a toxic presence that has crawled into my life, and that is an obstacle that must be destroyed.

"You have always been weak, Kazuya. Do you honestly expect you can still live here? You have not earned that right."

Have you ever known that, Phoenix? All you know is nothing, yet your family might as well have everything? You must face the sufferance of both sides of that coin. Do not spit your pity at me either. That is the saddest, most pathetic thing you could ever do to me. I'd rather get spit on with unexplained resentment, I'd rather get tossed away as if I am a dying dog that is unwanted anymore. I'd rather get spat on with misdirected anger that has nothing to do with me. I know your scars may run, but they never run deep. You may wear scars, but you will never know a word as foreign and as painful as 'home.'

"If I see you near here again, I will snap your little stubby neck."

Phoenix, your scars are healed with a victory here today. You receive all your validation. You get your glory. You can ride off into the sunset, and challenge… Heihachi. You can be the hero of your own little deluded world. This victory will not heal my scars. It will only dull the pain.

It will ease my mind for a moment, knowing I will be one step closer to righting the most awful wrongs that were inflicted upon me. It is a step further onto a path full of thorns, full of wire and sharp edges, all of which have the most severe consequences no matter where I step.

It is an agonising step, but one.. one that will at least be progress. That is what arduous means, that is what Mishima means. Do not throw around that name as if it should hold reverence, or disgust. You do not know enough about the name to wear either honestly.

"Lee is quite the specimen. You have quite the catching up to do, boy."

You so eagerly associate yourself with him. It can hardly feel nice to have your strings yanked on by a puppet such as him, can it? Even you should know that Chaolan twists his words so carefully that it feels you are trapped in a web full of lies, deceit and betrayal.

That silver haired bastard does not even have the courage to face me himself. He is your puppet master, Phoenix, and remains to be a larger puppet himself. Yet, what can I do about that? That mutt will Lord himself over me, and there is little I can do about it.

Begging for scraps, looking to inherit it all… by taking the easy way out. Lazing around, with his wine, women and song. While I break myself, while I fight oafs like you every day… Lee can reap all the benefits, and still pull his political strings to remain as the heir.

Sit around his house, healthy and arrogant as ever, and play with his robots. I do not care. I do not fight to be the 'heir' to any wealth, or fortune. I do not fight for the hope of a 'better life', with beaches, pools, women and mansions. I do not fight to be rife with comfort, and to revel in the ease it will bring you when you finally pass on to the next life far too late.

None of that matters when we all die, and rot away to bones. That will not change the reality of the mind, of the heart… of the soul. Only you can stop me, Paul Phoenix. You seem so intent on stopping my justice.

"The fault lies with you, boy. Do not question me!"

You are a product of a toxic culture. One that I will never be a part of, and one I never hope to be a part of. Heihachi has taken so much from me. Yet, taking away the possibility that I could live a life like yours… that is the only good deed that bastard has ever done me.

It has attempted to drag me in so much… it has attempted to make me weak, and every time, the fault would always lie with me for being so damn weak. So pathetically weak to succumb to your culture, to allow myself to break… that weakness must die. I cannot allow it in me… I cannot allow those vulnerabilities to be visible to the likes of you.

Taking away that reality that you live… is the only gift I have ever received. Your culture has tried to drag me in, Paul Phoenix. Scratching and clawing, trying to get me to conform to the twisting, lying, deceptive snake that lies beneath. I will not be bit by the deception, by the politics… by the lies. I will not represent that.

"Face it, boy. You have shown me you are no Mishima."

Paul Phoenix, I do not hate you. In fact, I would respect you if you had any other name, in any other place, at any other time.

I despise everything you represent.

I hate what you fight for, Paul Phoenix. I will not lie like you do. I will never lie to the world, to the ones I love, to the people I call comrades. I will not lie to your culture, that you blindly follow to relate to the latest trend. I will not lie to myself.

You continue to drag this out.

I was honest with Jun Kazama.. now I will be honest with you. Nothing else matters in this world to me, but, my own journey. Everything else I see is bitter, is laced with lies or is an injustice. Your heroic stature in San Francisco… it is a lie. Your personality is a lie. Your actions are driven by lies. Behind everything you do, even if you have honest intentions, they are all lies.

Bitter lies that all bend to the will of this twisted world. I promised Jun I would not hold onto this bitterness, but I cannot help it, Phoenix. I am bitter. The life I have led, that you or your friends will never understand, has made me bitter. The privilege you hold onto, and brazenly flaunt to the world, has made me bitter. The past, present and future I see only makes me even more bitter.

The only light I can cling to is away from the likes of you.

The only good will gesture I will show you, Phoenix, is to honestly tell you that I will not apologise for what is to come next.

I hate everything you represent, Paul Phoenix.

You are a fool, Kazuya Mishima.

Just because I have all this to burden. Just because I climb such an uphill battle every day.. Just because you hold onto everything I despise. That does not mean I admire you. That does not mean I accept you.

That only means I will keep fighting every day.

Kazuya was already at full height. Blood streamed down his face… the hot, furious blood of a Mishima. It was what drove him.

Kazuya glared at Phoenix, moving… somehow, still ready to strike. Kazuya would…. He would not expect anything less from this man. Kazuya would expect no less from what this man represents.

Kazuya bellowed. One final step, and he swung forwards.

Kazuya swung his final kick.

Fist met skull. Foot met temple.

Both connected at the exact same time.

38

They say in the Battle of Yamen was one of the most surprising victories in the history of Chinese history. Fought by the relatively undermined and undermatched Yuan Dynasty, they took on the dominant and exuberant Song Dynasty, led by the grizzled, determined Zhang Shije.

The battle, which took place In 1279, is arguably one of the most important battles in the long list of Chinese dynasties. Despite their unmatched perception, the smaller army of the Yuan Dynasty managed to, by the skin of their fortunate skin, to defeat the Song Dynasty.

Kublai Khan, a charismatic and boisterous leader that was ruthless in his own right. Of course, the fact that the Yuan Dynasty had a much smaller army did not make them the 'heroic' side, per say… they slaughtered members of the Song Dynasty, just the same as the Song would do to them.

They say the bloodbath was so brutal, that thousands of corpses were floating endlessly out to sea, for the creatures of the night to ravage them.

It may be a crude and unfair comparison, but that is what Lee was reminded of here. Seeing both men in such a bloodied state, grasping and clutching for whatever moments, whatever sheer wills or morals they fought so gallantly for… throw their final blows.

Thrust forward with one more punch. Swung ahead with one final kick. For both to land the blows simultaneously… what ensued was a blood bath.

Blood spattered everywhere. Pauls jaw swelling to the size of a modest watermelon. Kazuya's chest distorted in a way that Lee had never seen before… Lee has seen much cruelty in his time in the Mishima Zaibatsu. But, it was a wonder he could even breathe, let alone fight.

What happened next was nothing short of excellent.

That is not to say it is in any way good, or amazing to watching. It was frankly sickening, if Lee could be frank, and it worried him down to his bone. But, in its own way, it was also quite… excellent. That is the cruel aspect of violence, of any kind. It can be terribly cruel, terribly brutal and almost unforgiving, depending on your perspective. But, it can be excellent.

Lee was sure that he would never see something this great again in his lifetime.

They both fell. Both men fell upon impact, and Lee could see the lights go out in both their eyes.

He could see Pauls eyes switch off, and… he could see Kazuya's eyes dim to a halt. With a shower of blood, a hushed silence and two sickening thuds… both men fell to the ground. Lee could quell his amazement for a moment, as the natural feelings of shock, of disgust… of sheer, sickening worry seeped in.

Paul may believe he is some kind of superhuman with his willpower… but, Lee would not think any less of his new friend to simply relent in the face of all of this. Which is why as soon as they fell… as soon as the referee raised both arms, to put up that 'X' sign… Lee was in there.

He rushed in right behind Marshall, almost sprinting into the cage. It did not matter, Mishima Zaibatsu representative or not. It did not matter that his brand new dress shoes will surely get stained by the crimson painted across the canvass.

It did not matter that his freshly combed and blow-dried hair could get flecks of blood in it. It did not matter if the world saw him, as his father's proxy, openly supporting… daresay, even showing concern for Paul Phoenix.

Lee needed to make sure his new friend was still…. Well, to be frank, that he was still alive.

It was difficult to navigate with all the medical personnel that swarmed the ring. They resembled a military unit in many ways… the organised, yet frantic way they secured both of their targets, and started their work.

Lee could see that no amount of paramedics would stop Marshall, and Lee decided he needed to adopt the exact same mindset.

He shoved through more of the medics, trying to clear some discernible path through all those frequent white outfits, and the even more frequent ruby smears.

Lee dropped to a knee, refusing the urge to wince at the squelching noise it made. Lee believed, for a strange, irrational moment, that he had dropped directly at Pauls head, but… but, even then, Lee had to strain to make heads of what he was looking at. The mask of crimson did not go away easily, but behind that, anything around Pauls mask looked like an inflated balloon.

His entire jaw and chin had somehow swollen even more, to the point that his lips were the only recognizable part of his lower face. His eyes were turning a slight blue shade, but that looked a little more human than the rest. "We need to get that jaw sorted, stat." One medic turned his head up. "It's probably been around… 30 minutes?"

"Why… why does the time matter? The swelling or something?" Marshall glanced around at the medics, but when he did not get a response, he turned to Lee.

Lee had no doubt he looked grim, because he certainly felt that way. "If the broken fragments of the jaw are dislocated for too long, they can lock into place."

Lee slowly rose up on a knee, as more medics arrived. The thin, orange gurney looked barely stable enough to hold Pauls weight, but the medics were no doubt stubborn. "I assume our medical friends here will need to take drastic measures if they cannot relocate the broken fragments almost as soon as possible."

Lee slowly took a step back, as the medics hurriedly rushed him away. He had seen jaws shattered before. The swelling was common, in fact it was a satisfying sight. It showed that the break was clean, and somewhat treatable.

But, the swelling that Paul faces…. Lee is unsure. He is unsure what quality of life Paul will ever live again. All for the sake of becoming the greatest. Lee admires it. Lee… well, Lee can only wish he still held that passion for the art of fighting.

Lee followed his own gaze, towards the other set of medics that had clustered around Kazuya. There looked to be the same, if not more… Lee supposes, the rib injury may be considered more serious.

Lee can see how they may assume that. Lee stood on his toes for a moment, trying to catch a glimpse of his… his rival. It was too difficult, and Lee's attention was soon rediverted back to Paul.

They were slowly raising the gurney, which looked to be a manageable feat considering Pauls sheer muscle mass. Lee stepped into stride, seeing that the bottom of the gurney was struggling. He could pick up- "Sir, please. You are in no state.. SIR!"

Lee's blood ran cold. He closed his eyes for a moment, forcing himself to take a deep breath. Surely, he can just…. He can just stay down. For once.

Lee felt no guilt in uttering those words in his own mind, and he was almost tempted to utter the aloud. Lee slowly turned around, recomposing his blood flecked face… Lee could see he did not need to worry about Kazuya. For once… a rarity… Kazuya was not glaring at Lee.

In fact, he seemed to be looking through Lee. Kazuya stumbled forward slowly, unsteadily and wobbling… every medic that got in his way, helplessly, got shoved to the floor. Lee's eyes widened, as he took a cautious step back… Kazuya was not stopping.

Lee was confident he could make quick work of his rival if it came to that necessary measure. Kazuya's entire chest had turned an ugly shade of purple, green and red… all of which seemed to gather and centre near his scar. This is the most vulnerable Lee has ever seen Kazuya.

When the medics tried to usher Paul out quicker… Kazuya's hellbent gaze only got more furious. He shoved his way past further.

"Now, Kazuya…" Lee began, extending both gloved hand in compromise. A position, unfortunately, he was far too used to. "The referee has made his decision. It is a draw, and that stands. There is no nee-"

Lee wheezed. With a single hand, Kazuya shoved Lee away… even in his state, his shove was so powerful, it almost caused Lee to lose his balance. The blood played a factor in that… Lee almost tripped, and slid in the pools. Lee quickly recomposed himself, fixing up his suit jacket. Yet, he… Lee made the calculated decision to remain still for the time being. Kazuya… do not. If you lay a finger on him, I will make sure you live to regret it.

Kazuya stood at the head of the gurney. He had come to a deliberate stop… his breathing sounding completely strained, every breath like a distorted, forced squeeze. "Get… off…"

Lee frowned, as he noticed the commotion amongst the medics. They quickly moved to grab him… but, of course, the force of nature among them would not stop.

Kazuya watched the scene unfold silently, his breathing still unsettling, as Paul struggled his way to his feet. Every movement Paul made seemed to be made in agony… he groaned, yelped and shouted with every sudden movement.

His cries, at times, resembled a dying, starved wolf. However, when he was not moving, his breathing was shallow, barely controlled… Paul was a man barely hanging on.

Lee stepped forward again, ready to inflict damage on any indiscretions that could-but, a hand restrained him.

Lee spun around, and he stopped himself. Marshall was not looking at Lee, but at the scene unfolding in front of him. Yet, his hand was still fixed on Lee's shoulder. Lee forced himself to stop, slowly brushing down his suit jacket.

Eye to eye. Paul struggled to his feet, but nothing happened. Perhaps, both men realised if they gave any more to the fight, one was bound to lose their life. That modicum of sense must have passed through their minds.

However, Lee would not be in the least bit surprised if Kazuya was the one to take that step… despite everything. Kazuya glared at Paul… his face unreadable, his eyes even colder. Paul swallowed slowly, curling his lips… breath still shallow. Breath directly on Kazuya's face.

Then, the first move was made. Lee was not surprised who made that move. However, he was wholly shocked about why the move was being made. Or, how. Yet… Paul did it.

Paul Phoenix… Paul Phoenix lived up to his sayings. He lived up to his values.

Unsteadily, with groans in between… Paul extended a shaky, unsteady hand.

Silence had now dawned, and settled across the entire arena. Even the medics were stock still, watching this… this impossible scene unfold right in front of them. Even when Pauls hand shook, his resolve never wavered. Kazuya's own… his own bitter resolve did not waver either.

He stared back at Paul. It was most likely a glare, it could have been a leer… but, Kazuya was certainly gazing.

Lee watched it unfold. In classic fashion, in that arrogant way of his… Lee could watch that lip of Kazuya's slowly curling. Kazuya's lip curled, as he glared into the unsteady, trembling and shattered face of Paul Phoenix. Kazuya stepped forward…

Kazuya lifted his own slightly tremoring hand, and grasped Pauls.

The silence still remained with that motion. People began to bustle, heads began to turn… all Lee could do was stare. Lee never believed he would see such a day. Kazuya shows very little respect for any fighter… never mind one that would be associated with Lee himself. Yet, Lee is staring at this inevitable impossibility.

With mixed emotions, Lee is watching Kazuya Mishima shake Paul Phoenix's hand.

Kazuya released the hand slowly, his stare still fixed on Paul. Kazuya eventually turned that icy glare elsewhere, and within moments, Kazuya had shoved past a falling Paul Phoenix… those wild hands keeping any medics from possibly intervening, and helping him, in all of his stubbornness. That icy glare had turned out to the crowd, that belligerence turned towards the crowd for some unknown, and unsteady stumbling.

The medics were there to secure Paul, as they quickly grabbed onto him… and with eyes fluttering backwards, he finally accepted their aid as he slept into unconsciousness.

Yet, still… Lee stepped forwards, and his eyes followed that unsteady path of Kazuya. He was half-stumbling away, past the guard rail and the still fans, as the medics struggled to restrain him. Kazuya still refused to allow the natural course of unconsciousness to take hold, to take control of him. He's too damn stubborn to just allow… allow himself to stop.

Lee decided that reason, logic or even thought could not take control here. He should just… just allow his mind to simmer for a moment. He should just allow relief to settle in, as unlikely as that rare emotion may be in these times. Lee turned back towards the gurney, where Marshall was already dutifully standing beside.

Lee followed them to the ambulance.

39

"Indeed, but do you not agree it has a rhythm to it? I believe it stimulates your synapses, helps you grow a different perception."

Paul shuffled up the bed, turning towards Lee.

"Lee, it's pop music." Marshall leaned back in his own chair, placing both his feet at the end of the bed. Paul slowly turned towards him. "Have you ever had a conversation with Paul in your life?"

"Yet, perhaps, this experience has allowed him to be a little more open minded." Lee extended a finger at Marshall, which quickly travelled towards Paul. "Hmm?" Paul raised his eyebrows in response, managing a very strained smile. Lee met it with that shit eating smile of his own. "Gabrielle has some very thoughtful and introspective songs, with some very interesting melodies."

It was kind of a relief to have his tongue 'tied down'. Hell, maybe it goes to show he's been tired of living up to his reputation the last while. But, sure, Paul can admit he's a bit relieved that he can't contribute anything to this conversation. Or, most conversations, for that matter.

It's a little weird being able to half-talk. Imagine you've got a load of chewing gum stuck to every bit of your teeth, and the strength of that gum is like superglue. Then, you get a bit of an idea of what Paul has to go through.

As you'd imagine, there's a lot of syllables that are restricted when your jaw is wired, so that's why Paul has just decided to go and give it up immediately. Well, y'know… if something has to be said, he'll speak up. Well… he'll mumble up, he guesses.

Lee clapped his hands together, as a woman's voice began to harmonise over the small portable radio. "'Dreams'! A song that is very apropos, if I say so myself!" Well, course you'd say it, the cheek of you.

Here Paul is, covered from head to toe in bruises that feel like he's pelted with stones.. all of that, and all he's got to show for it is a '1' in the 'draw' column. What the fuck does that even mean? People coming up to him saying "That was the greatest fight I ever seen." "What a performance man, you showed so much heart." "You've earned your place in the history books."

Yeah, and what? Are you saying that when my back is turned? I didn't fucking win, you fucking ass wipers. How the hell can I call myself undefeated when I got a stupid 'no contest' out of all of that? Any credibility of ever being remotely known as the best has faded, and turned to dust now. That's the new reality Paul has to tackle with, and it's a pretty big fuckin monster to deal with, alone in this hospital bed.

Hell, it doesn't seem out of this world for him to think about these things all day. He put everything he had into that, and all he managed to walk away with was… that. Marshall took a swig of a bottle of water, glancing out the window of the compressed ward. "When is your flight home, anyway?" Lee had his legs folded, beneath his dark suit. His gloved hands were clasped over his knee, but Paul could see there was something… strange beneath that suit jacket.

That shape looked a little like… "I fly out tomorrow morning, as soon as dawn graces us, I am afraid." Lee turned his gaze to Paul, that luminant look still on his face. "Unfortunately, my duties wait for no man." Paul doesn't get how he can be in such high spirits. Lee backed him with everything he had. The money, the training, the intense hours… Lee got him this far when he was yards behind the finish line. Fuck me, if Paul didn't deliver. Now he's gotta go home, and Paul didn't give him shit in return. No compensation for a wasted fucking investment.

Paul tried, but… "Already?" Marshall removed his feet off the bed, his eyebrows raised. "That would hardly have anything to do with the fight, would it?"

Lee's smile remained. But, Paul could see there was a coy look on his face. "My father…" Lee began, before he paused. "He is one who keeps his cards close to his chest, so to speak."

Paul exchanged a knowing look with Marshall. Is there…? There's no way. There's no way Heihachi Mishima himself would even consider a fight… Paul couldn't even beat Kazuya. No, there can't be.

But… but, that fucking look on Lee's face…. "I didn't 'in." Paul finally forced out. Silence fell in the hospital room. Lee quickly turned his hand to the dial of the radio.

"I didn't 'in." Paul forced out again, his teeth hopelessly fused together. Lee stared at Paul for several moments, his eyes gazing deep into Paul.. until, it got to a point where he was almost uncomfortable. The last time he stared that long into another man's eyes…

"Paul, you did not lose." Lee finally responded. Paul furrowed his eyebrows. But, in a way that was so unlike Lee… he did not say another word. Paul frowned, turning towards Marshall slowly.

"He's got a point, man." Marshall folded his arms, smiling himself. "Nobody has ever done what you've done, man. You took Kazuya to his limit." Marshall shrugged. "You weren't the last man standing… but, nobody was standing. Sometimes, you gotta take those moments when they happen, man. There's so many wins and losses in the world, it's rare to get anything in between. Something like this is so rare, there's gotta be something new to learn from it."

Paul turned back towards his lap. I dunno. It feels a little empty now.

He feels scummy for even saying that, because he knows Marshall has some wisdom hidden in those words. But, he can't just write that off as a learning experience… that's just the perfectionist in him. But, look… it always seems like Paul only appreciates the moments when they're far more simple than this.

There's gotta be something to appreciate about that whole deal. Past the whole limits thing, past prevailing through all the suffering… Paul knows he'll eventually feel all those silver linings. But, maybe there's a gold lining in there too. Paul just… he can't see shit at the minute. Lee clapped his hands together.

"I could not have articulated that any better myself!" Lee unfolded his legs, and slowly turned around to look over his shoulder. He slowly stood up then, his head craning around the corners. Marshall sighed. "Lee, what the fuck are you doing?"

Lee raised a single finger in response, slowly sitting down again. Then, with a flourish of his hand, his arm disappeared down his suit jacket. "Even if you may not appreciate the gravity of that moment, Paul, I am sure there will be something you can… appreciate."

Folding his jacket tighter over his chest, Lee turned towards Paul, with another grin. Go on, show us then. Paul ain't sure what to expect, but if it's another rose… well. Lee flourished his hand, and saw a familiar slosh of dark orange hidden in the glass.

The bottle was a hefty bottle with a thick neck, and Paul would recognize that label anywhere. Paul shook his head, rolling his eyes as he turned towards the window. Lee shook the bottle in his hand, that grin of his remaining.

"Nebraska's most excellent, for the finest man the state has ever produced." Lee flourished that hand again, and from nowhere, three small whisky glasses managed to appear. "I assume all of us here are not a fan of the concept of 'mixing'."

Marshall was shaking his own head, a grin on his own face. Fuck sake, man… Paul ain't too sure how to feel about that as a gift. But, hey, Lee is that kind of guy. He ain't gonna take insult to the fact that he went to alcohol first. That's just the way it is these days. Even.. well, even within the fighting circles. Especially, within those circles.

Lee had expertly poured the right amount of bourbon for all three, and was soon passing them all around. Paul took the glass slowly, feeling its cool weight in his hand. The stink of the stuff would meet him anywhere… there was a time in his life where he loved Golden Sheaf.

It was local bourbon, and it was far less expensive than some more of the mainstream stuff. But, that time… that was a time well before he was a champion. That was a time he faced heartbreak, and the Sheaf was a shoulder to rest on. Well, I guess it's the same now. I suppose. A much larger, and beastly shoulder.

Ever the showman, Lee rose to his feet. His suit jacket had been discarded, and his silver hair was already going a little wild.. they're in for something.

"I would like to keep this brief, for I believe a quote, by Leonard Cohen, will summarise how I truly feel about the relationship I have cultivated with you both over these short months."

Lee raised his glass of whisky, his jaw rising alongside it. "'From bitter searching of the heart, quickened with passion and with pain, we rise to play a greater part. This is the faith from where we start'."

Lee turned towards Paul, that gaze no more piercing, but a little more warm than Paul was ever used to from his old trainer. "To you, Paul. The man who took Kazuya Mishima to his limit."

"Cheers to that noise." Marshall echoed, rising over Pauls bed. All three clinked glasses shortly, a satisfying noise that Paul would usually voice his approval of. As Paul withdrew his glass, his eyes drew down to the glass of that… that old familiar.

He'd avoided this stuff for so long. It just brought up bad memories, of a time where he was taking it to bed every night.

Paul'd train every day, come home, take half a bottle and pass out. The cycle would repeat, all the while he would pray for something to.. to give. Something about his broken heart to give over.

Paul can't say he feels the same now. He still doesn't quite get what he feels now. Exhausted, for one. But… he certainly ain't happy. But, that doesn't mean he's given up. He… now, he has even more of a motivator.

Everything Paul has given for fighting, some of which is lost forever. That's just the nature of the beast. We're all clockwork, at the end of the day. We're all replaceable. Paul has learned to accept that, and realise that there's an unfairness to this industry. Those that don't truly love it will be weeded out within moments, because they won't be able to handle it.

Fuck, there's some things even Paul can't seem to handle. His perpetual exhaustion always seems to return, and Paul's unsure if he can continue to keep fighting on after coming up short like this.

But, Paul can redeem some things. He still has that power. He can right this by getting a rematch with Kazuya. He can keep aiming towards that eventual goal of Heihachi. He's lost the title of undefeated, but hell, there still has been nobody that has ever beaten him.

Despite all the bullshit, that is something he can put beside his name. Whether he's Paul Phoenix, or just Paul; he hasn't been beaten. Only Paul can beat Paul Phoenix, and even though that's a scary thought, it's still comforting.

Paul frowned, lifting his glass of bourbon slowly. The realisation hit him then, . "Need a shraw to drink 'his."

40

Manchu Ushi

Yoshimitsu

Paul Phoenix

There was once something exciting about an airport to Kazuya. Perhaps, it was the childlike wonder of it all. After all, he was a child all those years that feeling first rose from some dormant part of him.

But, since then, he has cycled through so many emotions, so many memories and feelings over the many years. A strange curiosity, that grew to excitement, that settled down into a dullness, that would fester into a resentment and a bitterness.

Now, he has settled down into a weary acceptance, as he carries his small backpack. Travelling lightly is an old principle of his people… well, the Japanese people. Kazuya is unsure if he can call the Japanese 'his' people now, but regardless. The principle of wabi-sabi is something he has clung to throughout his time in San Francisco, and he has no doubt he will take it with him.

Not everything in one's personal space will be perfectly, clean and even. Take this tunnel he is travelling down in this airport.

There are figures rushing to and fro, pulling around their extravagant suitcases and all their trinkets and jewellery. Although they may believe there is an element of neatness and cleanliness to their appearance, their overall demeanour and aura is far from perfect.

That is the core principle of wabi-sabi. A focus on modesty, imperfection and simplicity. Such idealism to focus on.

Wabi-sabi, as a whole, is such a broad and complex idea, ironically, that it can be applied to many different aspects of life. There goes the irony within it, Kazuya supposes. However, Kazuya likes to apply it when he travels. He travels so frequently, it gives him a little structure when he does.

Kazuya silently stepped through the tunnel, which led them out towards the landing strips. He travels minimalistically, for example. Bare essentials is what he takes. Two pairs of white shirts, two pairs of slacks, a leather jacket and underwear. Socks are unnecessary. His process throughout travelling is simple.

He would begin the flight by settling down by reading, usually based around the philosophy of fighting. He would settle down into meditation, and then would return to reading by the time the flight is prepared to end.

Food is optional between any of those processes. It is not overcomplicated, it is regimented yet modest. That is how Kazuya interprets wabi-sabi.

What of your healing process, Kazuya? How much wabi-sabi do you utilise there? Kazuya's hand instinctively came to his chest. He slid his calloused hand under his chest, and found himself tracing his scar. An older wound, yet, as he traced it up… it was the only prominent scar that remained after… after. Kazuya curled his lip. One day you will realise my value. Shut up. Kazuya found himself slowing to a halt, the back of a suited woman stopping his deliberate walk.

Kazuya reached into the pocket of his trousers, his hand clasping for his sunglasses. He felt his hand… his hand pause.

His fingers traced that locket for several moments, his lip uncurling slowly. Perhaps, if you wore it, you would have defeated Phoenix. Kazuya slowly wrapped his hands around the locket.Is that what you will tell yourself? Your sarcasm is pathetic.

Kazuya took the locket out of his pocket, flicking open the golden lid. No. He stared at the photo. He knows every detail of that very photograph at this point. However.. Kazuya never looks at himself. It always surprises him to see that child.

His gaze will always stretch towards, and study his mother. Kazuya lifted his head once more, feeling something…. Feeling something familiar. A pang… a loss. A longing? Perhaps. Perhaps… Kazuya could imagine many scenarios. The que of the plane was starting to move slowly, yet Kazuya did not move alongside it yet. Kazuya wondered how that conversation would proceed. He would not doubt Jun would record it.

Kazuya began to unfold his sunglasses, but the action trailed off… he was losing his presence.Kazuya almost completely zoned out, and frankly, he was staring at the pavement. He was not staring at the plane. Kazuya shook his head, clearing his throat.

He flicked his locket closed quickly. And, he placed it back…. No. Kazuya paused, as the locket hovered inches away from his pocket. He lifted it back up, and placed the locket around his neck. The cold steel felt strangely foreign, and the locket slid mindfully underneath his shirt… he could feel its colder embrace resting against his scar. Kazuya… Kazuya relaxed.

Wherever home is now- wherever it hides, beneath all the houses, tents and roofs he wanders under. Kazuya has made another sacrifice, one that will no doubt hold more magnitude the more he contemplates it. That is the cost of this journey. Phoenix was a greater cost than he could ever imagine. I will come back for you.

However, his suffering… he does believe his suffering has a purpose. The acceptance of suffering is something he believed he had done long ago. But, maybe, Kazuya only now realised this is what the acceptance truly feels like. You have?

Kazuya placed the sunglasses on his face, and following the faceless woman in front of him… he began to ascend the stairs towards his flight.

It is a small world.

He's not sure if the raven flew by this time. Nor, is he sure if all his teeth fell out, as they tend to do every time he stands here, deep in this whimsical world. But, the only certainty that remains is his gaze into that chasm.

The tree will always draw his attention, no matter what, and the most he can ever do is clench his fists. It always seem to hold that same hypnotizing gaze as before… drawing him in, yet freezing him in place. Kazuya could feel his eyes growing weary, until he turned his head to the side.

This time, he could hear… he could hear no sobbing. Kazuya turned his head further around, the peripherals of his right eyes trying to catch something behind him, in that patch of grass… nothing. The same white background, that faintly glowed around his entire world had shut out any kind of resistance.

Kazuya turned back towards the tree, swallowing deliberately. He had waited for it to appear. This time, it was far more visible, far more open than before… It stood atop a high branch in the tree.

The branch was directly above the entrance to the twisted oak trees, and the black, twisting shadows that rose from the wolf seemed to wisp down, and filter into the entrance chasm below.

It's paws were ground into the bark, its stare fixed on Kazuya. Kazuya met it directly in the eyes. He met the gaze of the wolf without any hesitation, without any shame or without any fear. Those glowing red eyes did not seem concerned with that newfound courage… staring him down, with the same blood curdling fury as it always did.

What you need is closure.

"We may not cry for the faithful." Kazuya was roused to life by that voice. His temporary paralysis died and faded away within moments, as he spun on his heel. In that same patch of grass, kneeling down… wearing her white garments.

Jun Kazama rose up slowly, staring down at the empty patch of grass. "They have cried enough for themselves." Jun finished.

Kazuya flickered down to that patch of grass again. It seemed to radiate more than the rest of the field. It did not exactly glow, but it radiated with something… where has the rabbit gone?

As if to answer his silent question, Jun placed a hand on Kazuya's shoulder. He felt a thousand tightened, weary and torn muscles unknot. The warmth came not from her hand, but from… from the knowledge that hand was there.

He felt his clavicle crack and pop, as his aura finally seemed to let go… let go of the damage that tissue has faced. He felt that sole shoulder relax, as it had never faced any trauma in its short 25 years on this miniscule, compacted world. Her gaze was nowhere near his own, which was growing subtly… that much wider. That much more…. More.

Kazuya turned towards the chasm, the gentlest of motions guiding him towards it. The wolf seemed to be higher on the branch now, it's guarded and malevolent stare fixed on another now. That.. that did not sit right with Kazuya. "What of the beast that killed the rabbit?" Kazuya asked, as Jun's guiding hand still lay gently on his shoulder.

Jun did not turn towards him to answer that question, even as he craned his neck all the way to engross himself. "He will get his meal. The beast needed to be fed. At the cost of the rabbit, and the rabbits children… but, the rabbits children will hold no grudge against the beast. After all, it can never recognize the beast if it came across it again. All it considers is survival.

The rabbit itself may have desperately fought for its life, but it will not begrudge the beast for eating it. The rabbit does not consider hatred when being eaten…I suppose, the beast does not hold any malice towards the rabbit either."

Jun smiled. It was not an empty smile. But, there was melancholy hidden deep within it. "It is only the rules of nature, after all. What is malice without sadness…. Can one live without the other?"

Kazuya soundlessly stared back at Jun, before turning his gaze behind the tree. Still, wherever the beast may be… he could not see it.

Soon, Jun's hand was all that guided him. Kazuya couldn't escape the wolf's gaze just yet… burning deep into him, that Kazuya subconsciously had to reach for his scar. As soon as he did, however… Jun's hand moved. Jun's hand moved, and soon, it gently rested upon Kazuya's.

Kazuya stared at the hand for several moments, feeling… feeling too much, all at once. So many emotions that he could barely process one… but, he only knew he must walk. His heart was lifting, so his feet must accompany them.

So, with… with Jun's hands rested on his own, Kazuya walked towards the chasm.

Kazuya felt the light grow dimmer. He felt the wolf's gaze grow intently more stronger… and eventually, under the branches and green leaves of the gnarled tree, it would gradually grow weaker.

Kazuya could still feel.. that, deep within his scar. After some time, however, he could not tell if Jun's hand was still holding his own. But, he only had the courage to stare deep into the chasm.

Kazuya only knew he was walking into the chasm. If he was still alone, or if she was with him…

That will be knowledge he has to earn.

Resistance crafts Iron

Every movement with his foot was smooth. They slid like well-crafted butter, the sandals morphed to his well calloused feet. He threw a punch, sliding one sandal across the stone pavement… the electricity jolted through him, and out his rough skinned fist.

He stepped back into his static position, both fists clenched over his chest. The stone sandals are not solely for design. They serve a purpose… in order to harness the volts, one must beat them down.

One must defeat them, strangle them and force them to be at your mercy… it is a power one may be born with. But, few master it. He slid his stone sandal across the stone platform again, and threw a kick. He threw another one, his gruff grunts getting louder and louder with each blow.

Eventually, he stomped one foot down onto the stone pavement… squatting down. He could feel the stone bend to his will, completely crack and give in to the kick. He remained in the squatting position, his head bowed for several moments.

He watched, out of his peripherals, out of the window of his humble Minka window. Out the traditional Japanese window, was his most trustworthy guard. Kuma patrolled the entire stone pavement, circling around it slowly… the heavy paws of the grizzly bear leaving a faint trail in the grass surrounding his small retreat.

A man can guard another man. But, he has no confidence that any man could be capable of Kuma's responsibilities. The size, the speed, the aggression… the raw brutality of a grizzly bear is unmatched. He admires the idea of the grizzly bear, and in practice, he does hold some value in Kuma watching over him.

He clenched both fists again, feeling the electricity volt through his fists once more. One never has everything. There is always another obstacle, another challenge that must be overcome. He has a heavy burden to bear, so he must constantly remain relentless. Constantly.

He snapped his head up, at the sound of that… that infernal noise. Infernal telephones.

Damn technology… he can make no heads or tails of it. It shall have no place in his organisation, no matter what that dolt will beg for him to do. He began his slow stride towards the wired telephone, plugged in opposite his stone meditation/training ground.

It was an unwelcome intrusion, but a necessary one for his responsibilities. The gi he wore was briefly illuminated in the break of dawn light that crept through the window. That grey gi clung to his heavily muscular body, which seemed to defy expectations despite his age.

The illustration of the Bengal Tiger on his back was one he felt the most kinship to. The Bengal Tiger is an animal that is almost extinct, with many of its species dying out. Yet, the select few cling to life with a ferocious and vicious determination. It is the national hero of India, and one would be surprised to know about its stout teeth. It has the longest teeth among all feline creatures.

He picked up the phone slowly, lifting it towards his slightly wrinkled face. It almost enhanced his over the top hair. With a rapidly increasing bald patch growing in the centre of his head, two elongated, dark spikes on either side of his head is what kept his hair looking somewhat threatening.

The phone rested under his hazel eyes, and just directly beside his mouth...his upper lip completely shrouded by a handlebar moustache. "What is it?" He finally spoke. His voice was gruff, and weathered. It befitted him perfectly, as he was told, yet he sees no time in entertaining trivialities such as this. It is a powerful tool, and that is the purpose it served.

"Ah, Father." The voice on the other side of the line filtered through. "Truly excellent to hear from you. I am sure you will be glad to hear of my results running the San Francisco office… some interesting developments were founded." He began to walk towards his window again. His hazel eyes pierced into Kuma, who was continuing his deliberate pacing. "I bring some fascinating news about the fight. It was really… a sight to beh-"

"Quit your blathering, Lee." He finally interrupted, his handlebar moustache curling down in distaste. "Say what you must say, boy." The pause across the line was deliberate, and no doubt strained. Yet, he held no patience for it.

"Well, it seems Kazuya has finally met his match." Lee finally confessed. He turned away from the window then, leaning further into his phone. Kazuya has been defeated? The boy should not… "The bout ended in a draw."

He paused then. He smirked. He may have even sniggered. He could not help but smirk, as his stone sandals began to patter into the wooden floor of the small room. "That in itself is besting Kazuya." He finally responded, slowly. He turned on his heel, leaning towards the phone. His eye turned a dangerous shade, as a smile grew behind that greying moustache. "It seems this Phoenix is more capable than you are of handling Kazuya."

That elicited a more satisfactory pause from his…. 'son'. He did not hear a breath from Lee on the other side of the telephone, which caused his smirk to grow. "… May I inquire, where does this leave your… intricate plans, Father?"

He slowly stepped back onto the stone pavement. The wire of the telephone was wrapped around his heavily muscled arm, to the point where the veins were beginning to pop out even more… ugly shades of violet, and of dark blue were shining through.

He slid his stone sandals across the stone platform, and another jolt of electricity shot up towards his hair. He could feel it course through the telephone too… that feeble piece of technology able to connect halfway across the world. But, it can be crushed within a moment in his own vice like grip.

Heihachi Mishima smirked again. He held the phone closer to his grey flecked hair.

"Nothing changes." Heihachi slowly spoke, his gruff voice drawling across the phoneline. Heihachi paused for a few more moments, watching Kuma come to a stop. He was investigating behind those trees… it seemed to be very interested in what lay behind it.

Heihachi's smirk only grew that touch more confident.

"The King of Iron Fist tournament will be interesting."