A/n: Everyone seems so concerned about Hwoarang, nobody seems to care that Julia's just cracked her head open on a rock… Does no one care for our heroine?
Warning! Use of the word "ass".
Disclaimer: Tekken and all Tekken characters belong to Namco.
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High, tuneless whistling echoed through the dank, grimy underbelly of the ship, mingling with the distant clanking and banging, creaking and grinding of life at sea, and the constant rumble of an engine well past its best before date. Hollow notes bounced painfully off the knotted mass of piping that ran throughout the maze of passageways, each as filthy and rat-infested as the last. The rank air was undisturbed by the cheerfulness of the noise, and the stench of oil, damp, and decay hung in the atmosphere like a wind chime without a breeze to give it life.
With a satisfied splash, the engineer finished his business and wiped his ass with a wad of coarse, abrasive material that was masquerading as loo roll. He hiked up his tatty trousers and peered into the dirty, stain-covered mirror over the sink. A bleary-eyed, rough-faced version of himself stared back out at him, its features slightly warped by the contours of the glass. It gave a deep-throated chuckle, and turned its back on the engineer, resuming its whistling as it exited from the mirror. The engineer was unaware of the reflection's exit though, as he himself had exited the toilet and was halfway down the corridor, scratching the back of his head with callused fingers and humming merrily as he trundled along.
"Piece o' shit lights…" he grumbled, tripping over a pile of rags hidden in the shadows and rolling his eyes at the swinging, flickering bulbs along the length of the passageway ahead. His boots splashed through the puddles that were commonplace on a ship of this age, and he hissed as his foot skidded on a pool of dark liquid, which the bad lighting had also failed to illuminate. Reaching out to steady himself, he swore violently as his hand contacted with a burning pipe. "Fuckin' oil leaks!" he spat, shaking his hand and scraping his boot on the ground to rid it of the offending liquid, before heading off into the tangled web of passages, no longer in the mood for whistling.
In the stillness after his departure, something stirred. Quiet scuffling was heard from the shadows, and whiskers twitched around the edge of the swinging pool of light. Once certain it was safe, a pair of rats slipped from the darkness, scuttling across the passage. The first one stopped by the pool of liquid, sniffing tentatively before dipping its nose in to taste, whilst the second raced to inspect the disturbed pile of rags. The first rat raised its head from the liquid and sniffed the air, peering into the shadows and making for another pool of the liquid in the entrance to another corridor.
The lights were broken altogether in this passage, and the shadows flooded it, hiding everything in a blanket of darkness. The rat, however, needed no artificial assistance to find its way. Stopping at the second pool, it indulged in another sip of the sticky substance, then made its way over to a dark alcove to explore the potential food that occupied it.
Tickled by the creature's whiskers, the fingers it was investigating twitched, and then rose to swipe at the rat, sending it racing away into the shadows. "Not yet, you little shit," a gruff voice muttered quietly, as the figure shifted wearily, raising his head. Hwoarang let out an exhausted sigh as he struggled to pull himself out of his slumped position on the filthy floor. Breathing heavily, he lent against the wall for support, and squinted at the light at the end of the tunnel. The coast looked clear.
The Korean heaved himself awkwardly along the passageway, limping and wincing with every step, grunting with the effort it was costing him. Dragging himself into the cramped toilet, he shut the door behind him and leaned limply against it, drawing in ragged breaths as he fought to recover from the walk.
Once he'd got his breathing under control, he scanned the room until his eyes came to rest on a battered, ancient-looking medicine cabinet hanging squint on the opposite wall. He crossed the room on unsteady feet and pulled open the cabinet. There wasn't much of use inside, but he pulled out an old tube of antiseptic cream, some superglue, a roll of dressings and a pair of rusty scissors before peeling off his sodden clothes and resting against the sink, trying to control the violent trembling of his body. He shuddered at the nauseating heat that washed through his head with every breath he took and eyed the goose bumps raising across his arms and the stream of blood oozing its way down his leg, pooling around his foot.
The mirror looked out at the pale, sickly looking face which stood before it, examining the dark, bruised looking bags beneath the sunken eyes and the tangled, stinking mass of dirty hair that clung to the skull. The brow wrinkled in a frown that took some effort and the muscles at the side of the face indicated that the jaw was clenched. The mirror watched in horror as a fist flew at it, smashing the bottom half of the glass into shards, which fell clattering into the sink.
The redhead stretched and curled his fingers slowly, before selecting a particularly deadly looking shard of mirror and lifting it before his eyes. "Seven years bad luck, huh? Not that it could get much worse…" he mumbled, smiling wryly. Turning the taps produced a lot of rumbling and banging in the pipes, but after a lot of effort the water began to flow. Clearly, these taps were not used often. Hwoarang helped himself to a handful of paper from the roll on the wall, and soaked it in the basin, squeezing out the excess and sitting himself uncomfortably onto the toilet. Taking the paper, he carefully tried to wash away the mass of blood, cleaning the area around the wound as best he could. He sighed as the blood continued to well up. At least it was a bit cleaner now though, and he could see what he was doing.
Taking the shard of mirror in a shaking hand, he dug it into the bullet wound, using the other hand to scoop water from the sink and wash the blood away to see what he was doing. Grinding his teeth, he swallowed hard to keep down the contents of his stomach. Luckily, the bullet wasn't in too deep and cutting into the flesh he located it quickly. Tossing the bloodied mirror back into the sink, which was now over-flowing, he dug his fingers in, gripping the bullet and tugging it out. A fresh spurt of blood greeted this new development, and Hwoarang fought off another wave of dizziness. "shoulda kept some of that blood for myself…" he muttered.
Once the bullet was out, he gave the wound another good wipe down, and smeared a sizeable blob of antiseptic cream into the wound, gritting his teeth at the stinging and hoping this would be enough to keep out infection. Next he drew the edges of the wound together, wiping away as much blood as possible and squeezing out the superglue along the tear. Grimacing at the pain of the glue burning as it did its job and the dull, but powerful aching that made his entire thigh throb, he eased his hands away from the wound, cautious about whether it would hold. Satisfied that it was ok, he took a length of dressing and bound his leg as tightly as possible, just in case.
"What a mess…" Hwoarang grumbled, looking at the state of the floor. Turning off the taps, he wearily scooped his clothes off the floor, shaking them out and dunking them into the water in the sink, trying to wash as much of the salt water out of them as possible. He stuck his finger unhappily through the hole in his jeans. "Didn't go quite as planned But same outcome… and I can get some new jeans." He shrugged, slinging the jeans up onto the hot pipes, along with the rest of his clothes. He lent against the wall and slid slowly to the floor, resting his head on his knees and shivering with cold. Slumping into the corner, he closed his eyes, drifting quickly into unconsciousness.
Hwoarang watched from behind some crates as the sailors hauled cargo down the gangplank, waiting for his chance to disembark. He'd been at sea for too long now, and was seriously ready for dry land again. He'd never make a sailor. Once it looked safe he jogged down the plank onto the quayside. As he stepped onto solid ground several soldiers stepped from behind the cargo. Turning and looking around him he saw he was surrounded.
"Hahahaha!" his old commander stepped in front of him, laughing. "You got on the wrong ship, sergeant," he mocked. "Now you'll never reach your target!"
"That's right, Hwoarang. You'll never have me!" Hwoarang turned in horror to see that one of the soldiers was Julia. Removing her army cap, she shook out her long plaits, which fell softly down her back, and he longed to rush to her and tough her, but there was nothing soft about the evil grin that warped her beautiful face or the cruel, tortuous tone of her voice. "Did you really think someone like me would ever accept a filthy street thug like you?" she spat, glaring at him wickedly.
"No!" Hwoarang said, stepping back and shaking his head in disbelief.
"You pathetic fool," Julia sneered.
"Julia, no!" Hwoarang stared at her, a painful frown creasing his brow. She just threw her head back and laughed at him. All the soldiers around were laughing.
"NOOOO!!!" Hwoarang yelled, charging at the commander and grabbing his gun from him. "You're not really Julia!" he shouted, turning to her and raising the gun. "You're not her!" With that final cry he fired the gun directly at her head. The fake Julia flew backwards, and a blinding light streamed from where she had been standing. Dropping the gun, Hwoarang shielded his eyes from the light.
When he opened them again, he was standing in a wide field, the sun shining gently down on him and the grass swaying in a light breeze.
"Hwoarang?" He turned to see her standing a short distance away, her hair loose and flowing gently over her shoulders, her soft brown eyes looking at him with concern.
"Julia," he whispered.
"I thought you were dead," she said sadly, tilting her head and gazing at him.
"Don't worry, I'm coming for you. I promise."
Raising his head, Hwoarang blinked sleepily, taking a moment to focus on his surroundings. His body still felt very weak and shaky, but the pain in his leg had subsided, and he didn't feel as dizzy. Clambering to his feet he stretched out his naked legs, shaking them to boost his circulation and reaching his arms over his head, his back cracking audibly. Rubbing his neck, he crossed the room and checked to see if his clothes were dry. They seemed just about ready, and he pulled them off the pipes and slid his stiff, sore limbs into the warm, soothing fabric.
Grabbing his boots he turned one upside down and caught the plastic bag wrapped around the wad of American dollars he'd won from the street punks in Hong Kong. "This should do me," he said with a smile shoving it back in the boot and pulling the boots on.
Once dressed, he went over to the sink and with a resigned sigh, picked up the scissors. The scissors were badly blunted, so it took some time, but after an hour of tugging and yanking he'd managed to cut most of his hair off, leaving a short, messy, uneven crop. Taking the mouldy looking bar of soap from the edge of the sink, worn away more by time than use, he lathered it up as best he could, rubbing it over his head. He took the sharp shard of mirror again, using it as a makeshift razor, and shaved off what was left of his hair.
When he was done, he stood inspecting his reflection for a while. "Not bad… Couple of cuts, but nothing too obvious," he sighed, rubbing his hand over his now bare head. "It's for the best…" A loud rumble from his stomach told him it was time to find some food.
The ship was suitably dark and riddled with passageways that he was able to get around without being detected. It didn't take long to find the dining area as this was where most of the crew were, shouting and laughing together. He waited for them to clear out before creeping into the kitchen and raking around for something to eat. Munching down great chunks of bread and slurping on a bowl of tomato soup he helped himself to the leftovers. Slowly, he felt his strength beginning to return to him.
For the first time in a while, Hwoarang began to feel that things would be ok. Although his plan hadn't gone the way he'd intended, he'd still survived. He just hoped that the bag of blood he'd bought at the butchers had been enough to convince the soldiers he was a goner. Prodding his thigh gingerly, he considered the likely hood that it would become infected. Best not to dwell on it. He had more important things to think about, like how he'd convince Julia to forgive him. He had to do what he did though. If he'd stayed with her, or told her where he'd be, the army would have gone after her too, and he couldn't put her at risk like that.
It was early morning when the ship arrived in San Francisco, and the sun had not yet risen above the horizon. The cry of seagulls still filled the air though, and Hwoarang took a deep breath of salty air as he stepped onto dry land. He wasn't exactly sure how long he'd been on the ship, as he'd spent most of the time below deck, but he thought it had been about three days. He still felt as though the ground was moving beneath his feet, but that would subside. And he was almost there. He was going to find Julia, and tell her how he felt. He'd make her forgive him.
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A/n: Ok, shameless advertising here. Go read "Lei Wulong in Santa Strikes back" by Mandrake Dragonbait cos it's well written, even if the plot is really random and whacked.
