Chapter 3 – A Chance Encounter

He plucked at the strings in harmonic rhythm with his band-mates. His bass strings hummed along with the sound of the strong percussion and the electric guitar. The music was as vital to his well-being as the blood flowing through his veins. But this was definitely the last song he was playing tonight. The music was a part of him, but he was tiring and the adrenaline was soothing in his head.

Then, he began to sing. He howled the words of the song, the crowd screaming his name aloud. The woman flashed and jumped with every word, the men moshing in some corners of the bar. They were all having a great time, and many were as tired as Iori, but they wouldn't stop until he did.

Iori wailed further, the guitar reaching its crescendo as the drums free- styled bringing the show to an end at long last, after three encores. He threw he plectrum into the audience, and wandered down to the bar. Ordering a beer, he collapsed into a stool. It wasn't long before the admirers appeared.

"Oh my God, that was the best show ever!"

"When are you coming back Iori?"

"Will you sign...here?"

He would be the first to admit that he loved this lifestyle. Sure, he and his band were no Guns n Roses just yet, but he was comfortable gigging around. It was by far his favourite past-time, and he could make a bit of money on the side. But something was nagging at him, a dangerous thought that had polluted his brain for about a week now. I shouldn't care, he thought to himself, but were the hell is Kyo?

It was there, a splinter in his thoughts. He had witnessed it, the explosion near the tournament, the confusion that followed, and the disappearance of the top three fighters in the world. Iori had fought, but, as always, was drawn away by his own curse. And now he was trying to live his life away from the fight, but something was telling his that the fight would come back to him, very soon.

* * *

Zangief had been waiting all night to talk to him, but he didn't have the courage. After all, what if he was wrong? It wasn't his main priority at the moment, but it certainly would make a good side-project. He watched him sipping his bottle elegantly, the girls crowding around him. The singer seemed to shrug off their attention, paying no particular interest to anything or anyone in the room.

He couldn't wait any longer, he walked over to Iori. Standing above the musician by a clear foot, he waited for his attention to be drawn towards the pro-wrestler. The girls cleared, intimidated by the mass of the Russian. Iori didn't care for the girls, but was intrigued by their disappearance. His eyes met the hard eyes of the wrestler.

"You like it in Russia?" said Zangief, as gruff as ever.

Iori smiled. "Its ok," he replied, sipping his beer, "whats it to you?"

Zangief snorted. This was the reaction he both expected and hoped for.

"A fighter like you does not deserve to be here. You are shamed by your occupation!"

Iori was confused. He looked into the stern face of the native.

"Excuse me?"

"We in Russia don't need your filthy drugs, Shadaloo scum!"

Iori spurted his beer out, laughing uncontrollably. "Shadaloo? I have nothing to do with Shadaloo!" He took another sip of beer.

Without warning, Zangief punched the bottle from Iori's lips, sending it crashing across the bar.

"It is not wise to lie to the Red Cyclone!" said Zangief with pride.

Iori stood from his seat, standing toe to toe with the famous wrestler. "Listen, punk, I don't want any trouble. Leave me alone, or I'll be forced to break you!"

Zangief smiled and nodded to the barman, whose full attention was now on the two. Looking away, he pressed a red button beneath the bar. A whirring sound came from above. Iori looked to the heavens.

Slowly, a cage sunk towards the ground, as the dancers move in its wake. Iori gulped.

"I hope you words carry merit, boy!"

* * *

"In the blue corner is the challenger. From Japan, a rock sensation hot on his way to stardom and an adept fighter in his own right, IOOOOOORRRRIIIII YAAAAGGGGAMIIIII!!!!"

The crowd cheered, and Iori put his hands into the air, basking in the awe.

"In the red corner, a brutal wrestler who practises wrestling bears on the cold, barren planes of Siberia. Russia's own world wrestling champion, the Red Cyclone himself, ZANGIEEEFFFFF!!!!"

The crowd cheered louder. After all, Zangief was a national champion in Russia. Iori should've expected that his semi-rock star status wouldn't overcome the popularity of Zangief. The announcer eyed the competitors.

"Are you ready?" Iori nodded. "Are you ready?" Zangief moved his finger across his neck, keeping his eyes on Iori the whole time. "Fight!"

It began instantly. Zangief ran forward, his arms wide open, hoping to grasp Iori were he stood. Seeing this, the crimson-haired warrior crouched, knocking the wrestler over with a nasty sweep kick. Hitting the ground like a sack of stone, Zangief stood up as quickly as possible, searching for Iori with his eyes. He couldn't find him quick enough. Iori lets rip with a powerful three punch combo, finishing by thrashing the back of Zangief's skull, sending him crashing towards the canvas once more.

The crowd cheered and Iori basked in the praise. Suddenly, he felt a giant hand crushing his skull. Pressing it, the pressure built in Iori's head, causing him to groan. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't pull Zangief's mammoth hand of off his brain. Zangief finished the assault by swinging Iori into the ground.

The rocker jumped to his feet and sped towards his opponent, grabbing his chest with rage. Zangief was powerless as Iori pumped strange, purple energy into him and exploded it. The attack felt like a barrage of hits, but Zangief was not finished. It was coming to a head. Both fighters new it. Seeing the rage in each others' eyes, they attempted their ultimate attack.

Swooping in, Iori let loose his infamous Maiden Masher technique. Zangief could feel it. Both were loosing energy, but he was taking Iori with him. As Iori finished, Zangief felt the rage burst and pulled of his classic Super Atomic Buster, a technique famous not just in Russia, but all over the world. The power-bomb led into a spinning piledriver and then into another as Iori placed his last bit of energy into bringing Zangief down.

They both collapsed to their knees when they reached the ring. Breathless, Iori spoke.

"I promise you, I am not with Shadaloo," he said over the din of the crowd.

Zangief put out his hand. "Good fight, my friend, I believe that your words are earnest. Come, let us drink some vodka together."

Iori smiled and shook the Russians hand. "I'd like that."

* * *

They sat at the bar way into the early hours, talking about fighting experiences, tournaments, wins, losses, all the things that fighters liked to discuss. But somebody had to spoil it.

"Where is he?" came an angry voice from behind Iori. He turned to see a familiar face behind him.

"Shingo..."

"What have you done with him? Don't try and tell me you weren't involved!"

Zangief stood up. "Is there a problem friend?"

Shingo snorted. "Keep your nose out big guy, this has nothing to do with you!"

Zangief's face reddened. "Why, you..."

Iori turned back to him. "Calm down, Zan," he said, returning his gaze to Shingo, who was dressed in his usual 'I want to be Kyo' get up. "This is my problem."

Zangief returned to his seat, eyeing Shingo with care.

Shingo cut straight to the chase. "Where is Kyo?"

Iori looked to the ground. "I don't know. I really don't know."