Blood
Chapter 4: Burying the Dead
By Fool's Gold
Disclaimer: Garou Densetsu (Fatal Fury), Ryuuko no Ken (Art of Fighting), The King of Fighters, and all related characters are the property of SNK-Playmore. No profit has been made from this fic.
Dear Rock,
Officially, the reason for my departure is on account of my pregnancy. That is technically true. However, my husband and I have reason to believe that your uncle is up to something big, even though we have no proof. I believe you should be no stranger to this news.
He absorbed the words grimly, unsurprised.
We have discussed the matter with the permanent staff, and they have decided that it would be better for us to leave town for at least the next half-year or so. In my absence, Duck King, the co-owner of the Illusion Bar, will be taking over my present duties. (You can't miss him.) Sally and Elizabeth have decided to stay and help manage the bar, and Dong Hwan has chosen to keep working here as well.
As for you, I leave it to you to decide if you want to remain. I apologise for the sudden developments. Please refer all administrative issues to Duck King.
Rock placed the letter back into its envelope and stowed it away in the pocket of his dress jacket. The message that had been left for him bore King's flowing signature; it was authentic, no doubt. But the sight that greeted his eyes when he entered the bar was simply too outrageous to believe.
"Down here, yo. And whatcha lookin' at?"
With a supreme effort, Rock managed – just barely – to tear his gaze away from the garish blue and yellow monstrosity that perched atop the speaker's head like an oversized rooster's comb.
There was no way he could have called it "good". But on the other hand, it certainly wasn't bad hair, not in the traditional sense: the man seemed to take pride in his outrageous style, and anyone with such a flamboyant hairdo was surely compelled to maintain its good condition.
By elimination, therefore, it was ugly.
"...you're Duck King?" he mumbled, forcing his unwilling jaw to return from its dropped position.
"Dat's right, man." The black man flashed him a grin. "And yo' Terry's student, huh? Rock Howard?"
"...yeah..." Rock replied almost mechanically, still horrified by the way the older man's predominantly yellow hair stuck out in awful contrast, juxtaposed against the elegance of the maroon uniform that all staff members of the Illusion Bar were required to wear. He noticed that it had the same effect on the other patrons of the establishment: most of them had already surreptitiously turned their heads away from the bar, trying their best to enjoy their drinks in spite of the eyesore that, coincidentally, happened to prepare the drinks. Even the twin waitresses, veterans of the industry, allowed themselves a grimace or two behind the co-owner's back.
Obviously, the man known as Duck King was oblivious to all this, as he continued, "Right, dude. King tol' me about you. An' any friend o' Terry's is a friend o' mine."
"Uh... that's nice," Rock muttered queasily. "I'll... just be going outside right now, okay?"
"Sure thing, man."
And that was how Rock Howard found himself standing outside the Illusion Bar, doing his duty and wondering what cruel fate had befallen him, that his boss should have become transformed from a handsome woman into a man with the worst hairstyle on this side of the Atlantic.
Dusk fell over the streets of Second Southtown, and a light went on in Kain's office, revealing the crimelord at his desk.
He sat before the lit screen of his computer, poring over countless spreadsheets, schematics and other plans in deep concentration. Everything had to be perfect – he would not risk making a single move in rashness, lest his scheme fall apart. In his philosophy, the weak were the ones who did things in desperation, simply because they had no other choice; the strong could afford to bide their time.
But at length, he had to look away, his eyes tiring from the relentless glare of the monitor. And as he did so, his weary eyes fell upon the sole accessory that adorned his desk, a faded photograph in a gilded frame.
They stood three abreast in that picture: Grant's hulking figure occupied much of the right side of the portrait, dwarfing the other two who stood beside him. It was the last time they'd seen his face – he'd donned the fiendish mask soon after, leaving him no other option but a road that was paved with pain and violence, and one that would surely end in his death.
He'd tried to talk Grant out of it, saying that it wasn't necessary to sacrifice his well-being for Marie's sake. But Grant – or Abel, as they'd known him in those days – would not be dissuaded, even though only those of the Heinlein blood could control the dark arts. While Kain would thrive under the influence of the power, Grant would end up trading his life's blood for strength beyond measure.
In the privacy of his office, Kain allowed himself a quiet sigh, remembering that short, fateful conversation.
"You do know you'll be killing yourself, Abel, don't you? I've already lost Marie to that scum... I don't need to lose you as well."
A silent shrug, a laconic reply... and a death pact is signed.
"It'll be worth it."
And for the last time, Grant smiles – the bitter, grim smile of the condemned.
He hadn't smiled in that photograph: the circumstances had not been conducive to the pursuit of levity.
Kain looked from the left side of the picture to the right, at the faded image of the woman who had been his sister. Before Geese had come into their lives, she had been the world to him; after Geese, she became nothing but another footnote in the annals of his life.
Or so he tried to convince himself. But every time he looked at that picture, he fancied that he saw the sadness behind that cryptic look of hers, the tears behind the frozen smile. He'd seen it then.
And he was never wrong with those things.
It was ironic. He'd found this photograph in Grant's possessions, shortly after the giant had finally been overwhelmed by the powers he'd wielded. And the two sides of the photograph were faded by age and exposure; of the three figures in the picture, only the central figure remained clear.
He'd lost Marie to a man's callousness, and Grant to the vengeance that would never be theirs... and what remained for himself?
He looked out of his window as the last remnants of the light faded away. Southtown was all that remained now; nothing but a pittance compared to what he had lost, but compensation nonetheless. And come hell or high water, he would see it remade as a memorial to the only two people who had counted as friends.
There was a knock on the door, a harsh rapping sound that brought Kain out of his recollections.
"Enter," he barked irritably.
The panicked underling who burst through the door was not a welcome sight. Kain eyed his dishevelled state with distaste, scowling as he remarked, "What is it now?"
"Mr. Heinlein..." the man gasped, trying to catch whatever breath he could, "Our warehouse along Second Street was attacked. Nothing was damaged, but..." He swallowed hard. "All our men there are dead."
The news came as a shock to Kain: he had not expected his property to suffer such an attack, and certainly not out of the blue. But he replied calmly, "And just how, pray tell, could anyone kill thirty men without anyone noticing?"
"That's the trouble, sir." The look on the henchman's face was one of pure terror. "Whoever did this managed to sneak in and kill every single one of them before they could raise the alarm. No one noticed until the next shift came around."
That ruled out an act by a rival gang: he had gone to great lengths to ensure their submission, and not a single gang remained beyond the range of his monitoring... and even if they had tried something as foolish as this, his men would have been more than capable of fending off any of their attempts.
Clearly, the attackers had more than enough skill to back up their audacity, and power to spare. This was not going to be child's play...
In an act of surprising coolness, Kain merely frowned as he shut the computer down.
"Very well. Get the car ready, and notify Mr. Futaba. This... warrants some investigating."
"Shall I call the police?"
"Not yet."
The underling dashed out of the office; Kain turned back and gave a final fleeting glance at the photo frame.
Just wait a while longer. Vengeance will come soon enough.
Few people were crazy enough to stand outside in the cold October air for long, a fact for which Rock was grateful. And now that the last of the evening's customers were safely ensconced within the warm confines of the Illusion Bar, he stood outside in solitude and gazed at the night sky.
So far, life had settled into a steady routine, in spite of his shaky start when he'd struck out on his own. The job paid well – at least, reasonably well considering the circumstances – and most of the whispers about his history had died down. Within a year, he'd be just another man in the street: he'd be able to further his studies or move into a more secure line of work, and perhaps people wouldn't even notice the infamous name that headed the résumé. He'd finally have gained anonymity...
...but is that what I really want?
It was a rhetorical question, and his presence outside the door of the Illusion was answer enough. He liked the job – friends had helped him to obtain it when all his searches had proven futile, and it was a duty that he was familiar with... and yet, he knew that there was a darker reason to choose the role of a bouncer. Something within him perversely itched for an outcome that no sane man would choose: it sought confrontation, an excuse to fight. There was the ever-burning desire to lose himself in the bloodlust and the battle-frenzy, to simply escape from it all and drown his anxieties in red rivers.
And that, he knew, would be the day when he'd inherit the Howard name in full.
The nagging fear remained buried within the depths of his heart; he despised the truth that for all his efforts, he would never be able to escape the legacies that his father and uncle had left him. He was the heir to cursed blood and a violent pedigree, and there was nothing in the world that would take it away.
Rock shivered slightly in the chill of the night, and turned his head towards the distant silhouette of Heinlein Tower. At the very top floor, a light winked out.
He knew that it came from Kain's office, unless things had changed in the last three months. And if there was one thing that he knew about Southtown, it was that change was an exception, rather than the rule.
Kain was no exception: Rock knew that his uncle hadn't given up on his plan for the secession of Second Southtown. He hadn't been privy to the details – Kain himself was the only one who knew what he would do – but there was no doubt that the man was hell-bent on seeing his dream become a reality. He didn't blame the Sakazakis for leaving. To him, it was prudent of them to flee this town before the trouble started, and it was too much to hope that his sudden resignation had derailed his uncle's plans.
But what could he do? Any attempt to expose his uncle's plot would be to no avail; the idea was simply too fantastic to be believed. No sane person would believe a boy's half-crazed rants about the upheaval of the city, unless he had incontrovertible proof.
Proof was something Rock didn't have. And even if he could have proven it, his revelations would simply drag him back into the underworld, back to the legacy of his family... and there would be no escape this time. He would either be ruined by it, or he would inherit – the same end, in his estimation.
He never should have stayed in Southtown. But the city had a fatal hold on him; his birthplace and damned birthright were here, and he could not escape them any more than a moth could resist the candle's allure.
A sigh escaped his lips, and he turned his attention back to the street. Nobody was out tonight, and the surroundings were silent...
...but not for long. From the alley across the road came an all-too-familiar sound; his ears – or was it his soul? – recognised the strains of violence even at that distance.
It would have been considered unprofessional for a bouncer to leave his post, but Rock felt that the Illusion Bar could afford the temporary lack of security, even as he began to inch his way across the road towards the source of the noises. As he approached cautiously, the sounds resolved into distinguishable noises – he clearly heard the familiar thud of flesh against flesh, punctuating the heavy breathing and irregular movements of the combatants.
And then, there was an uncomfortable silence – the fighters had separated.
He couldn't see anything in the alley beyond shadows, but it was enough to tell him that there were six people in the fight. To his shock, it was not a fair fight – five of them stood with their backs towards him, standing against the lone figure at the other end of the alley.
The five were obviously street punks; as Rock sidled towards the alley, their rough speech became apparent. They weren't faring too well either, much to Rock's surprise. Their breathing was laboured, their figures slouched over in apparent pain and fatigue – sure signs that they were on the losing end of the fight.
Clearly, their opponent was an experienced one. Rock's view was blocked by the thugs, but he could make out the small frame of the person beyond them, standing in stark contrast to the looming figures of the hooligans. And from what he could tell, the fighter wasn't even tiring, in spite of the odds. But so far, not a single punk who had been taken out of the fight – a sign that Rock found disturbing.
Foolish sentiment, he thought impulsively, before he could realise the callousness of such a frame of mind.
In a show of sheer bravado or stupidity – Rock was inclined to choose the latter option – one of the punks spat out a challenge.
"That's it. Now you're gonna pay." He stabbed a finger in the fighter's direction. "Get 'er!"
As one, the thugs raced down the alleyway, hoping to succeed in numbers where individual efforts had clearly failed. Rock started: he hadn't expected such a vicious move. Now somebody was going to get hurt – and even if the person in the blind alley didn't want to inflict pain, the hooligans surely did.
A part of him was loath to leave a fellow fighter facing such imbalanced odds. He began to dash towards the fight...
...are you sure? Or are you doing this for the blood?
"Shut up," he cursed under his breath, but the dark thought that suddenly popped into his head wouldn't let go. And in his fight to control his fears, he hesitated.
It was only a split second, but it was enough. The other combatant leapt nimbly forward, spinning effortlessly in a series of graceful motions that underplayed the power behind each stroke. As Rock ran in belatedly, a part of him noted with amazement at how the thugs seemed to simply fall away from the fighter as they were dispatched with surprising ease.
The deft, delicate moves must have distracted him, because an instant later, he found himself on the receiving end of a flip-kick that knocked him up into the air.
His first thought was that the kick was hardly devastating, even though it did put him in a vulnerable position. This was definitely a case of mistaken identity – he would recover from the blow, and then perhaps he could explain things...
...then he felt a weight come landing on his chest, and he was borne down to the ground with a painful crash.
His second thought was that the landing wasn't all that hard either – for a person who wielded such power, the fighter was rather light in weight. All he needed to do was to make the throw, and...
The wave of blue energy that blasted him at point-blank range was rather painful, though.
Third time's the charm, he thought cynically before darkness overwhelmed him.
"He's dead."
"I can see that," muttered Kain sardonically. He stepped away from the henchman and towards Goto, who was eying another corpse silently.
The cool weather had mercifully slowed the decay of the bodies in the warehouse, but there was no removing the stench of death that pervaded the entire compound.
The twenty men had perished without a fight – that was clear enough, Kain surmised, from the way they'd died. Every single one of them had been killed the same way, their necks cleanly broken by a sharp blow to the base of the skull. Apart from that, there had been no signs of a struggle. To Kain, they looked as though they'd fallen asleep on the job.
And if they'd done that, I'd have killed them myself. He didn't mourn their passing; if they had allowed themselves to be caught off guard, they deserved to die. That was how the world worked.
He was familiar with such a method; he'd used it in the past and found it to be a hassle-free, if slightly boring, killing technique... assuming that the user had the strength to do it quickly.
My men may have been stupid, but they certainly weren't weak by regular standards, he mused. Therefore... our murderers seem to be men of tremendous physical strength. He decided to get a second opinion.
"So, Mr. Futaba... what do you make of this?"
Without even acknowledging him, Goto replied tersely, "A professional job."
"That's it?" Kain was surprised by Goto's failure to comment. He walked over to the side of his right-hand man, reserving his judgement for future reference – an astute move, considering how the sight that greeted his eyes made everything clear.
Three slashes ran diagonally down this corpse's back, having torn through cloth and flesh indiscriminately.
Well, this is interesting. Aloud, Kain remarked, "A message for you, Mr. Futaba?"
Slowly and deliberately, Goto began to turn around. For a fleeting moment, Kain could sense the dangerous intent in his movements; he secretly relished the knowledge that his right-hand man had been disturbed from his ever-present calm. But deep down, he also wondered – a fleeting doubt that he refused to entertain any further – if he was capable of standing up to the master in his rage.
But the moment passed; the man's face turned towards him, remaining locked in its typical smile – a look that didn't fool Kain one bit.
"Perhaps... or it could be for you." His voice remained cool. "Who knows?"
"Of course. At least, we can be sure of the perpetrator's identity." Kain let the traces of a smirk play at the edges of his thin lips. "He is, I presume, a Japanese male, roughly about my age, skilled in the hard styles of Chinese Kung-Fu – as you are – and he will have similar marks to these on his back."
Goto's demeanour never changed one bit.
"You can dispense with the overacting, Mr. Heinlein," he mused, running his finger and thumb along his beard. "It looks like you've done your homework... what, have you been going through your tournament application forms again?"
Kain ignored the barb. "This attack was the work of an angry young man... nothing more," the crimelord noted confidently. "But I trust that you will keep your wayward son in line, Mr. Futaba? After all," he added in sarcasm as he glanced down at the corpse, "good help is so hard to find these days."
"He's mine." There was not even a hint of anger in the older man's voice, only a quiet neutrality that betrayed nothing.
Kain bowed mockingly, deferring to the martial artist in faux politeness. "Of course. I shall leave you to sort out your... domestic affairs. Just make sure they don't interfere with your work."
He turned away, ordering his men to begin the clean up operation. But Goto simply stood there, contemplating the body in silence.
None of the henchmen dared to disturb him.
When Rock regained consciousness, the first thing he noticed was that he was seeing double. Then he realised it was just the waitresses.
"You know, Rock, you really shouldn't be playing around in the alleys at your age," one of them – Sally, he guessed, or was that Elizabeth? – said. The other simply passed him an iced cloth.
"Huh?"
"It's for your bloody nose," the other twin said, not intending it as a curse. Rock touched a finger to his nostril; it came back red. Gratefully, he pressed the cloth to his nose.
Against his better judgement, he sat up slowly, taking in his surroundings. Obviously, he was in the bar now; somebody must have found him in the alleyway and brought him back. He now found himself in an empty booth; his jacket and tie were lying on a chair at the far end of the bar, and his collar had been loosened – a welcome relief to the youth, who didn't fancy the idea of a tourniquet to the neck as a method of stopping nosebleeds.
There was the sound of irate customers being chased out of the door, followed by the familiar speech pattern of Duck King.
"Get outta here. We're closed!" He slammed the door and turned back from the entrance, wiping his brow. "Man, Rock. Yo' bad for business, and it's only my first day on da job, too."
"Sorry." He shook his head shamefacedly, although he wasn't sure whether it was due to his desertion or his negligence. "See, there was this fight..."
"Don' bother, man. We know da whole tale... ya reckless moron." Duck King laughed all too loudly, which only served to discomfit Rock further. "What would Terry say if he foun' out dat his boy got decked by a chick?"
Rock was nonplussed.
"What 'chick'?"
In response, the African-American flipped his thumb behind him.
"Dat chick."
Rock turned his head in the direction of Duck King's thumb, his eyes following in the direction of the pointed thumb... and, in his surprise, promptly dropped the cloth he had been holding.
"Here, let me help you with that."
Hotaru Futaba picked the bloody cloth off the floor and ran to wash it under the tap, leaving a stunned Rock looking on in surprise.
When she returned, Rock was still busy trying to find his tongue.
"Here you go." She handed him the cloth, which he pressed to his still-bleeding nose without a word. In a contrite voice, she continued, "Sorry about that. I thought you were one of them... I should have been more cautious."
"No, no," Rock hastily interjected. "I shouldn't have run in like that, really."
There was an awkward hush as he wondered what to say next, knowing full well that his mouth would probably refuse to say it anyway.
At length, he finally managed to force his jaw to work.
"...I never expected to see you here."
The blue-haired lass replied quietly, "Neither did I. It's a small world, isn't it?"
"Yeah." He scratched his head nervously, embarrassed by his proximity to her, and blurted out, "Where'd you learn to fight like that?"
It had been an innocuous question, but its effect on the girl was unexpected: the kind look on Hotaru's face vanished, replaced by a troubled expression.
"My father taught me." Her voice was a low whisper, barely audible even in the quietness of the empty bar.
"...Okay." Rock noticed her altered expression and decided not to press the matter any further; he berated himself for having asked such an insensitive query, even though a part of him silently protested that he hadn't known in the first case.
The conversation died as the two of them fell silent once again, each preferring to watch the other wordlessly.
After an interminable wait, Rock finally removed the cloth from his nose, gratified to find that the bleeding had been stanched. He put the cloth away in his pocket, not wanting to dirty the table, and decided to make amends for his ill-timed question.
"I'm sorry I brought that up."
"No, I should be the one who's apologising. That was rude of me..."
"Look, you two, if you two don't get the apologies over and done with, we're going to be stuck here all night!"
An irate voice broke into the conversation; one of the waitresses walked over, glaring at Rock with mischievous ire. She jabbed Rock in the shoulder, continuing, "Well, since everyone's apologising, I'll join in as well. I'd like to apologise on Rock's behalf for his boneheaded behaviour: he's always like this when he talks to women."
Rock shrank into his seat in embarrassment, but Hotaru simply smiled and replied, "I know. Sorry for imposing on you all... I'm sorry, but I didn't catch your name."
"Sally," the waitress replied. "That's my twin sister Elizabeth over there, and the guy with the horrible hair is Duck King, the co-owner of this bar." She winked at the girl. "It's nothing, really. You're welcome to stick around..."
"Yeah..." Duck King cut in, "so tell us: what's a nice girl like you doin' in a lousy – Ow!" He backed off, rubbing his sore head while Elizabeth stepped away from him and put down her tray.
Hotaru didn't notice the abortive pickup line. "Well, I was going back to my lodgings, and those men must have wanted my wallet." She tilted her head to the side and looked at the clock on the wall, adding, "Which reminds me, I really must get going soon. Thank you for your hospitality."
"No problem." The waitresses waved back.
She whistled a short, piercing note, and a small shadow darted from under a nearby table. Rock recognised it instantly; Hotaru had always kept her pet ferret by her side throughout the course of the Maximum Mayhem tournament. Now, it scurried up to its master's shoulder as she walked to the door.
Hotaru turned to Rock, and for a brief moment, he thought he saw the briefest flicker of sadness in her blue eyes.
"Sorry about that injury."
And he found himself staring at an empty hall, watching the door close slowly upon the night.
He remembered.
Three years ago, the boy with the guilty look and the girl with tears in her eyes had fought. The luck of the draw had decreed it – and that was how he had found himself facing off against her.
They were alike, in a way: they both chased after the elusive figures that haunted their dreams, the people who would bring some closure to the loose ends of their lives. He sought the mother of his youth, a memory lost in the shadows of his history; she looked for her brother – a man who could never have returned to his family. And on that day, one of them had to give up the chase.
He had won, of course, though he found the fight distasteful. But it had been a supreme irony that he, the victor, had to wait for three whole years before his mother had been found: she had met her brother as soon as the tournament had ended, though it had been a brief, bitter reunion.
He knew all this; he had witnessed it from a distance, courtesy of a pair of binoculars that he had borrowed from one of his new subordinates. It had been a strange consolation of sorts, he had thought, to know that at least one of them had found some answers.
So why were those eyes still sad?
He stood stock-still, staring woodenly at the entrance...
A pair of arms seized him, snatching him out of his recollections, and a voice hissed sharply into his ear, "Don't just stand there, you moron! Get out there and escort her back home!"
"Wha–"
"Look," another similar-sounding voice echoed from the other side. "Don't worry about us; we'll settle things over here. Now go!"
Rock's clothes were bundled into his unresponsive hands, and he was unceremoniously evicted from the bar in great haste.
Elizabeth watched the bouncer's departing figure with a sense of acute exasperation.
"Some guys just can't take a hint..."
Her twin concurred.
"Hey, wait up."
Hotaru turned, catching sight of Rock's flustered form as the youth ran towards her.
She didn't really know what to make of his sudden intrusion into her life – or more precisely, her intrusion into his. On the one hand, it was good to see someone she recognised, and all the more since he, more than anyone, knew what it was like to search without finding. But therein lay the problem. The young man's sudden appearance had caused her to remember; she was painfully reminded of her reason for being here, for returning to this town where she had found her brother... only to lose him once again.
Three years had changed a lot of things. Innocence had been tempered by the passing of each tear-stained year; she still retained her innate kindness and honesty, but her trusting nature now fought with the twin threats of fear and caution.
It was this last fact that made her respond with a guarded smile even as Rock finally caught up with her.
"Sorry. They told me to escort you back to your place..." he said apologetically, "...that is, if you don't mind."
Hotaru noticed his extreme self-consciousness – a trait which she found rather puzzling – and replied, "Thank you," hoping to reassure him. The ferret squeaked, as though echoing its master's words.
The tension never left Rock's face, but he matched his pace to hers as they walked down the deserted road. And for a while, there was no sound along the streets, save for the footfall of two pairs of feet.
They had covered a block's distance before he finally gathered enough courage to speak up, his tentative voice breaking the silence.
"I really didn't expect to see you here..."
"I know. You said that just now." And for the first time that night, Hotaru laughed.
It was not an unkind laugh; her laughter was a gentle giggle, one that held no trace of malice within it. But that didn't stop Rock from becoming utterly chagrined as he cursed his stupidity for what seemed like the umpteenth time that night.
Hotaru must have noticed his discomfort, because she continued, "You shouldn't torture yourself over these little things, you know. It's not worth it."
The words reassured Rock slightly, and he nodded in assent. "You're right," he agreed, grateful that the ice between them had finally been broken. "So... how have things been?"
Hotaru did not answer him. A smile appeared on her lips, tinged with the faintest hint of mourning, and she shook her head slowly as though she had not heard his query.
"Seriously... is something wrong?"
"Sorry?" She looked up abruptly, startling him just enough for her to catch the expression of genuine concern on his face.
The sight was as much as she could ever have hoped for. Now she finally had a chance to unburden herself of three years' worth of pain, solitude and fruitless searching; here was a person who knew what she could possibly have been going through.
"I... Well," she started, and paused in hesitation as she struggled to find the right words. But she had not told – not dared to tell – anyone of the truth behind her search until now, and to do so now would probably be more than either of them could bear; yet of the few people who would have been able to understand, only he remained.
And she knew that if she unloaded all her troubles to him, the weight would be too much for either of them to bear. He had mentioned his mother in their previous meeting, during the tournament; she remembered how his red eyes had lowered when he had spoken of her, and understood that his pain had been equally great – but also tainted with the guilt of the past.
"...nothing much, really," she demurred, deflecting the question. "I'm still looking for my brother."
"I see..." Rock's suspicions were confirmed: there could have been no other reason for her to return to this town. "Any luck?"
A shake of the head was the answer he received. "I haven't had the time. Ever since the tournament, I've been living off the inheritance my parents left behind, but it hasn't been much."
The news came as a surprise to Rock. "You mean they're both..."
"...dead?"
The reply burst out like a gunshot in the middle of the street, and for a moment, neither of them said a word or took another step. They simply stood there, letting the import of the word hit home.
"Yes." Her soft voice was amplified in the stillness of the night. "Mother died after my brother left, and Father..." She trailed off, unwilling to say any more.
"What happened?"
Hotaru tilted her head back, looking up into the sky, as though her memories were among the distant stars. "Father died a long time ago. But that's history by now." She began to walk again, Rock following shortly behind. "After the tournament, I went back to Japan. And I didn't want to waste my parents' money, so I took up a job as a housekeeper... and I eventually saved enough money to get here."
Rock was surprised by her quiet optimism – and thought it to be hopelessly misplaced. In his mind, he had a vision of her wandering aimlessly, searching the whole of Second Southtown for a man who wasn't there... A pang of pain entered his heart as he recalled his own years of futile labour in Kain's service, a barren time which brought forth nothing but ashes.
He didn't want her to waste her efforts; a part of him thought that the best thing to have done would have been to tell her to go back home... until he realised that she didn't have a home to return to. The only one whom she could have returned to was her brother – and so she had come to Second Southtown, pursuing a vain hope that couldn't possibly have been fulfilled.
If he could have helped her, he would have. But how do you search for a man when you don't even know where to look?
"So you think your brother's in Second Southtown?" Rock stowed his clothes under his arm and slipped his hands into his trouser pockets, trying to remain nonchalant in spite of everything.
Hotaru's only answer was, "I know it."
They continued their walk towards Hotaru's flat without saying another word; Rock refused to reply, not wanting to dampen her hopes. But the lull didn't last for long.
"So... did you find out about your mother?"
Rock stopped in mid-stride and looked away, hoping that she hadn't noticed his ashen face.
The question was direct – Rock would not have expected otherwise from her. But the answer was not. More than anything, the last thing he wanted was to have to confront her with the unsavoury details of his recent life. He wondered how much she knew; she could not have known about his time in Kain's employ, and he had a feeling that she wasn't the type to listen to gossip. Still...
He replied bluntly – too bluntly, he realised – hoping to avoid any further questioning along those lines.
"She's dead."
With his back turned, he didn't notice Hotaru's almost-instinctive reaction; there was a light touch on his shoulder, and he flinched involuntarily even as he suppressed the urge to shrink away.
And then he heard her whisper, "I'm sorry."
Reality hit him, and he stood appalled as he recognised her innocence in the matter. She had not done anything to deserve such treatment – her question was only natural, and he had asked the same of her just moments ago. And he had answered her so tactlessly! A rush of blood went directly to his head, partly from self-loathing... and partly from something else.
The feeling of her hand on his shoulder had awakened something within his heart; a long-lost emotion reached him through her simple touch, one that he had been forced to put aside during the dark years. Under Kain's tutelage, it had been dismissed as a liability, and he now found himself struggling to understand this strange feeling that had suddenly reappeared.
It was sympathy.
Even in her sadness, she was still able to offer him consolation – something which, Rock realised, must have been all the harder for her to do in her loss. Her gentleness evoked a similar desire in him; he recognised the compassion that lay behind the gesture, and he wished he could have paid her back for her kindness. He would have gladly offered to help her in her search... if he only knew how. But his inability to do anything about it left him more despondent than when he had started the evening's duties.
He turned back to her, mumbling in a wretched voice, "It's not your fault."
The hand slipped off his shoulder, and they walked on.
"We're here."
Rock looked up from his grim shuffle, only to see Hotaru standing beside the steps that led to her apartment block.
He said nothing in reply.
"Thank you for escorting me back," she whispered, her voice subdued, and began to ascend the stairs slowly. He watched her through the gloomy daze that clouded his eyes; to him, it was as though his last chance to redeem himself was drifting away...
A flash of insight struck him, and he suddenly realised how he could help.
"Hotaru..."
She stopped at the top of the stairs, her back towards him, and said nothing.
"I-if it's okay with you..." he stammered, "I'll help look for your brother."
There was no response; he began blurting out his words in desperate haste. "Terry lives on the edge of town – you remember him, right?" He panicked, wondering if she would walk away on him. "If anyone knows where to find your brother, he will. I could ask him..."
His words died off as he waited for her to say something – anything – that would break the silence.
Slowly, Hotaru turned around...
...and Rock caught a glimpse of tears under the light of the streetlamps. But she blinked, and they were gone instantly, leaving only a grateful smile on her lips.
"I'd like that very much."
Notes:
Firstly, I would like to apologise for the stereotypical depiction of Duck King, especially his accent. No offence is intended to anyone of African-American descent.
Liberties have been taken with character histories and characterisation: Rock probably wouldn't have let himself get knocked out in a single move, and Hotaru probably wouldn't be that pessimistic. But Gato – it's obviously him – did work for Geese Howard (in KOF 2003, goodness knows why the old man won't stay dead).
I blame Ramza Lionheart for the Rock/Hotaru angle – what can I say, "Swan Lake" was funny. A pity it got removed...
Remember when I said that the reason for including the Chinese reference would be explained in this chapter? I guess I was wrong. That part comes later... this chapter was getting too long.
To the readers: Thank you for all your support. Comments, corrections and constructive criticism will be accepted.
Edited 04/10: I have no idea whether the timelines are actually two separate ones. Until SNK-Playmore irons out the differences, I shall err on the side of caution and remove any reference to Gato's prior employment.
On the other hand, it has been noted that Robert returns, and I quote, "to Italy, where my old man awaits" in his ending in AOF3. Given the past inaccuracy of AOF2's translations (with reference to Eiji Kisaragi's nonexistent relationship with Mai Shiranui), and the general slapstick tone of the quotes therein, Robert's "Spanish" roots in AOF2 are beginning to look like a mistranslation. These changes shall be reflected in revisions of the past chapters.
