Chapter Nineteen
The suitcase had been moved. Instead of sitting in the middle of the living room, it was placed out of the way next to the piano. Lee frowned, pondering if he had moved it himself but then thought of the bathroom light on upstairs. As he looked around, however, he saw nothing else out of place; everything was as he had left it. He then yawned and stretched, making his way to his luggage to pull out his cigs and lighter.
It was muggy that night, though noticeably cooler than it had been during the day. Regardless, Lee took a deep breath of the sticky air before shutting the backdoor behind him; he then absentmindedly popped a smoke in his mouth and lit it in one graceful motion. Nonchalantly, he made his way to the dojo in the garden.
The garden had been one of the few things he missed terribly from his childhood. It seemed to stand still in time; the same gnarled cherry blossom trees and their artifically green leaves that were still in the night air and the closed blooms that managed to pepper the stones and bark with color. The rock garden was neatly racked as he always remembered it. He stopped to pull his cigarette from his mouth and to squat down, eyeing the rocks and stone posts that stretched out from the tracks of perfectly formed sand. Weathered stone posts of lotus flowers and smiling Buddhas, it made a landscape of unrealistic tranquility and reassurance. He could see why his father escaped there so often now.
Slowly, Lee stood back up; he looked out towards the dojo, the way lit up by the two rows of lanterns that laced the sides of the cobblestone garden path. He took another long drag from his cig before restarting his trek to the darkened building.
His head was bowed as he entered the dojo; the room was lit dimly from the laterns outside that reflected off the polished hardwood floor from outside the picture windows. He looked up as he pulled the door shut behind himself, and he felt his blood turn cold.
Kazuya's dead, right?
Anna's terrified voice echoed in Lee's head as he stared out at the silhouetted figure seated on the floor. The man before him turned his head and glanced over his shoulder at Lee, then stood slowly, turning to fully face the silverhaired man.
Lee could make out Kazuya's features, lined in the weak, golden light that came from outside. He looked exactly the way that Lee remembered him, the few wild strands of hair that hung by the side of face, the scars that Anna had left on his face, his confident posture. Slowly, Kazuya grinned, his eyes crinkling up, though it was a slight smile. Lee was silent, still in shock as he gazed over the older man carefully, not sure if he was looking at a ghost. His gaze went straight into Kazuya's eyes, and he waited.
The wild look of fear was missing. Lee felt himself relax, seeing his brother as he always liked to remember him. Though, he still waited for the eyes to glow fiercely. However, they did nothing, and carefully Kazuya approached his brother, smile still on his face.
"You don't look very happy to see me," Kazuya said in a low, yet amused voice. The younger Mishima blinked once, again still dumbfounded. It was definitely his brother's voice, the unmistakable rich, dark tone.
Lee finally mumbled, "...I'm...I'm seeing things. I have to be." He grabbed the sides of his head and squeezed his eyes shut. The older man stopped a foot shy of Lee then shook his head disapprovingly, placing his hands on his hips.
"Chaolan," Kazuya began softly, "It's okay. We have all the time in the world to catch up."
"No!" Lee whipped up his head. "You're dead! You're fucking dead!" His hands dropped to his sides and balled up tighly into fists. "I saw everything! There's no fucking way!" He felt his eyes watering, though he blinked it off, trying his best to look his brother in the eye.
He knew that he was trembling. His emotions at the moment were going haywire; he felt twenty years of guilt finally lifted off his shoulders and long forgotten fear returning. Confusion. Hate. Love. He wanted so much for the man standing in front of him to be his brother, but at the same time, he wanted Kazuya to be nothing more than a memory. Lee wanted to keep the perfect image that he had of his older brother, the one that he spend years sculpting lovingly in his mind like a fine masterpiece. Yet, really looking at Kazuya, really seeing him again, only the worst seemed to surface. He saw the ugliness, the bitterness, the hatred. He saw Anna crying in his arms. He saw a monster, something capable of hurting another human being in the cruelest of ways. He saw what everyone else remembered, his memory ruined despite the warmness Kazuya was showing.
And somehow, Lee was still convincing himself that he was seeing nothing. Only a wish.
Perhaps just his guilt.
It was silent then, and the younger man watched the face of his ghost. The look of relief melting slowly into disappointment and hurt. And he waited.
Lee tensed up as a hand stroked his cheek tenderly then stopped, resting as its thumb gently continued to stroke his cheek. It was warm. Warm though with the time-hardened roughness Lee had always loved as a child. His eyes squeezed shut again, and his shoulders hunched up as he finally began weeping softly to himself.
He didn't fight as his brother hugged him.
o.o.o.o.o
There was things she would had like to forget, however her dreams wouldn't let her. Anna twitched in her sleep; she was slumped back in her airplane seat, uncomfortable but exhausted. She hadn't thought much of her life before waking up, rarely dreamt of it. Mostly, she had spent so much time and energy trying to forget it all. Long ago, she had accepted that she could never return that, and somehow was thankful.
She dreamt of the nights she spent curled up on his bed, crying herself to sleep over the child they weren't meant to have. Those nights he whispered lovingly to her as he cradled her, assuring her, sometimes even singing softly to her, like he was her father. She hated him for it; she had wanted that he leave her. But, he never did. Despite how much she fought and spat venom at him, Kazuya waited.
Then there was him.
There was another man, the man that she never learned to love. Yes, he looked like her Kazuya and sounded like him, but it wasn't him. She never did quite place a name for him, but on the days that Kazuya drifted away, he was there. Someone that hated her presence, someone that made it clear that she was unwelcomed. Someone that lived in the same mind and body as the man she had fallen for. But he wasn't her Kazuya.
That man had an infatuation with Jun Kazama, although so did Kazuya, who admitted it reluctantly one night.
"I'm not in love with her," he insisted quietly as he looked Anna in the eye steadily as she sat in his office that evening. It was their second anniversary, which they both had been amazed that they hadn't left one another. He hadn't expect her to stay, and she hadn't expected that he would still want her around. However, they still had made plans to celebrate, though with ennui. She sat in front of his desk stiffly and properly in a red satin gown that he had picked out for her. The cut of the dress had made her feel naked; strapless with splits up the sides the skirt that stopped at her bikini line. Her arms were covered with a pair of matching evening wear gloves, though; the only part of her that didn't feel exposed. She was uncomfortable, though she could sense that he was as well. The questions she was asking for reassurance weren't coming across as she hoped; they were much too transparent. She wanted a reason to leave.
Anna cleared her throat, "You said that...while I was gone, you did something you regretted."
"And it doesn't concern you," he replied quickly. He stood up and repeated in a stern voice, "...I'm not in love with her."
Her eyes followed him, "I know you're not. But still...why?"
"Why what?"
"Why her? Why not anyone else in the world?" Kazuya blinked, taken back at the retort. He was silent, breaking eye contact then casting his gaze downward, then finally completely turning his back on her completely as he walked over to the windows and stared out of them, his hand folded neatly behind his back. And again, she waited.
Jun Kazama. She was a woman that Anna was jealous of. Jun had been someone that the redhead had always considered perfect. Mild-mannered, virginal, soft-spokened. Motherly. Anna always imagined that was the kind of woman that Kazuya had always wanted, someone that would be a wonderful mother to his children, a loving wife, strength through serenity. However, Jun never held even remotely the same kind of interest that he had in her; he only could touch her through pictures, memories, fantasy. Yet somehow, he had made himself perfectly content with Anna, despite their differences, despite how she even told him that she hated him, and through the nights they fought, the nights she didn't come home, the nights he didn't come home himself.
"She..." he began in a low voice, his back still to Anna, "she has something I need. Something you can't give me."
"Just say it. I'll leave."
Kazuya turned back around, "But I don't want you to go. Anna, I--"
The plane rattled violently from turbulance, waking Anna with a start. Slowly, she straightened up in her seat and glanced out of her window. Daylight; wouldn't be long before her shuttle landed in Paris for her last connecting flight. The irony of the whole situation pained her; she was going to see her sister for the first time in years just to relive the life she detested so much. On top of that, Jun had won in the end; she was the one that had Kazuya's only child, giving him the family he always longed for.
It was what he needed.
It was something Anna wasn't able to give him, something she would never be able to give him.
o.o.o.o.o
He wanted a truce. Wordlessly, Hwoarang placed the photo on the table in front of Julia. He then sat down in across from her, though his hand never left where he gently nudged the picture towards her; they were in the breakfast room, alone in the house. Despite having her company all day, he felt isolated. His small victories added up to nothing.
She won.
Julia stared down at the mutilated picture, her hands tightly gripping the edge of her seat, mostly to hide that they were shaking. Her eyes never looked up, and she was still silent. He started to pull away his hand, until she darted up her own hand and placed it over his.
"No, wait," she said, her voice raspy from half-holding back tears.
He pulled his hand out completly from beneath hers, "I lied, I'm sorry, I'll stop." Hwoarang pushed out his chair and stood up.
Finally she looked up at him, defeated.
"You know," she started softly, slumping back in her seat with her eyes still fixated on the older boy, "I'm so happy you came back with me."
Hwoarang shook his head, "Just stop, Jules. You got your point across. Do me a favor, and don't try to gloss it over."
"I'm not trying to do anything." She slumped down further, "At least...not anymore. There's no point." Her gaze dropped down at the photo.
"Hwoarang?" she asked.
He shook his head, "No, I don't fucking believe in God."
"...I don't either." Her eyes stayed lowered. The older boy shook his head again then turned to leave. Earlier during the day, after Julia had left for the morning, he had gathered his belongings, making plans to stay with his parents for once. He figured anything was better than constantly having his affection thrown back into his face. At least his mother wanted him, even if his father didn't. At least he knew exactly where he stood when he was with them, as much as he didn't want to be around them. He knew his place there, and that was comfortable.
"Hwoarang?" she asked again.
He sighed angrily and spun back around, "What?"
"It's not you."
"I know. It's never been me. It's Kazama." He turned back around and marched back to Julia's room to get his bag.
o.o.o.o.o
He already had his ticket, yet only half of the luggage he came with and his passport. Steve stood waiting in his terminal at the large bay windows, watching planes land and take off; he was already imagining that he was on each one of the departing planes, heading home to see his family. However... He glanced down at his new ticket: one-way trip to Alburqueque, New Mexico. He hadn't told his family yet of his plans, and had decided it was best that he didn't.
His found his thoughts drifting to Smart. Steve hated that he hadn't got to stay around to properly say goodbye. He had waited and watched from behind glass as the elderly man struggled to breathe after his surgery. The boxer could only whisper his goodbyes then, but it was the only way.
An automated announcement of a woman's voice rang through the airport, and he looked over his shoulder. There were no men in black following him this time, no woman in black. Though he was still nervous; it seemed almost too easy that he could leave like this. He rubbed his left arm nervously and turned back to the windows. His body relaxed as another plane pulled out to go down the runway.
A stuffed rabbit. For some reason, that came to mind. He remembered leaving his stuffed rabbit behind when he was a child, after his new parents had gotten him and took him to the airport. They were flying to England, his new home.
"No, we have to go back!" the little boy had cried. "I want my Bun-bun!" He cried the entire trip from wherever it was he had been to the airport, and of course during most of the first flight until he fell asleep in his new mother's arms.
His mother had replied softly as she stroked his hair, "We'll get you a new rabbit, love."
Steve replied sleepily, "I want Bun-bun. He helps me not be scared." He pointed to his left arm, then bandaged up and in a cast. He was a pitiful sight; a sickly little boy barely five, and his gauze covered arm and hand stiff at his side, wide blue eyes that crinkled when he smiled and more so when he cried, his blonde hair that didn't quite have the shine that it should despite how neatly it was cut and washed. However, he snuggled up against the woman, as much as he missed his toy.
He added with a yawn, "My daddy left it for me." And the little boy nodded off to sleep.
"...I wonder what happened to that toy?" Steve murmured to himself; another plane, his flight, pulled in slowly. Over the PA system, a chime sounded and another announcement, and the boxer pulled away from the windows. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, then reopened them; the other passengers were gathering in lines at the terminal exit, chatting mindlessly with each other. He half listened to conversations about the weather and politics as he slowly made his way to the end of the line. The entire time, he keep expecting to see the suited men to come through the crowd, like vultures menacingly circling a dead carcass. However, he saw nothing.
That didn't stop his heart from beating fast; he still could feel their eyes watching him as he moved up the line. Finally, he came up to the end of the line, showing his passport and driver's license to the guard at the exit. He glanced over his shoulder once more; only a few travellers were behind him. The young boxer sighed heavily with relief as he was given his ticket stub, and he walked onto the plane.
o.o.o.o.o
". . .Alright, I'm on my way," Heihachi said flatly before hanging up the phone. He was sitting on the bed in his hotel room, still as he stared at the phone for awhile before standing slowly. It was after midnight, and he had been receiving phone calls non-stop for the past hour or so. He wasn't sure what to think of the whole situation. Another patient was gone during circumstances more jarring than what had originally brought him there. The elderly man rubbed his temples painfully with his thumb and forefinger.
He was still fully dressed and had no desire to leave his room. He wasn't afraid at all, however. Instead, he felt indifferent. During his life, he had seen too much, experienced too much. He wondered idly if it was some kind of test, something to make him admit that there was indeed a God, and He wanted to be acknowledged. The old man pulled his hand away from his face.
For a moment, his thoughts changed to pity for the missing woman but quickly he dispelled that from shame. Pity was what had left him without a son nor a grandson. Pity had caused him to do the unthinkable to the people he was supposed to love.
Though, he did find himself wondering if he was at capable of love anymore. The frown he wore deepened: pity was all he was able to give now. That was why he was there.
His thoughts drifted back to the last few months that had spent with his wife before she passed away. She had become interested in religions during the last few years of her life, reading and researching books on Western and pagon religions and philosophies. Many nights, she requested that Heihachi bring her books from the libraries, often furiously taking notes at during the day since by then that was all she was physically able to do; Kazue had never been healthy. She had been sickly as a child and hadn't been expected to live beyond her late teens. However, she did live long enough to happily marry Heihachi and have a child.
She had often asked Heihachi if he married her out of pity. He denied it constantly. Yet over thirty years after her passing, he wondered about himself. Yes, he had claimed that he loved her and always said it sincerely while looking into her eyes. However, Heihachi was very aware that his wife suspected that he was having an affair.
Back thenk however, he was certain he still loved Kazue. He wasn't sure now.
The phone rang. This time, he ignored it, though it did startle him, reminding him that he was expected at the institution. The old man sighed heavily, twisted his back to pop it, then reluctantly made his way to the door.
o.o.o.o.o
Lei couldn't sleep that night. He was lying on the couch in his room, staring up at the ceiling. His eyes had long adjusted to the dark, and he glanced over at his jacket hanging on the doorknob on the far end of the room; its silhouette seemed to morph in the dark, twisting and contorting into different shapes. At times, he swore he could see some kind of demon, leathery black wings that spread out and jagged claws. He was waiting to see the red glowing eyes. In fact, he wanted to see the eyes.
Perhaps that would mean the past twenty years of his life had been a dream, and he was finally waking up. If he could somehow just relive that moment, the one moment that made him realize how insignificant he was in the end, he would. That was something he had told himself constantly until two years ago. When he did finally get that chance again, he panicked, fearing that he would break his promise. And he felt he had.
The detective huffed heavily and sat up, keeping his gaze on the jacket. He leaned over, crossed his arms, and rested his elbows on his knees. For what felt like an eternity, he just watched, letting his mind torture him until the hall light clicked on; sickly yellow light oozed beneath the crack of his door, and the sounds of footsteps softly tiptoeing down the hallway into silence; the light clicked off quietly. Lei stood up and made his way to the door.
After peeking his head out, the detective cautiously made his way down the hall. He listened carefully, hearing the refrigerator open and glass clattering. When he reached the end of the hall, he looked over towards the kitchen; Paul was bent over in the fridge, and he stopped moving before glancing over his shoulder at Lei.
The biker turned back to what he was doing, "You want a beer?"
"I guess," Lei replied fully entering the room and leaning over the counter. "Sure."
"Alright." Paul straightened up, two beer bottles nestled between his fingers by the necks as he shut the door. As he approached the counter, he pulled one of the bottles free with his other hand and offered it to the other man. Lei nodded as he grabbed the bottle.
"Couldn't sleep, either, eh?" Paul began as he twisted off the cap of his drink. Lei shook his head and did the same. The detective watched as his host throw his bottle up and take a long chug before he took a drink himself.
Paul pulled the bottle from his lips and swallowed hard, "You know, I talked to Shelly's girl this morning."
Lei blinked, "Oh?"
"She's still trying to convince herself he's dead. Damned shame, if you ask me." Lei nodded once weakly and leaned back over the counter; he took another drink then focused his attention on the other man.
The biker continued, "It got me thinking: why do we call them monsters?"
"What do you mean?"
"How are we any better than them?" Paul hung his head. "Why is it...when a group of people decide to take the life of a man who didn't do anything to any of us, we're somehow in the right? Why is it that we're not monsters as well?"
"...You're having morality issues now?" the detective lifted a brow, straightening up.
Paul shook his head, "Lei, don't act like you don't feel bad. I know you do." He looked up and gazed intently at the other man. "That's what you said just awhile ago."
The detective didn't reply but instead looked away and took a swig of his beer.
"Isn't it?" the detective repeated.
"...Yeah, I did, but--"
"--But what?" Paul leaned over the counter himself, keeping his gaze on Lei. "What did Jin do to make us call him some kind of monster? Hell, what did Mishima do to any of us that was so horrible to warrent death?--"
"--He should had stayed the fuck away from Jun, that's what," the other man growled under his breath.
"...And you call that a reason? Okay, what about Shelly? What did he do to her? Or Lee? Or me, for that matter? Nothing." Paul straightened up and downed the rest of his beer. He turned his back to Lei and leaned back, his back against the counter and his elbows resting on top. "Mercy killing, my ass. Killing is killing. We all killed a man, Lei. None of us may had been the one to pull that goddamned trigger, but we let it happened. Then we all tried to pretend he never existed."
Lei narrowed his eyes, "What about Nina?"
"What about her?" the biker laughed. "You honestly think I think Mishima did something to her? Hell no. That would had killed Annie. He fucking loved her. He wanted to marry her, for God's sake!" Paul spun around, "Why is that so hard to believe?"
"...Paul, I just don't think..." Lei sighed heavily and set down his beer before straightening up completely. "...I don't think he would had touched Jun if he loved Anna as much as you say he did."
"But that's by your set of morals."
"Paul, please. The last thing I need right now is for you to get preachy on me."
"...I'm sorry."
It was silent then, both men refusing to look at each other. Outside, the murmurs of cars passing were the only things to dare to challenge the quiet. Eventually, Paul sat down on the kitchen floor, still holding his empty beer bottle.
"Paul?"
There was no answer, aside from a long, disheartened sigh, which alarmed Lei. The detective sighed himself then finally went around to the other side of the counter to join Paul, who glanced up then looked away, shaking his head in pity.
Lei sat down next toPaul; hepulled his legs to his chest and hugged them, "...I'm dreading tomorrow."
"I know. I am, too. For your sake," the blonde replied in a low rasp; he finally looked over at Lei, his eyes saddened.
"And...I still worry about him. I worry he's not eating well, I worry that he doesn't have a roof over his head. I worry he might be hurt or sick..." Lei straightened up then laid out on his back, staring up at the light fixture. "You know, all those things I should've done when he was here."
"I think we all do." Paul set his bottle down, then stretched out on his back as well. Like his guest, he stared up at the ceiling pensively. "...He was a damned good kid."
