Every night has been the same night since it all began. The moment his eyes scratch at the lids and tear them down, the world melts away and a million horrors grab him by the throat, force his body into the bed, and each night he is forced to watch as death after death, fatality after fatality is performed on himself, or others.
In each dream, his skin grayish and cracked like the veins of a volcano. Every time he kills them, his heart beats faster and the rush that fills him hardens his flesh, widens his eyes and the joy killed instantly when his woken corpse gasped for air and pulled from the bed each horrid morning.
Liu Kang hung on the side of his bed as red streaks stretched out into yellow as it bleed into the bluish cloudy night. Outside, the vertical screen blocked the sunrise into a portrait box that suffocated between crate like apartments that reached up until the clouds were forced to push them back down.
His fingers wiped the sweat from his forehead and his left eye cracked the middle and index finger for a quick glance at the sky as sunrise slowly blood outward like blood in the ocean.
Who are you?
Hong Kong. November 25th, 1995.
It was Saturday, under the sign of Sagittarius. On the small television in his pocket apartment, the news replayed a speech by American president Bill Clinton about a gang that had begun to spread throughout the states from New York to Los Angeles known as the Black Dragon. An underground horde still believed to be fake by some, but those in the force and in the gritty corners of the street knew too well that it was real.
He turned it off, not interested in the negativity of the news. His own world was bathed in the blood and gore of his negative dreams and his emptiness was filled with only silence.
In this tiny apartment, he could over look what little view he had of the port of Hong Kong with the rest of the poor among the rising sky rises.
Beneath the soggy sky, Liu Kang walked the streets toward the docks. At port he worked during the day at the port hauling in the catch, preparing it in the market. It was a daily exercise that bleed aimlessly into his job as a teacher for the citizens of Hong Kong that wished to know English. Many dreamed of travel, or of a better Hong Kong than the grime and muck of their day-to-day lives.
This morning, he cast his gaze far too long at the sea that spelled doom for the ships. Storms, several, all spread throughout the horizon and many ships were docked, unable to venture into them. He had watched the American News to find that strange storms had begun to appear over New York as well.
"Tā mā de." The locals would shout when they couldn't go out and perform their jobs.
Liu Kang would often hear prayers to a God known as 'Léidiàn'. The God of Thunder as it were.
"The Gods are angry, it seems." He passed a local elder at the fish market. Though few catches came in, they still had hungry customers, he still had a job to do.
"It's almost time." The man wailed back, his voice barely able to keep up with his breath.
"Those are old legends." Liu Kang set down a basket of squid on a large trough of ice. He continued to prepare a display as the man spoke.
"The Great Ship that arrives every fifty years. I have seen it only once before in my life, when I was just a boy."
"That's nonsense, old man." Liu jested with him, for he had never seen this ship. Not while he was awake. The more the old man spoke of it, he was sure this was a sight he'd need to see to believe.
"My cousin Shan fought in the tournament, strongest in all of our family."
"Did he win?" Liu casually pandered to the man's story as he prepared more baskets. Now he had transitioned from squid to octopus and shrimp.
"He was killed, but they say he was such a strong fighter and caught the eye of the old sorcerer, that they allowed his body to be returned, so that we may bury him."
"Did the ship bring him back?"
"No, I remember it was on a single wooden boat, a single oarsman. There was only a blanket over him, and when they pulled it off, there wasn't a single drop of blood left in him."
"That's impossible." Liu shook it off and continued is work.
Behind him, the boss called out for the fish to be prepped. They would be last and in the largest tables, but before he could part ways with the old man who sat at the market every day to tell his stories, another approached.
This one was adorned in an old white robe that he had draped over himself as though to protect himself from the coming storm. His face hidden beneath a straw conical hat.
"You would dare disrespect those that gave their lives to fight for their realm in the tournament?" Liu had to strain to hear him, his voice husky and grainy. A loud whisper that turned into a cold white stare between the cracks of straw.
"There is no tournament." Liu smiled, confused by this fanatic. The old man tried to tell him otherwise, but the robed figure in the conical hat snickered over him.
"Your cousin was a brave warrior." He leaned up to look the old man in the eyes, but to hide himself from Liu Kang. "I wonder if you'll be, this time around." He turned to Liu who stared blankly back at him, unsure of how to take this before the yell of his boss tore him from this strange moment.
He rushed in to grab a palette and bring it to his work area, but before he grabbed the palette jack, looked toward the entrance to see the old man and the sea, but no old white robes, no conical hat. He had only moved a few steps.
In that moment, that little glance back, he felt the energy in the room burst with electricity. The lights flickered and out into the sea, the storms lit with lightning. He watched as the market itself seemed to come to life for a few brief breaths before the dull decay of normality overtook it again and he was back to work.