3. The Beginning of the End

Take time to deliberate,

but when the time for action

has arrived,

stop thinking

and go in.

Napoleon Bonaparte

Cold night air hit him in the face as he left the bar, its chill fresh against his tepid skin. Iori blinked amidst the swirling street lights, cars sneaking by with their weak headlights, but all he was cognizant of was the alcohol high. He stumbled into a puddle, cursed, but the steps became easier to take with a few deep breaths.

The days and nights slip past in a haze of alcohol and dreamscapes that were really reality. What did it matter? His life was worth nothing now; all the years of training vanished so easily. How? Why?

His hand slid into a pocket, palming the familiar Marlboro box and flipped its cover. As with all seasoned smokers, his movements were fluid until he had secured the cigarette between his lips. Iori Yagami had never used a lighter in his entire life. Now his index finger merely trembled in the icy wind, pale skin a dull grey in the darkness. He tried to ignite it again. And again.

The cigarette remained untouched.

In the shadows of that empty road, the redhead froze.

Then something in his head snapped.

Knees crashing to the wet, slick concrete, he banged his forehead against it, letting out an anguished wail from his gut. He could no longer hold back the emptiness; his soul had shredded along with his flames.

Pity.

Hate.

Anger.

Hopelessness.

But beyond all that, was the irony of becoming normal…Now he knew it was more than he could handle. Fire was fun to show off and use as an ego-booster when he was a boy, the push to adolescence made him wonder what it would feel like not to suffer in pain every day: training, pain, fire from singed fingers… He grew into an adult being used to it, seeing it as both a gift and a burden for all the pain it brought to himself and others. Orochi was chaos incarnate, sure, but it made him nearly invincible.

A voice said, somewhere from the back, "Who are you trying to kid? You weren't invincible even with the Riot!"

Iori's eyes widened, and he stared up at the full moon, disoriented.

Fuck!

"I need it back," he muttered, spitting the cigarette out.

He looked up.

"We ain't taken anythin' yet, redhead."

Six men, faces hidden by the darkness, now blocked his path. They were probably wondering why he was kneeling on the ground.

"What a loser."

Iori's dark chrome eyes moved slowly from figure to figure as he picked himself up. Then he smirked. Just what I need.

Make no mistake; theoretically, he still despised violence. Instead of him feeding on it, violence itself consumed him completely. At the end of a Riot, there was nothing left, no shred of himself. Right now, Iori wanted to see if he could master himself in the absence of the Orochi.

"Nothing will be wasted," he said, his teeth flashing white as he gave a shark-like smile. "Beggars can't be choosers."

The group exchanged sniggers as they brandished poles and crowbars.

The first blow, however, was bone to bone.

Vision blurred by the rain, Iori threw his head back and gazed at the heavy red clouds overhead. Then he looked down, at the dark pool that was streaming towards the gutters.

The bodies around him seemed to be given a new lease of life under the pattering rain; they were being crushed by the deluge and swimming in a pool of crimson. He held his hands up to his face and felt the waning warmth of blood against his cheeks. That warmth was leaving him now, exposing him to the chill of the November storm. A moan escaped his lips as he tried to cling onto the vestiges of satisfaction. Soon he was going to fall into that trough, when the high had dissipated.

A loud crash echoing from the alley's dead end caught his attention.

Looking further down the backstreet, he made out several shadows amidst the blinding rain.

Fresh meat?

He debated between getting a beef burger and joining in the fun.

In spite of himself – most of the time he didn't fight other people's battles — he walked towards the group.

There was a woman. Her back was against the brick wall, and the only thing keeping her dry was a zipped-up leather jacket.

The six of them were leering at her, undoubtedly thinking: She's done for..

News stories in Southtown seldom covered crimes like rape and suicide. Their rates were sky-high compared to metropolitan cities elsewhere. Newsworthy events were horrific homocides were pieces of meat were the remains of the victims, ingested in the perpetrator's stomach. On any given day, a female in her situation would have met an unspeakably bloody end.

A smile split her face like a knife. Her fingers fiddled with the zip of her jacket before she pulled it southwards, revealing more pale skin.

The entire group lurched forward. Iori resisted the urge to interfere; the woman was asking for it, after all.

He found himself watching in fascination as she launched into a display of martial arts that he had never observed previously, despite being a fighter himself. She aimed precise punches and chops at the arms, before moving gradually to strike at the chest. Every move was fluid, measured and in perfect form. Every strike paralysed that particular area of the body, and in a minute four men were lying motionless on the ground.

The woman wrapped an arm around the remaining member of the group, and pinned him against the wall, pressing her lips against his ear. After the command, she pushed him towards his unconscious peers, folding her arms and tilting her head to the left. Her dark hair fell around her shoulders, dripping with water. Her light purple eyes watched as the man hurriedly digged into his comrade's pockets, pooling wallets, keys and guns into a makeshift bundle using his own shirt.

She smiled upon receiving it and without an inch of hesitation knocked him unconscious with a tight chop to the neck. He fell into her arms and she laid him onto the flooded ground, gently.

Iori applauded. "That was very impressive, but what goes around comes around," he said, allowing the sarcasm to drip off his words. She glanced back.

"You! Stupid woman!" He hollered, recognizing the wrench who had cut his head open with a chair a week back.

Whirling around, she whipped out an automatic from the bundle, undid the safety and aimed it at his face.

"Who are you?" she asked, warily. He gave her a good once-over. The jacket hid most of her curves but he could make out feminine arches, the tight ab muscles and her hotpants showed off mile-long legs. His gaze travelled back up to her face and stayed there. She was a beauty, no doubt, bright violet eyes and lips like cherry blossoms. Pity though, about the life of crime and constant participation in illegal activities. Not to mention the obsession with money.

Iori's mouth opened, then closed. A death wish. He had always had one. He walked towards her, closing in the distance between them until the gun was against his forehead. In those five-inch heels, she was taller than him by a hair's breadth.

"My name," he said, breathing a combination of alcohol and smoke into her face, "is Iori Yagami. And if you dare to, pull the trigger."

As expected, the woman hesitated. "The blood all around here is your doing?"

He couldn't get the idea of running his fingers under her jacket out of his mind.

Slowly, he brought his hands up to face level. Rivulets of rainwater mixed with blood ran along his skin.

Taking advantage of that few seconds' worth of shock, he drove a straight jab into her chest, holding back a fraction of his strength. He watched in satisfaction as she collided with the brick wall, debris flying in all directions.

He walked over, intending to retrieve the loot when a kick came out of the settling dust, her heels stopping inches from his neck as he dodged reflexively.

Iori cursed and dove forward, claws aiming to draw blood. It was at that point where he really missed his flames; fighting didn't feel the same without them.

Now she was sidestepping and dodging his attacks with surprising agility, and at unexpected times he got a solid jab or kick, which he would manage to block at the last minute.

"Put your hands up, both of you!"

They both pulled back, and found themselves face to face with two policemen.

"Thank goodness you're here!" the woman exclaimed, throwing her arms up as though she was acting in a primetime soap opera. The bundle fell on the ground. "This man," she said loudly, pointing at Iori, "…Was trying to mug me and my buddies. He was just about to beat me up and steal our stuff!"

He stared at her in disbelief. This old trick! It was the same blatant distraction back at the bar where she'd thrown a chair at him. She barely had a scratch on her, but she was female, looked like she had been mauled and was wearing an innocent expression only young women of a certain age and maturity could reliability pull off. Iori knew that his appearance warranted no excuses; the policemen had already turned their guns on him.

"Stop! Put your hands up!" they commanded, while motioning for the female to walk towards them.

Bending over to pick up the bundle, she winked at him before striding towards the policemen.

"Open up the bag, please, miss," one of the policemen said.

She paused, and slowly undid the soaking shirt. As they bent forward to take a better look, she elbowed one across the face before kicking the other's temple. Both men fell and she took to a sprint.

There was no single reason why Iori gave chase. Perhaps it was because he was out of cash. Or that he would rather do this than go back to his dilapidated apartment and beat up his landlord. Or maybe avoid another night of insomnia. Or, maybe, it was because the woman represented new possibilities: skills he could learn and use.

All that, intermingled with curiosity and the wildness of adrenaline, lengthened his strides.