The Colour Purple Chapter 32: 1984-un monde uniquement destine a deux, a king of fighters fanfic

The Colour Purple... The King of Fighters '95

This (chapter) fanfiction was originally written circa: [XX.96] (Thank you)

"Which Character are you?"

Note to self: Legacy chapter numbering (32- - -), does not match.

ORIGINAL CHAPTER

"Help me… Please. I'm scared." Whimpering silently was all that 7 year old girl could do. Enveloped in complete darkness, she sat on a wooden chair with her fists above her knees. Her stiff arms were the only thing propping her upright as she felt her extremities grow cold and numb from what felt like days of sitting motionless. Even her once calm visage cracked slowly as tears bubbled from the edge of her eyes. TRAGEDY and CONFLICT are indeed the root of every story, and for their family, it began here, in a dark prison Yuri Sakazaki built around herself. It began here, in a place called Southtown.

She sat obediently on that wooden chair, steeping in a strange contradiction of pride and fear as she refused to move. She didn't really know if that door that she stared at, in front of her, was locked or not. Could she simply stand up, walk up to it and be free from her captivity? Despite these questions that bade her awake, she refused to move. "Please Robert…" she begged. "Please help me." I can't go on without you.

We. All of us. We are our own captors. We trap ourselves in our own prison, afraid of stepping forward, afraid of breaking free from our own prison. Always wanting someone [else] to save us, fearful of failure, always wanting someone [else] to blame.

"But, is that so wrong?" he said in reply. The blonde haired man perched his chin snobbishly atop his right thumb and index finger like an easel as he fancied his face, a masterpiece. An evil man who looked from high above the sky as the gaggle of goons laughed in the dingy building with their hostage whimpering in the void. "Is it so wrong – to want to be loved? Is it so wrong – because in the end, didn't we ALL want to be SAVED?"

"Help me big brother..." Yuri stammered as her sobs made her hiccup in panic. She grabbed fistfuls of her pink skirt and hunched forward, her brown permed locks covered her face. "Please, Robert... I don't know what to do!"

"It's okay… because for boys to become HEROES – what is required… is a PRINCESS!" He finally declared as he rubbed the nape of his pet velveteen panther.

This is the story – of the ORDINARY lives – of EXTRAORDINARY people.

…

Chapter 32: 1984

It was a cold bright day in April 4, 1984 and the clocks were striking 13.

un monde uniquement destiné à deux (a long side story)

…

This was a HORRIBLE story, told in a wretched town. But, it was MY town, and it was the first time – the first time, that I saw [his] face, and that [look], that look that absolutely captivated me until this day - that would forever trap us in the clutches of time.

9 years ago... in 1984…

…

Takuma Sakazaki, the living figurehead of the extreme fighting art – Kyokugen Karate pointed his finger down at the toppled boy who laid crumpled under his feet. "Listen… one day you will meet someone... SOMEONE – who will clearly be SUPERIOR to you." He warned. "And when that happens [your attack] won't work."

The ART of FIGHTING – is not so different...

"YOOO-KU KIKE, SHONEN!" Takuma warned with his face curling a sour scowl. "Mark my words. When you face someone totally superior to you, if you attack them this way, you will surely die… when that happens…"

Every punch is communication, every kick has a history, with each and every action lies a legacy of emotion. This is what the art of fighting promises you. If you choose to ignore that, then you will surely lose.

…

9 years ago – something HORRIBLE happened.

"How long has it been?" Yuri wondered out loud under her breath. She was on the verge of falling asleep and dropping unconscious on the classroom floor – she had to get out. It was better to take a bathroom break and wash her face, rather than keel over in that Portuguese language class.

Present day – Present time.

Yuri turned the faucet in the girl's bathroom and bit her handkerchief, keeping the satin cloth in her mouth in customary fashion. She placed her hands under the running water, rubbed soap and carefully, purposely scrubbed any nook and cranny in order to squeeze every valuable moment, every precious second away from that god boring class. Just thinking about that class make her eyes droop and further accentuate the annoying feeling from the crusty residue on the edge of her eyes.

She wanted to think fondly of the past, and forget that she was now 16 years old. A time when everyone would ask you – what do you want to do with your life? Where do you want to go to college? Do you have a boyfriend? If you didn't have the answer, you had to somehow make it up – but it doesn't matter, adults always asked you the same question the next time they saw you. {I wonder.} Yuri thought, if I gave a different answer every time, would they even care? Would they even notice?

{Ick!} Yuri couldn't stand the irritating sensation from her fossilized eyes. She looked in the mirror. Her handkerchief was clipped in her mouth in customary fashion. Her hair was dark brown, straight and long and braided on her back, down to her waist. Her hair wasn't always like this, she reminisced. There was once upon a time, that I didn't have to worry about 'tomorrow'. {Confused and angry… school was a war, home was a prison and the place I work had turned into a tragedy,} she thought.

There was once upon a time – Yuri thought, there was a time I seem to recall that was horrible – where I was afraid – but at least then I wasn't trapped in apathy in a teenage wasteland. {What happened back then… If only, god damn it, if only I could remember…}

Yuri cupped both hands together and collected a pool of water from the running tap, she threw her fingers on her face and scrubbed her eyes, gutting out the goo and grime. Yuri realized just seconds after she had done it, that by washing her face, with her handkerchief in her mouth, she had gotten it wet too. That totally defeated the initial purpose.

{Ah damn it.} she grunted, making sure to not say anything out loud lest she drop the handkerchief onto the floor. If she did, it would get dirty, she would still be blinded by the water, and her hands and face would still be wet. {Damn it…} she groaned again, squinting her eyes, she draped that half wet handkerchief roughly over her face in frustration. What had she been thinking about again, her mind was a jumbled mess now with so many thoughts tangling like an undone knotted mass of yarn.

Yuri violently wiped her face up and down with her handkerchief that it seemed to want to tear her skin from her cheeks. It wasn't always like this…

{What was I…} Yuri peeled her eyelids open slowly and faced the mirror. She saw a young girl, not even 10 years old, with permed, light brown hair stare back at her. It was a fashion so popular in the mid 1980s. {Eh.} she stammered with her lips crumpling in confusion up and down, her eyeballs froze but gradually grew in shock, and despite her best efforts, she unconsciously opened her hands and let her handkerchief drop to the floor.

…yes, the year was 1984, and something HORRIBLE happened then.

…

For what purpose what was to happen next, she could not immediately understand. She did not realize it at the time, but a plain girl had unconsciously stepped into a place she had not planned to go. It was into what we would one day call as the 5th GIFT.

…

"DONNAI'SHTANYA?! (Wassup y'all?)" Robert kicked open the swinging double doors of that dark bar with authourity, hooting his southern Kansai drawl quite proudly. As he entered the grand building, he, in suitable fashion opened his arms wide, royally – like a king tossing his robe off his shoulders.

The light outside was blinding from the roaring, noonday sun, but as soon as his feet crossed those double gates, Robert was trapped in an equally blinding, black world when the light from the top of the door reached its limit and dared not to go further in that kingdom.

"Hey!" Robert called again to the dark empty hall. But, there was no answer. "Ey' anybody a'home?!" Robert curled his stiff tongue in his best (and worst sounding) Italian gangster accent. "Anybody HOME?!" Robert shouted one last time, irritated that his humorous entrance was heard only by deaf ears. Robert folded his arms in opposite Vs and put each fist on his hips, tapping his legs impatiently on the floor. What was a young boy, all of 19 years to do when ignored?

That was so many years ago… Robert Garcia in his frustration picked up a chair that was perched upside down on one of the nearby tables and put it over his head, ready to throw it onto the floor. Into splinters it exploded. Robert kicked the mess and went his way to another chair. That too met a similar demise. He would keep on doing it – again and again until someone – anyone would take notice. Robert went for a third…

"Sir!" A soft, calm but stern voice called out from within the void.

Robert callously tossed the chair onto the ground and immediately swerved to the side. It took a moment for his eyes to focus in the dark abyss that seemed to go on forever. The darkness held so end, but just as Robert was about to give up, his ear perked up and was drawn to a constant squeaking noise. His pupils slowly dilated, adjusting from the light, to the mystery that greeted him. On the bar was a soft light. From this abyss, he wouldn't help but be attracted to this sound – this sound, painful and annoying, drew him in like a fisherman's lure. The soft light began to come clear as his eyes focused, a lone, dim spotlight stood like a pillar from the ceiling; it enveloped and trapped a smartly dressed man behind a bar in a slim tube of radiance. To Robert's host, that tube of light was his own world - that stood as sanctuary amidst the darkness.

"Sir." The voice repeated. "Didn't your parents teach you not to destroy other people's property?" Behind the bar was a slender young man, probably no younger than Robert was. He wore royal, dark purple pinstripe pants, above it was a white dress shirt trimmed with gay looking ruffles that ran parallel down the front like train tracks, straddling the buttons and the edges of the sleeve cuffs.

The slender young man didn't even give Robert, the intruder that invaded his bar the luxury of eye contact. Hidden under a dark Mafioso Fedora, with a brim shrouded most of his face in mystery.

"Where is everyone?" Robert interrogated. "I'm looking for the bouncer of…" He continued.

"It's 1 PM, sir. You are in a nightclub." The man responded flatly to Robert – in a dry, raspy voice that was terribly taxed a long night before. Rightfully, no one would be here. That much was true and believable. The man continued to shuffle his shoulders in simple rhythmic fashion, he moved his hands, away from sight, hidden under Robert's gaze under that bar, he made that constant, annoying squeaking sound. "What do you want?" That fucking ANNOYING sound.

"My name is Robert Garcia." Robert introduced himself. "I'm looking for a kidnapped Japanese girl, buddy. Yuri Sakazaki. They said that the bouncer of this club, the Prince of Fighting knows where she is. If I challenged him – I'd find her."

A STORY ABOUT FIGHTING.

The man behind the bar coughed to himself, appalled, yet, somewhat amused at the same time. "We don't have a bouncer here." The bartender replied matter of factly, "We have no need for bouncers – and we don't harm women and children [here]." He sternly made his point, all the time not looking up and not releasing his downcast gaze from his hands that painstakingly continued their chore.

Robert chuckled at his powerful force of deduction. "Then it's YOU." He said. "The PRINCE of fighting – who had been trained in fighting since BIRTH." Robert proclaimed, almost cheesily, with fist up in challenge, but to the man behind the bar, Robert couldn't hide his sincere, boyish enthusiasm, an enthusiasm we always lost when we all grew old, and became old, and jaded.

"Are YOU the Prince?" Robert's power of deduction was astounding for his age – I mean the fact there was no one else in the building – though, for the legendary 'Prince of Fighting' of Southtown, he expected a man of a more… impressive, wider shouldered… taller… more muscular stature. Instead he had to be content with a frail looking thing Robert was sure he could overcome in a second.

The Prince of Fighting – trained since his birth? [What does that even mean?] As the baby cried, did they set him on the floor, separated him from his mother? Did they leave him crying on that cold floor, so he would UNDERSTAND how cruel the world was? How from the very beginning, he had to provide himself with his own love?

Robert put both fists up by his jaw in typical Kenpo ready fighting stance fashion. He made his right foot skid back and twisted his left ankle to root himself to the ground. He couldn't help but raise his left guard hand up – with fingers extended he curled 4 fingers in unison towards him. Come ON, he invited. We are here to FIGHT – and you CAN NOT deny me!

A familiar sound broke the silence.

A 'tink' then as the object that appeared from Robert's palm, it spun in mid air, twirling in its own axis, catching the light, trapping both of them, but in another instant falling into darkness. Spinning between light and dark, the silver coin flew in mid air, rising then dropping back into the will of gravity. Robert caught that light with a sudden movement in his open palm and slammed it on the desk next to him.

A UNIVERSAL SYMBOL – for this kakutou (fighting) game they knew ONLY as life.

The Art of Fighting – is a language only we understand. It is for us to enjoy and relish on our own. With every word we say, holds a deeper meaning, in nineteen-eighty-four.

Yes, that was what my master, my true father, Takuma Sakazaki said.

That coin lay on the table, and the man behind the bar across from Robert couldn't deny it. "Challenge./?" The proclamation was trapped between statement and question. Both of them couldn't deny the immeasurable gravity that pulled their worlds closer. A feeling of hunger, an instinct both of them could not ignore. That [they] slowly, [yet] ever so surely, became attracted to each other – a gravity that they couldn't push themselves away from as it, like a maniac, grabbed them and pinned them both lustfully against the wall, a BEAST ripping their clothes apart and tearing into their flesh. "PRINCE!…" Robert eagerly invited. Robert wildly roared! 1… 2…

The bartender from a world of his own design. Finally cracking a weak grin, so tired of his prolonged game, he said, "How useless. How absolutely useless…"

THAT look of ECSTASY from his challenger's face.

What does that even fucking mean – the [Prince] of fighting? As I cried, as I wailed in fear alone, did they not CARE that I was on the floor – cold and lonely?

The sign outside the quiet and deserted bar read -.

It stood for "The Love" in Spanish – or so one would surmise.

The prince took one step towards that door that he had trapped himself within.

"Tell me… 'Robert', just how long have you been fighting?" the Prince asked.

Robert answered with a proud smile and extended three fingers up, curling his index finger and thumb in a circle. "Three years!" he said.

'You can't start a fire…'

"Since three years old?" That's not too bad, the Prince surmised. Without warning the static from the radio came to life as the clock ticked to 1:30 PM. The piercing, screeching squeak that came from behind the bar was now accented with a familiar song. It was Bruce – Bruce Springsteen… The song was "Dancing in the Dark". The song played on the radio.

'I get up in the evenin' and I ain't got nothing to say..'

Robert laughed. "No! Three years. I've been fighting for the past three years."

…

He doubled over, and even when his lips parted he was absolutely speechless. The bartender slowly began to shake as if he was choking from the absolute lunacy of the answer. He covered his mouth when his cheeks puffed up as if he was about to vomit – and vomit he did – embarrassingly spittle erupted into the air as he laughed manically. "Hee hee.. Ya.. ha ha ha!" the Prince could only laugh out loud to himself – it was so wonderful for him, not so much for Robert who waited for his answer. {THREE YEARS!} The Prince chuckled. "…" He couldn't follow up with an appropriate comeback eventhough he dearly wanted, it was so very easy to cut down his challenger.

The Prince's gasps slowed as she regained her balance when her stance wobbled. "Three years… there's no way you can beat Mr. Big and rescue her." She laughed. "Give up – go home. You won't be able to rescue your friend with just that!"

GO HOME. Pay the money; you can't end this story by fighting. Were you STUPID enough to think that you could solve all your problems by fighting? Did you think that if you FOUGHT that you could go home happy? Even if you spent your ENTIRE life doing what…

Cyndi Lauper… was that song what was playing on the radio?

"CHALLENGE, Prince!" Robert cut in flatly.

The Prince curled his shoulders back, stopping in his tracks…

Robert said. "What kind of MAN are you, Prince? What kind of weak shit are you, that…" he said, "That you can not HELP me; Don't you feel it too? As a man…"

Robert said. "You KNOW where Yuri is. Please… help me." Robert begged sincerely now. "Isn't it a MAN'S obligation, his DUTY to FIGHT for a woman – his friend – because when WOMEN CAN NOT fight for themselves?!"

'Love is all that I need… and I found it there in your heart.'

The prince didn't have any retort and he simply remained silent. But if you watched carefully, you could notice his shoulders tense and curl upwards from their sockets, shaking slightly.

"What's wrong with you!? You're just going to shut up and leave a girl who can't even fight for herself?!" The beam of light from Robert's finger sternly cut through that bar and pierced into the bartender's chest. "I am so pissed off now. I am going to beat the SHIT out of you." Robert pulled his enemy back into a dark world that simply encompassed them both face to face. Even if they found it hard to believe. "After I mess you up, you WILL TELL ME where this Mr. Big is keeping my [friend]!"

The Prince – and Robert's shaking fist. Nothing else existed in the darkness.

The Prince, utterly unfazed by Robert's threat laughed out loud again. "You're not going to beat me." He said reassuringly. Have you not considered? "Let me ask," he said, totally unafraid. "IF…" he asked, "What if you can't?"

A SHOCK. A perplexing and piercing response tore through Robert, one he was not prepared for. The Prince's reply was so unexpected, so perplexing, Robert was caught flatfooted, jumbling his brain to a point that it broke his momentum and he was SUDDENLY unable to think clearly.

"Why do I have to fight you?" The Prince asked. "What do I get in exchange?"

Robert found himself in a peculiar situation he had never been in before. Where typically a callous insult was enough to send men into blind fits of rage, he floated in an awkward and uncomfortable limbo. Though perhaps his body was reacting to something a bit more complicated.

These exchange of words ceased to become an exercise of threats, bluffs and intimidation. It was now simply the parsing of logic. 'What do I get in exchange?' …and that question, Robert understood plainly, and it was one, almost by design whether either of them understood it or not, Robert was compelled to abide, by his very nature.

Unable to respond coherently, Robert just said the first thing that came to his mind.

"If you beat me... I… Then – Then – I will devote my life to YOU, you SON OF A BITCH." Robert spat out. "I'll become your BOUNCER for the REST OF MY LIFE!" That young boy roared – as acceptance, the world and cameras capturing their bodies, revolved around the two men that locked gazes in that dark place.

That LOOK. How that BOY gazed at me with those eyes that would not accept NO for an answer. Just because of his [friend]... It was so hard to describe; even if I couldn't put it into words so I could remember it another time, I simply stood still. That boy's eyes looked straight at me – with a penetrating devotion that I couldn't break my gaze from no matter how hard I tried. Those eyes pleaded to me, sincerely and innocently – but at the same moment it wanted to drag me into his world and devour me whole. Before I knew it, I was falling into his abyss. Yesterday held no more meaning at that time. Tomorrow couldn't threaten a consequence that could break either of us from our own private worlds now. For that small instant, maybe I understood [the meaning]. Why I had suffered my entire life, so I could SEE this one moment… and gaze upon his LOOK that the lies of the earth didn't touch. THIS ALLUSION that linked two emotions. There stood a BOY, who wanted to FIGHT me – more dearly than life itself. The meaning of [fighting].

EVEN if Robert Garcia surely, sincerely KNEW that he would lose to a PRINCE – he still wanted to fight valiantly… oh... oh how I wish..

Very well… the coin made that familiar sound again as it slid through the metal collar slot into that machine. The machine of fate determined all that followed next.

KAKUTOU!

'…I go to bed – feeling the same way… man I'm just tired and bored with myself..

"Remind me… What's your name?" the Prince's now cracking voice asked.

"It's Robert. Robert Garcia." The boy answered.

I WISH I HAD MET YOU SOONER… then maybe, we could have been friends, INSTEAD of enemies… 'The lines of HATE and LOVE have become blurry and indiscriminate here.'

The second hand unwinds – If you you're lost, you can look, and you'll find me… Time after time. If you fall, fall I will catch you, I will be WAITING. If you you're lost, you can look, and you'll find me… I will be waiting…

TIME AFTER TIME.

If you catch me

"Mr. Robert Garcia." The Prince said. "I'm so pissed off right now."

The Prince finally stopped his actions, the constant, pained squeak that ripped into Robert's eardrums finally stopped. The bartender, Prince, as Robert called him, lifted his hands.

The prince pointed slowly onto his chin, his index finger dug into his face and further accentuated the angry scowl on his face that slowly built up into a slow rancor.

"If you can hit my FACE, at least once." The Prince challenged. "If you can hit it at least ONCE then I'll tell you where Mr. Big is hiding."

If NOT, then I will maim you – and make sure you NEVER fight again.

Prince lifted his hands. But to Robert's disappointment his hands emerged only for a moment, before retreating into the shadows. Despite Robert's best efforts the bartender stretched his arm to the dark corner of the bar that was hidden from the spotlight from above.

This encounter can only end in TRAGEDY. I can't help myself as the blood starts to pump so loud. I want to RIP into you. I want to destroy your limbs and pin you the ground. I want to push you into the earth and paralyze your limbs so you can never fight again. I want to pulverize you until you take back those words you said to me!

The Prince laid down a glimmering object to the far side of the bar, away from his sight.

"What the hell was that?" Robert asked.

"It's my heart." She said.

TIME AFTER TIME… even if we're dancing in the dark.

The Prince replied before he threw both open hands over the bar and vaulted in gymnastic fashion, both legs thrown over the last barrier that separated the two, and soon as steps and the tempo increased, Prince was upon Robert, and their worlds – as he crossed that hazy and indiscriminate line that separated emotion - would be united as one.

Are you the one they call "the Prince of Fighting?"

"We don't have any bouncers here in -. I'm just a bartender."