A Touch of Red
By evolution-500
Genres: Horror/Friendship/Romance
Feedback: Always welcome
WARNING: This story contains violence, coarse language, mature themes and disturbing imagery. Reader discretion is advised.
Disclaimer: KILLER INSTINCT is a property belonging to Rare and Microsoft while RESIDENT EVIL is a property belonging to Capcom. I do not own any of these characters.
Chapter Three: Fateful Decision
Claire scrawled through the Killer Instinct webpage, keeping up with the latest news and merchandise available, mentally noting the new soundtrack available by Mick Gordon. Clicking on 'Tournament Registration', she eyed the application form and requirements.
Alright, she was over eighteen.
Yes, she knew how to fight.
Fighting apparel?
Claire felt a frown form.
Of course, it made sense. After all, part of a superhero or fighter's appeal is in their look, and not once had she ever given it much thought. At least, until now.
"Hm," she hummed thoughtfully. Raising her eyes from the screen, Claire then stood up and started to search her closet.
Sometime later, Claire stood in front of the mirror, studying herself carefully amidst a pile of clothes on the floor behind her.
She stared at her reflection for a long while, then gave an approving nod and smile.
"Looking good so far," Claire commented to herself.
She kept her look simple - a mix of red and black, although her long, light brown knee-high riding boots provided a sharp contrast to her overall appearance. A red vest was worn over a black t-shirt, while a pair of red cutoff jeans and a brown belt were directly worn over a pair of black shorts.
Standing akimbo style, Claire studied her reflection, then turned to one side, then the other, studying herself from every angle, posing like a model. Turning around, she looked over her shoulder and scrutinized the insignia on the back of her vest, which consisted of a blonde-haired angel in a white dress leaning forward on one leg amidst a field of black bombs, holding one of them up in her hands, the words 'Made In Heaven' scrawled above the image in gold.
A satisfied grin formed on her lips, her heart-shaped face lighting up. "Perfect."
Claire let out a surprised yelp as the door to her room opened, the girl quickly folding her arms reflexively over herself.
"Claire, supper is-" Chris cut himself off as he stood there with a flat nonplussed expression, staring at her, blinking. "...What are you doing?"
Claire felt heat rise to her face as she bit her lower lip.
"Ummm...nothing?" she sweat-dropped, giving a sheepish smile.
Chris looked at her, then to the clothing she wore, then to the pile of clothes all over the floor, then back to her and her clothes again.
"...Just answer yes or no. Do not elaborate, just a simple yes or no will do...is this some weird sex thing?"
Claire's face wrinkled in disgust. "Ew, no!"
She watched as her brother sighed in relief.
"Oh thank God," he muttered.
"I'm your sister, why would you even think that?!" Claire snapped.
"Well excuuuuuse me!" Chris retorted. "How was I supposed to know?! All I know is that I came to tell you that supper is ready, and then I walk in and find you looking like some biker cosplayer doing a bunch of really weird poses! Which goes back to my original question - why were you-" Chris stopped as he saw the open laptop with the KI logo. "Oh."
The two stood there quietly for a moment.
"So, uh, just to let you know, I have spaghetti and meatballs ready, so, uh, help yourself, okay?"
"Yeah. Got it," Claire nodded. "I'll just get changed and put this stuff away. And Chris? Next time learn to knock."
"Alright, alright," he waved dismissively as he closed the door behind him.
Standing in front of the mirror, Claire gave herself one look, then sighed.
"I'm such an idiot," she said softly to her reflection.
What was she thinking? She was in college, for God's sake. What, did she really think that she could just drop everything in order to pursue some fantasy? People less fortunate than her would probably have killed to be in the position that she was in.
And yet...part of her yearned for that sense of adventure.
Her own brother seemed to have a more exciting life than her...and that was pretty sad to think about, honestly. He was part of an elite unit within the RPD, had saved that one trapped hiker up in the mountains and made the headlines, but little ol' Claire Redfield? What was her big contribution to the world other than merely existing?
As Claire studied herself in the mirror, she felt her confidence slipping away.
She couldn't help feeling small.
Insignificant.
Staring into her reflection, Claire saw a frightened girl stare back at her, a child trying to find her own self-worth by playing dress-up, pretending to be a superhero.
A girl that was trying to bolster her own self-confidence.
A girl that was absolutely terrified of being alone.
Claire stared long and hard at the mirror, then gave a slight shake of her head.
"What are you thinking?" she asked herself.
She wasn't alone - she had her friends and her brother, after all. Other people had less than her.
So what if she was a little lonely sometimes?
She stared at the mirror, then turned away, her bangs covering her sad eyes.
"Well," she said in a quiet voice, "back to the real world."
Looking over to the floor, Claire started gathering her clothes, putting all of her childish fancies behind her as she returned back to her old boring life.
The next day, Claire sat at the university library, quietly reading her text at a table when Leon and Rebecca approached.
Looking up from her text, Claire smiled.
"Hey guys!" She greeted.
"Hey, Claire!" Rebecca greeted back, sitting opposite her. "How are your classes going?"
Claire shrugged. "Alright, I guess. Yours?"
She winked. "Pretty well."
"Same here," Leon said as he sat down beside his girlfriend. "I've been reading up on the KI tournament. Really weird stuff."
Claire gave a slight gasp.
"Why, Leon! Have I made you into a KI convert already?" she teased.
Leon gave a slight laugh.
"Not really." He then looked at her seriously. "That said, though, some of the rumors floating about the tournament itself has me feeling a little...apprehensive."
Claire blinked. "Rumors?"
Leon glanced around suspiciously, then looked back to both her and Rebecca.
"Did you hear about how the Baron's butler committed suicide?" he asked in a hushed voice.
Claire nodded. "Yeah, I heard about that," she replied. "Pretty sad."
"Supposedly it wasn't a suicide at all," Leon said simply. "Even more, there's talk that three of the five bodyguards that Baron Von Sabrewulf had were killed. I think there's only one remaining, but I heard the other had left."
Claire folded her arms together.
"What are you trying to say exactly, Leon?" she asked. "Are you trying to suggest that the Baron...killed these people?"
Leon gave a dismissive wave.
"No, not at all, but...that said," he said slowly, "...don't you find it suspicious?"
Claire thought about it for a moment, then gave a small shrug.
"Not really," she replied. "What else did you hear?"
Leon scoffed. "There were some conspiracy theories that the tournament was being run by lizard people or something, that the creatures were in fact real, blah blah blah," he answered, rolling his eyes. "One guy claimed that skeleton thing...what is it called?"
"Spinal?" Rebecca spoke up.
"That's the one," Leon nodded. "He said that that character had some connection with the occult or something. I wasn't paying attention, admittedly - in fact I pretty much nodded off. You know, the typical loony toon conspiracy nut-job stuff you find on the web sometimes."
Claire shook her head. "Yeah, KI has its share of crazies. I guess the same could be said with any sort of fandom, though."
"I guess," he shrugged, his eyes shining with some amusement, "although truth be told, I think KI is the exception. I saw the various fanfics and artworks out there. Blech!"
"Oh come on, you're exaggerating!" Rebecca said as she playfully smacked his arm.
"I'm serious! Have you seen the number of Spinal/Sabrewulf slash pictures? You need to be really bonkers to come up with that stuff!"
"And what were you doing looking at said-slash pics in the first place?" Rebecca playfully jabbed with a mischievous look.
"Hey, it's not my fault!" Leon said defensively. "I was minding my own business looking up the characters on Google Images when I inadvertently found that crap!"
"Uh huh," Rebecca teased.
"Careful, Rebecca," Claire said as an aside, "I think we might have found your boyfriend's secret fetish."
Leon gave a disgusted look. "Ew, God no!" He glared at the two as they giggled at his expense, then let out a huff. "Women."
Letting out a chuckle, Claire felt her cellphone vibrate in her jeans. Absentmindedly taking it out, she lifted it up to her ear, sighing.
"Hello?"
"Hello, Ms. Redfield? This is Captain Wesker speaking," said the voice from the other end.
She blinked in surprise. "Oh hi, Captain!" Claire greeted. "What's going on? Is everything okay?"
"...I'm afraid I have some bad news."
For Claire Redfield, six little words caused her world to stop turning. Six little words made it all feel as if everything around her was about to crumble and end.
Six little words filled her heart with worry and made her stomach clench and knot, made her feel as if she was going to vomit. Six little words made Claire so pale that it drew concern from her own friends.
Six little words were enough to make her get up and leave the university library with a speed that would have made the Flash envious and a manic wildness that would have made even the Joker pause.
Six little words drew Claire all the way to the Raccoon City Hospital, where she found Captain Wesker and a couple of the S.T.A.R.S. crew waiting by the Information desk, all of them seated.
Seeing her, Wesker stood up from his chair and approached.
"Ms. Redfield," he nodded.
"Where is he?!" Claire spoke quickly. "Where's Chris?! What happened?! Where's my brother?! What-"
Wesker raised up a hand. "Ms. Redfield, please calm down. Breathe slowly and deeply, otherwise you'll hyperventilate."
Claire took his advice, taking in a deep breath. Once she got her breathing under control, she swallowed.
"What happened?" Claire asked again.
He frowned. "We were in pursuit of a suspect when someone rammed into your brother's vehicle."
"Oh my God," Claire gasped, holding a hand to her mouth. "Is Chris- is he okay?"
Wesker sighed.
"Both he and his partner Valentine are currently being prepped for surgery," he explained.
Claire felt the urge to vomit strengthen inside her.
"Oh my God." She paused. "What about the guy that did this? Did you catch him?"
Wesker shook his head.
"He fled the scene," he said regretfully, "but rest assured, all efforts are being made to apprehend him."
Claire clenched her fist. "I hope you get him," she said angrily. "Honest to God, I hope you get him."
Wesker gave her an assured nod. "We will, Ms. Redfield. You have my word on that." He gave her a considerate look, his eyes concealed behind his black sunglasses. "Is there anything I can do for you? Can I get you a coffee, sandwich, or-"
She shook her head. "No, thank you. Just..." The girl swallowed. "Just...just make sure that you catch the son of a bitch that did this."
He nodded. "We will." The blonde man shifted uncomfortably. "I'm...sorry about what happened to your brother. Even though we had our differences, Chris is one of my best men."
Claire bristled. "You make it sound like he's dead already."
"I meant no offense, Ms. Redfield," he said placatingly. He then checked his watch. "I'm afraid that I must leave, but if there is anything you need at all, you have my number at work. Take care, Ms. Redfield." The blonde waved to the other S.T.A.R.S. officers. "Let's go."
Claire watched as one by one they all got up and left, some of them giving her a quiet acknowledgement and/or apology. Once they were all gone, she found herself alone in the hospital, her heart heavy and full of sorrow.
Several hours passed, and Claire continued to wait for the news regarding her brother. She hadn't moved from her seat in all that time other than to occasionally use the washroom or get a drink of water, too nervous to even eat anything.
"Claire?"
Looking up, Claire got up as she saw Leon and Rebecca.
"Oh Claire, honey," the latter said as she pulled her into a hug. Claire sniffed as she hugged back. "I heard the news. I'm so sorry."
Claire wiped her eyes. "Thank...thank you for coming to see me."
"Hey, we couldn't just leave you," Leon said softly. He gave her a concerned look. "Has there been any news about your brother?"
Claire shook her head. "I haven't heard anything. I've been waiting all this time, but I haven't heard a damn thing."
Rebecca took her hand and gave a comforting squeeze.
"I'm sure everything will be okay," she said.
As the three friends sat down together in the waiting area, Claire quietly prayed to God to look out for her big brother.
Chicago, Illinois
The door lock had been busted down again.
Taking in a deep breath, T.J. pushed it tiredly open and stepped inside, glancing around at the gym.
A large spacious room with stained white tiles and dirty green floor mats, greeting him was a great boxing ring in the center with red, white and blue ropes, his colors.
Barbells, various exercising equipment and weights lay scattered along the ground while raggedy, moth-bitten punching bags swung uselessly from the ceiling.
The walls were entirely covered with a vast array of posters, some of them being motivational posters while others showcased old fights, ghosts of a two decade long past coming back to haunt him.
How the great T.J. Combo had fallen.
He inspected the walls, his fists tightening.
Red graffiti was written mockingly over some of the posters.
"CYBORG", one message jeered.
"FRAUD!" another taunted.
"Fake" and "Phony!" were scrawled on the walls, along with various other unflattering words, with some phallic and genitalia imagery added for good measure.
He checked the building.
Nothing had been stolen from him this time.
Seems like he had nothing worth the effort.
Even thieves had standards, apparently.
Looking to the boxing ring itself, T.J.'s nose scrunched up in disgust.
Some sick little fucker decided to leave a nice little brown welcome package just for him to clean up.
"How considerate," he grumbled.
Moving to his office at the far right hand corner, he took out his keys and unlocked the door, checking inside. All untouched, thankfully. Dropping his mail onto his desk, he took out a cigarette along with some cleaning supplies.
Once the mess had been dealt with and his hands had been thoroughly washed, T.J. returned back, exhaling his cigarette, blowing out smoke as he looked over his mail as he sat behind his desk.
Leaning back into his chair, he opened up one of the desk drawers and took out a bottle of scotch along with a glass.
'Thank God that's still here, 'cause I'm gonna need this,' he thought dourly as he poured himself a drink and opened up his mail.
The first envelope was from his lawyer announcing that the divorce papers have been finalized, so as of today, T.J. was officially now a free man.
Well, as free as a man could get when his boat's filled with all sorts of holes and he's steering with a shitty paddle. Now he had to worry about the goddamn lawyer's fee on top of his mountain of various other problems.
Gulping down his glass, he poured himself another.
"Yeah, that hits the spot," T.J. muttered. Looking to the next envelope, he braced himself for more good news.
The second envelope was a letter from his wife, or rather ex-wife.
Taking another gulp, T.J. frowned.
"God, I need more bottles," he said as he opened it up.
His alimony check had bounced again.
The letter was mostly expletives and insults, some of which were impressive even by T.J.'s standards.
Some of it was the usual stuff such as "loser", "broke motherfucker" and the like, while others were directly aimed at his lovemaking practices, calling him "the worst fuck of all time". A few comments were made again about his perpetual cheating.
He shook his head.
"Jesus, woman, can't you just give me a break?" he said aloud. He paused mid-sip, then read the line aloud. "'Why don't you go to the surgeon that gave you those implants and see if they can do something about your-'"
Crumpling the letter, T.J. took another long gulp, slamming the glass hard onto the desk. "Bitch."
Okay, he made a slew of stupid mistakes, and she had every right to call him out on that, but that? That was low.
He poured himself another round.
"At least I won't have to see your crazy ass anymore," T.J. said aloud.
He hoped.
Moving onto the next envelope, he froze.
"Oh no..."
T.J.'s heart thudded heavily as he opened it up, dreading what was inside.
As he read the letter, he gulped down his glass again.
By the time he finished opening up the rest of the mail, his bottle ended up completely empty. Not a single drop remained, and yet he desperately wanted more.
T.J. leaned back into his seat as he massaged his temples, combing his hands through his hair as he resisted the overwhelming urge to pull it all out and scream himself hoarse at the top of his fucking lungs.
He pithily looked into the glass, desperately hoping for there to be another drop or two.
He wanted to hit something, and badly.
Of course, that was how this whole mess started in the first place.
Born near Galveston, Texas, the very birthplace of the first African American Heavy Weight Champion- the great Jack Johnson - whom T.J.'s father idolized, Tyler-Johnson Garret came from a life of poverty.
The son of a dockworker and a waitress, T.J. knew hardship very well, having worked at a very young age in order to support his family, taught by his old man to earn every penny that came into his pocket.
A former sergeant in the Army, his father was the kind of man who flew the Stars and Stripes outside his house every damn day of the year, and had trained T.J. extensively to fight using a stack of old tires as a heavy bag with the hopes of him and his family achieving that slice of the American Dream, inspired by his love of Jack Johnson.
When T.J. was twelve years old, he got beaten badly in a city league bout. The other kid taunted him when he was down on the mat and TJ had never felt so ashamed. He still remembered that day.
T.J. sat alone outside of the building, his arms wrapped his legs as his father approached.
"Hey, it's okay. It's alright, son," the big man said softly.
T.J. wiped his eyes, staring to the ground. "I'm sorry, Dad."
"Why are you sorry?"
The boy shook his head slowly, hoping to avoid looking at his old man. "I-I let you down."
He heard his father exhale softly and felt his rough hand placed gently on his shoulder. "Hey, don't say that. You didn't let me down."
T.J. remained still as tears ran down his face, trying not to look up.
"I-I lost the fight," he sniffed.
"So? It's just one fight. There will be plenty of others in the future. Don't worry about it, sport. Besides, life isn't about winning, son. It's about losing and still keeping on. That's called grit." He then patted him on the knee. You'll get your day, son. You'll get your day."
Despite the encouragement his father offered him, though, that wasn't what had been on his mind.
T.J. wanted revenge, and badly.
The next time he and the other boy fought again, TJ removed some of the padding in his right hand glove and replaced it with a roll of quarters.
With one punch, he broke the other kid's nose.
T.J. remembered how powerful he felt at the time. He remembered standing over the boy in shock, too stunned by the bloody carnage that he wrought to the kid's face as he lay there on the floor a blubbering mess. But even more that, it gave him a newfound boost in confidence along with a thrill unlike anything he had ever felt before.
Fighting was great and all, but when he had the advantage? It made him feel invincible.
Untouchable.
A superhero.
From then on, T.J. cheated his way using a variety of methods, winning a lot of trophies until he finally got caught and was banned from the league.
He still remembered the look of disappointment on his father's face, how quiet and sullen he had been for an entire week.
He didn't need to yell at T.J. or tell him how stupid and thoughtless he had been, because T.J. himself knew the consequences of his actions - the one thing he had going for him, his true love in life, was gone, and in an instant.
From then on, T.J. was in and out of trouble at school and with the law, and it had gotten to such an extent that eventually his old man had enough with him.
"You want to be a loser for the rest of your life, do it on your own time and with your own damn money! Now get the hell out of here!"
After dropping out of high school, T.J. went on to take all sorts of various odd jobs in different places, a drifter living in whatever cheap area he could afford, if at all. Sometimes to save money he slept on the streets, on park benches, or in an alley, although that would end when a cop would come around and told him to fuck off.
Sometimes he participated in street fights for money.
After a while, T.J. decided to join the Army, figuring that his odds were better than on the streets, but he never made it far.
Four days of intensive grilling and some pretty strong insults about his mother from a miserable bastard of a drill sergeant resulted in T.J. punching the fucker hard in the mouth, sending him sprawling onto the ground.
Even though it felt satisfying as hell, T.J.'s superiors were less than impressed, however, and that had been enough to get him kicked out back onto the streets.
Once he had enough money, T.J. bought himself a one-way bus ticket to Chicago, carrying nothing more than a duffel bag full of workout clothes and a pair of boxing gloves.
It hadn't been easy, but eventually he was able to land a job at a boxing gym over on the South Side, where he performed various menial tasks such as sweeping the floors, taking care of the bathrooms, and cleaning up the cutman's bloody rags…all to pay for his own training. He slept on a cot in the storage room.
Nobody knew him here. Nobody knew about his cheating. He was starting over doing the one thing that he loved. He turned his life around.
Over the next five years, T.J. grew tall and his body filled out. All during that time he studied the sweet science of boxing with the zeal of a scholar, analyzing the fighting techniques of his boxing idols like Ali and Tyson. And he worked his body until he was a rippling specimen of pure muscle and raw power. In his early twenties he started winning fights.
Journalists began calling him "Combo" for his devastating combination of jabs followed by a skull-hammering right hook.
And he loved the title - in fact, he embraced it whole heartedly, developing it into his own distinct persona.
As T.J. Garret, he was a bum. A worthless loser.
As T.J. Combo, he was the opposite of that - a masterful showman bursting with charisma who can work up an audience and who can attract attention, a performer, an unstoppable wrecking ball of fury in the ring.
A real-life, American-styled superhero that was untouchable.
He gained various nicknames along the way that he enjoyed - Dr. Jab, the Main Man, Mr. Fist, the Pain Train, the Rollercoaster - among various others, but T.J. always preferred the moniker "Combo".
Whenever he entered the ring, he knew how to put on a show to garner attention.
Before every fight began, he would do something outrageous - come in with a doctor's apparel, pajamas, a conductor's outfit, whatever he could think of to amuse, delight and entertain his fans.
After every win, he would announce his rising status to the world.
Three winnings in, he shouted "Triple Combo!"
Four winnings in, he put on a red Superman cape after the match and announced himself as "Super Combo!"
Five winnings, "Hyper Combo!"
Six winnings - "BRUTAL COMBO!"
"MASTER COMBO!"
"AWESOME COMBO!"
"BLASTERRRRR COMBO!" was shouted when he uppercut McGregor so hard the man practically flew off the ground.
"MONSTER COMBO!"
By the eleventh winning, he put on a crown and a lush red king robe before cheerfully pronouncing himself as "KIIIIIIING COMBO!"
In a brief commercial he made for Ultratech, where he appeared as a guest fighter, he called himself "KILLER COMBO!"
After five years of grinding on the boxing circuit, he finally got his shot and won the Heavyweight Championship.
T.J. smiled as he thought of that day, leaning back in his chair in remembrance.
Bloodied, bruised and battered, Combo stood over his opponent as the crowd stared in awed astonishment. The boxing ring was deathly quiet and still, the only sounds T.J. heard being his breath as he panted like a dog, along with his heartbeat as it thumped like a heavy drum.
BUMP-BUMP. BUMP-BUMP. BUMP-BUMP.
The beat was so loud in T.J.'s ears that he was certain that everyone could hear it, could hear it echo.
Finally, after a long while passed, he suddenly lifted his head up to the ceiling to make the final call, a hero's cry of triumph that marked his dominion in the ring, the same way a lion announced its presence and place in the jungle to the rest of the animal kingdom.
That day, T.J. Combo roared like never before, mighty and proud.
"UUUUULLLLLLLLLLLLTTTTTTTTTTTTTRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA COOOOOOMBOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"
As he roared, the crowd rejoiced and joined with him, cheering him on as cameras flashed all around him like brilliant diamonds.
For twenty long years, he held the title, and proudly, gaining fame, fortune, and glory.
He did commercials.
He did interviews with Rolling Stone magazine. He starred in the Killer Instinct tournament in its early days. He even did music videos (even if a lot of them had been pretty shitty, as much as he hated to admit it).
But like many celebrities before him that didn't know what to do with their own fame and wealth, he went crazy with it.
He bought the largest and most expensive mansion money could buy.
He got himself hitched to the sexiest woman imaginable, lavishing her with the most expensive jewelry and mink coats.
He got himself a huge collection of flashy cars along with a posse.
Even more, he partied.
All day, all night.
Like a fucking rock star.
Booty, booze, drugs - whatever he asked for, he got.
In retrospect, T.J. should have figured that he was letting himself go. He barely kept up with his training, and it was a miracle that he had been able to keep hold of his title.
Of course, at the time T.J. believed himself to be invincible, so when he finally lost the belt to Ronnie Wilcox from Detroit, he fell, and he fell hard.
Things fell further apart at the seams when his manager had fled the country, leaving him in debt and owing millions in back taxes.
Even worse, tabloid magazines picked up on his philandering, and some little fucker out there managed to upload a sex tape of him with three women, much to his embarrassment.
That's when TJ's wife left him.
When that happened, he became so consumed with rage that he punched a wall, resulting in him going to the hospital with a shattered forearm.
Eying the surgical scars on his arms, T.J. let out a deep, breathy sigh.
"What do I do now, God?" he muttered aloud.
Stripped of his boxing title, millions of dollars in debt, divorced and hung out to dry by his so-called manager, the cherry on top of the fucked-up sundae that was T.J.'s life couldn't have come at a worse time.
'Dear Mr. Garret,
We regret to inform you that due to your missed payments the Bank will be foreclosing on your business-'
Sighing, T.J. placed a book over it, trying to deny the words of the letter.
Surely there must be some silver lining somewhere!
He checked the other envelopes.
Rejected.
Rejected.
Rejected.
Reject-
Sweeping his hands through his hair, T.J. made a sound that was one part growl and one part groan in exasperation.
All of the job applications that he had sent out have been rejected.
Rock, meet bottom.
T.J. frantically racked his brain for a solution. Surely there must be something to help him out of the mess that he's-
RING.
Combo exhaled as he heard his cellphone go off.
"Just my luck, more good news," he grumbled.
If it was a goddamn telemarketer or the phone company, he's going to tell them to kiss his ass.
Grabbing his cellphone, he accepted the call, bringing it up to his ear.
"Hello?"
Idaho
"And that concludes today's lecture. Have a good break, everyone!"
Hinmatoom watched as his students poured out from the lecture room. Taking off his glasses, he swept a bronze hand through his long black hair, letting out a tired yawn. A robust Nez Perce man of six-four and two hundred and ninety-five pounds, Hinmatoom prided himself on being built like a mountain and having immense strength and endurance, but even at forty-two, he couldn't help feel a little old sometimes.
Thank God it was over - now he just needed to mark up the assignments.
Putting his glasses back on, Hinmatoom reached into his jeans and took his cellphone out from his pocket, checking his messages.
Again, nothing from Tipyeléhne.
He frowned as he typed in some text.
'Been a long time, bro,' he wrote. 'Everything okay?'
He waited for a response. Then waited. Then waited some more.
Looking up at the long wall of text messages he sent in the past, Hinmatoom frowned.
He had tried checking his brother's Twitter and Facebook feeds, but the accounts had been inactive for a long time. The last message Tipyeléhne wrote to his fans and followers said that he was going to retire from fighting due to stress, which had Hinmatoom feeling concerned.
Why wouldn't he reach out to him?
Surely he knew that no matter how low he felt or what happened Hinmatoom would always be there for him. After all, they were brothers! Surely Tipyeléhne would know that.
...Wouldn't he?
Standing alone in the lecture hall beside his desk, Hinmatoom took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose as he settled down into the chair beside his desk. Pulling his hand away, he opened a desk drawer and took out a photograph of him and his little brother, thinking back to his meeting with him the first time he entered the Killer Instinct tournament
The dressing room door opened, revealing Tipyeléhne as he stood there shirtless.
"Hey!" The younger man smiled. "Come on in!"
As Hinmatoom stepped inside, the older man took in his appearance, scowling disapprovingly at the black axe head-styled face paint on his eyes.
"What on earth are you wearing on your face?" he asked as he closed the door behind him.
His brother shrugged. "Hey, don't be so judgmental, big bro. I saw a picture of you when you were younger and you were wearing this yourself. Thought I could try it out." He then paused meaningfully. "Just one question, though," Tipyeléhne then gave a cheeky grin. "What the fuck was with the mohawk?"
Hinmatoom winced, letting out an audible groan. "Oh God, you saw that picture?"
Tipyeléhne laughed, nodding. "Yep!" He said good humoredly. "You looked like what would happen if one of those troll dolls had fucked a KISS reject. Loved how you braided each part of your mohawk. Tell me, how much hair gel did you use? Were you planning on skewering some trout with them?"
Hinmatoom massaged his brow, trying to ignore the headache.
"Jesus, I should have burned that photo ages ago," he muttered. "To be fair, when I was that age, I was a horny teenager going through a phase. I was into glam metal and had been really, REALLY drunk when I got that haircut - don't judge me."
His brother continued to laugh. "I don't know, big bro. Even a drunk guy would have had more sense than to go with that hair!"
Hinmatoom rolled his eyes, causing the younger sibling to laugh even harder. "Oh fuck you." He then looked seriously at him once he finished. "You seriously plan on going through with this?"
Tipyeléhne was quiet for a moment, then nodded. "Yeah."
"Are you sure about this, little brother? There are other ways to get the public's attention to what Ultratech is doing to our peoples' land that doesn't involve you getting hurt."
Tipyeléhne shrugged. "Whether I get beaten up or hurt doesn't really matter to me, big bro. I want to help our tribe any way I can, and I'm good at fighting."
Hinmatoom frowned. "Tipyeléhne -"
"Hey, it's okay."
"It's not okay!" Hinmatoom snapped. His eyes then softened. "Tipyeléhne, please come home."
He watched as his younger brother's face hardened. "You have no faith in me."
"I have no faith in this," Hinmatoom gestured to the makeup mirror. "You are a smart kid who can make a difference...but not this way. You are young, and your prospects for the future have never been greater. If you were to go to law school or work in medicine-"
"I'm not that smart, big bro," Tipyeléhne interrupted, shifting uncomfortably. "Listen, uh, I need to get ready, so...wish me luck, okay?"
Hinmatoom watched his younger sibling for a moment, then gave a quiet nod.
"I hope you know what you are doing," he then exited the room. "Be safe, little brother."
As the door closed behind him, Hinmatoom slowly shook his head sadly.
"The impetuousness of youth," he muttered.
The drive back home was long and quiet, although every so often it was broken by some asshole who would cuss out at him when they cut in front of him or give some offensive slur.
Hinmatoom rolled his eyes as they drove off. "Pricks."
Apparently following the law and courtesy was too much for some people. Then again, Idaho does rank as being the second rudest state for drivers in the US.
The sun dipped, coloring the sky orange with shades of blue, and for a moment Hinmatoom was taken by the imagery of the land, the mountains and all of its serene beauty, reminding him of a watercolor painting.
He always loved coming home to this view.
For all of mankind's creations, nothing can beat nature's splendor.
He continued to drive on until finally he stopped in front of his modestly small family house.
Once he got inside, Hinmatoom checked his voice messages.
Nothing.
Letting out a tired sigh, Hinmatoom sat down in a recliner, looking up at the family photos that hung over the fireplace of him and his baby brother.
The last time they spoke to each other, the two left on bad terms.
Leaning back into his recliner, Hinmatoom recalled the conversation.
"You must leave this place."
Tipyeléhne gave him an incredulous look. "What? Why?"
Hinmatoom was still as he glanced around the makeup room.
"Can't you sense it, little brother?" he asked in a low voice.
"Sense what, exactly?"
"It's..." Hinmatoom hesitated, "it's hard to explain. I can't help sense a wrongness in this place. There is something in the air here, and I can't help feeling...afraid."
Tipyeléhne gave a startled and surprised look, then smiled.
"Ha, very funny, big bro," he pointed. "You almost got me there."
"I'm being serious."
"Bullshit. Nothing scares you."
"Tipyeléhne, look at me!" Hinmatoom said as he grasped his brother by the shoulders and pulled him close, startling him further. "Look at my face, little brother! Look at it carefully! Can you not see my skin turning pale and sweaty?! Can you not see and feel me trembling, even as I hold you close?! Look at my eyes, Tipyeléhne, and tell me that I am not!" As he let Tipyeléhne go, he continued, "I don't know what it is, little brother, but I feel something is wrong with this place, with these people. Surely you must have sensed it as well!"
Tipyeléhne scoffed. "You're getting senile, old man. You're letting your imagination and superstition get the better of you."
"And you are in denial. Tipyeléhne, please. Come home with me."
The younger brother was completely still, his eyes covered in shadow.
"...That's it, then? Come home with you?" he said bitterly. "What about all the paying fans and customers? I should just abandon them? Leave all this behind?!"
"Tipyeléhne-"
"No, Hinmatoom, YOU listen!" The younger brother said, raising his voice, "I'm sick of your shit! You want to know why we're getting more press regarding Ultratech's pollution in Idaho? ME, that's why! You're jealous!"
Hinmatoom stared agape at him. "Jealous?"
"That's right! You're jealous that I was able to make a difference for our tribe, something YOU were never able to do in the first place! Your efforts to preserve our heritage is a joke - not even that fancy college degree of yours can help you out, so why don't you take that degree and shove it, because all you're doing is holding me back!"
As soon as the words left Tipyeléhne's mouth, the young man raised a hand to his mouth in horror and regret. Hinmatoom felt as if he had been slapped across the face, his form numb, a chill running through his blood.
"...Is that what you believe?" he finally spoke, asking in a low voice.
Tipyeléhne shook his head in slow and sorrowful manner. "Hinmatoom..."
"Answer me, Tipyeléhne - is that what you believe? Am I really holding you back?"
It was a miracle that Hinmatoom was able to keep his voice as steady as it was.
"No, you're not...I...Jesus..." Tipyeléhne put a hand to his mouth. "I...I'm sorry."
Hinmatoom kept his eyes on the floor, trying to avoid looking at the lout before him.
"...How can you say a thing like that to me, of all people?" he asked quietly. "Is the preservation of our tribe's heritage really...such a joke to you?"
Tipyeléhne shook his head, swallowing, "No."
"Have I erred in rearing and educating you about our ways growing up, after our parents died?"
His younger brother shook his head again. "N-No," he answered, the young man holding back a sob. "N-No you haven't."
"Well, I must have done something wrong," Hinmatoom said, his heart feeling like lead. "Our people have a saying, little brother. Do you remember what that saying is?"
Tipyeléhne lowered his eyes in shame.
"...'Y-You are who you take care of," he answered in a quiet voice.
Hinmatoom raised his eyes to meet his, staring long and hard at the young man before him, a stranger in his brother's skin.
"...I don't recognize you anymore, Tipyeléhne," he said honestly. Tipyeléhne opened his mouth to speak when Hinmatoom raised up a hand, silencing him. "I don't even know who you are...and honestly...I don't think I want to, either. We may share blood, but from hereon...we...are brothers no longer. If I am holding you back, if I am...an embarrassment to you, as you have led me to believe...then we'll part as strangers."
Tipyeléhne was stock still as Hinmatoom turned to leave. As the latter grabbed hold of the door, the former spoke, "Don't...Don't go."
Hinmatoom paused at the doorway. Part of him wanted to turn and look back at the man he was leaving behind, but he forced himself to continue forward, too angry and hurt to even look back.
"Live well...Tipyeléhne. I wish you good health, good fortune, and a good life."
Hinmatoom kept his eyes fixed ahead of him, pushing through the door without ever turning back to see his bro- Tipyeléhne's expression.
As the memory faded, Hinmatoom rested his head against the cushion of his chair. Looking to his cell phone, he stared at the number on the screen.
'Call him,' part of him urged.
Relenting, Hinmatoom dialed the number, then waited.
"We're sorry, but this number is currently unavailable," an automated voice answered. "Please hang up or try your call again."
Something was wrong.
Hinmatoom could feel it in his gut. He had tried reaching out to the people at Ultratech to see if they knew what had happened with Eagle, but they merely claimed ignorance. He smelled bullshit.
A thought suddenly occurred to him, one that caught him by surprise.
Could they be...keeping his brother captive somewhere?
At first, Hinmatoom wanted to snort at such a preposterous idea...and yet...he had no explanation as to where Tipyeléhne might be.
Even if the two hadn't been on the best of terms, Hinmatoom cared too much about what happened to his little brother to turn away completely.
He sighed.
Where should he even start?
The people at Ultratech were far from helpful; he doubted that they were even reliable, to be honest.
Hinmatoom clicked his tongue against the roof his mouth, pondering what to do. His initial thought was to reach out to an attorney; maybe if he got a court order issued to Ultratech to hand over any information pertaining to his brother-
Hinmatoom frowned. He can already see the problem. Multiple problems, in fact.
For one, he didn't have a lot of cash on him. As much as he would like to employ the services of either a lawyer and/or a private investigator, the reality was that Hinmatoom barely had enough to cover his own expenses. Even more, he was worried about Tipyeléhne's well-being; for all he knew, his little brother was dying, and he couldn't afford to wait.
Worst of all, even if he decided to file a Missing Persons' Report, there was no guarantee that the police would do anything; he had no evidence of any wrongdoing. If he was to find his brother or evidence of Ultratech's crimes, Hinmatoom would need to do it by himself.
And he knew exactly where to start - the Killer Instinct tournament.
Claire wiped the sweat from her forehead as she entered through the door, her body aching in protest.
"God there has to be a better way to earn a buck," she muttered as she stumbled over to the couch with mail in hand, collapsing face-first into the soft cushion, part of her wanting to sink into a deep sleep.
Unfortunately, in the land of the living, life was never easy.
While the surgeries for both Chris and Jill have turned out well, they were still unconscious. Claire visited the two often, Jill especially, if only because, aside from the latter being Chris' partner and lover, the only family that Jill had was her father, who was locked away in prison. Claire kept hoping that either one would wake up, but according to the doctors, their chances of regaining consciousness were slim at best.
She hoped that it wasn't permanent.
Regardless, she made it a point to visit them often over the course of the next several weeks, and whenever she did, Claire would talk to the two of them about her day, about something she heard and just prattle on, hoping that they would hear her voice. She didn't know if either could hear her, but the truth was that she was absolutely scared out of her mind with worry, and she wanted to be there when the two of them woke up.
Until that time came, though, she needed to look after things for them, and in the land of the living, there were bills that that needed to be paid. As a result, Claire had to contact the Director of Student Support at her college and take a leave of absence in order to support the three of them and work two jobs, one as a waitress at a restaurant called "Sloppy Sam's Pizza", the other as a cleaning woman at a bar.
Rebecca and Leon would visit her from time to time, if only to give her moral support, but Claire felt as if she was drowning. The bills were just piling up and up, and she had no idea what to do. Captain Wesker himself was generous enough to help out by raising a fund at the Station to help pay for Chris and Jill's treatments and recovery, but there was only so much they could do.
Sitting herself up, Claire opened one of the envelopes...then immediately regretted doing so.
Chris' insurance had expired.
Claire swept her hands through her hair, feeling the overwhelming urge to tear out her hair.
"Damn it, Chris, I told you that you should have renewed your insurance!" She said angrily.
Checking the rest of the mail, she felt her heart sink. Not even her own insurance was going to be enough to cover their expenses.
The room was starting to feel really cramped. Oppressive.
Her palms felt sweaty, her chest tightening, making it difficult her breathe, and the room was starting to swirl and spin as a massive headache set in. For a moment, Claire thought that she was going to have a heart attack.
Part of her wanted to laugh, but Claire kept herself from doing so for fear that if she were to do so, she would be unable to stop and end up being committed to a nuthouse.
Wouldn't that be a kick in the pants? Then again, at least she would be able to escape from it all.
Taking in a deep breath, she leaned forward, massaging her temples as her mind searched for an answer, exhaling softly.
There had to be an answer somewhere. There just had to-
Looking to the pile of envelopes on the couch beside her, a pamphlet made Claire pause. It was black with metallic silver lettering, the words KI shining in capital letters.
Hesitating, Claire picked it up from the pile, then opened it up. There was a new tournament around the corner, and the registration date for it was almost up.
As Claire's eyes scanned through the pamphlet, the headache cleared, replaced by a newly discovered determination.
Yes, this was the answer!
Getting up from the couch, Claire quickly got out her laptop and opened it up, going onto the KI website. Clicking on "Registration", she eyed its contents. As she moved the mouse and pressed on the empty space, Claire hesitated at the sight of the blinking cursor, her hand pausing over the keyboard.
Should she be doing this?
There was no guarantee that she'll get accepted. Even more, there was no guarantee that she was going to win. There were bound to be tons of really good fighters, people with far more experience than her.
Claire frowned as she eyed the screen, the cursor tentatively blinking in the white empty space before her, waiting for her answer.
If she went ahead now, then there was no turning back.
Staring ahead at her monitor, Claire looked over to the pile of bills on the couch, then over to the family photos, of her brother. Ever since the death of their parents, Chris had always looked after her, doing the best that he could.
It was time she looked after him for once, to let him know how much she appreciated his efforts.
And with that, the white space was filled in.
Author's Note: And that concludes this chapter! :)
To Guest: I'm not sure if the comment had been made strictly with regards to RE characters, but in the event that you were talking about the KI characters as well, rest assured, I do intend to be as faithful to the core of the characters as much as I could. For the latter, certain elements will be drawn here and there from the 2013 game, but primarily speaking, this story will be mostly based on the original 1994 game, albeit with slight twists in order to make the narrative as cohesive as possible.
EDIT: Also, I want to thank the following people - EchoSeeker247, The Lady Frost, Flaming Overlord, Lil' Hedgepig, thehappy and others - thank you so much for your help, guys! I highly recommend checking out their works, as they are fantastic writers and are really cool people. Thanks again, guys! :)
I hope you enjoyed this chapter, everyone! Take care, and stay safe and healthy! :)
