Chasing the Wind * Rivals
Paul Phoenix struck his taped up fists over and over again into the sand filled punching bag. The large, youthful American with the uncharacteristic blonde high swept flat top looked more the common street thug than the skilled, intense Martial Artist he in fact was. Having arrived in Japan early for the King of Iron Fist Tournament, the muscular lone wolf, clad in shredded red gi was taking no chances to let even a moment of training slip away from him...not with a One Billion dollar cash prize on the line for the victor.
Wiping his brow with his thick, massive arm, Paul drew in a long breath, hell bent on the resolve of destroying this bag with all the force of his skilled, youthful energy. With a cool sneer, the fighter set back to the task at hand...to break his vinyl opponent, his eye on the brass ring at hand.
Fist after powerful fist connected to the bag, shivering the sand filled training tool on the old, rusted chain suspending it from the ceiling until Paul felt as if his own heart might explode from his tremendous bursts of energy. Panting for breath, the powerful fighter paused, resting his sweating forehead on the punching bag, resignedly turning his eyes amongst the other fighters training in the small downtown dojo.
Paul Phoenix straightened instinctively as his deep blue eyes connected with the muscular, heaving form of a young Japanese Male in tattered white gi pants with a matching, sweat soaked white tank. The young man, perhaps his own age, was training with another vinyl punching bag across the dojo, unloading combination kicks and punches into the sand filled monstrosity before him. With a stone set face, the Japanese youth seemed detached and yet determined....as he turned his dark almond eyes toward the American fighter, feeling the weight of Pauls stare on him.
With a powerful cry, the Japanese youth set loose on a fury of combination punches...splitting the sandbag in half as sand spilled like droplets of blood onto the dojo floor. The Japanese male stopped, looking directly at Paul...
Paul felt the uncomfortable weight of the Japanese Martial Artist stare. Hardening his jaw, Paul stomped his legs firmly into stance, hauling back his arm as his Ki charged around him with incendiary accuracy. Letting his fist, nearly glowing with outrageous energy fly...the American levied the “Phoenix Smasher” into the vinyl training bag...as the chain groaned in protest, the bag gutted under Pauls intense Ki discharge.
Dusting off his hands, Paul felt a half cocked grin creep over his face, his eyes boldly meeting those of the Japanese youths’ across the dojo. Just then a profound idea seemed to weasel its way into Pauls receptive mind. I have come here to contend with fighters from all over the world in the most lucrative martial arts competition ever created. I think it’s time I tested my skills. It’s time I had myself a little challenge....
Paul turned on his heel from the decimated vinyl bag, closing in on the distance between himself and the Japanese youth across the dojo. Cracking his neck as he walked, the fighter could not help but smile.
Kazuya Mishima watched as the American with the blonde flat top of hair, swept up ridiculously high cast a challenging smile across his lips, approaching with an aire of not so friendly intent. Straightening his back, Kazuya felt his spine crack in unison, his eyes never leaving the blue depths of the larger, more muscular American as he approached.
“You got a staring problem or something?” Paul smiled arrogantly as he stopped before the Japanese youth.
Kazuya said nothing, his eyes intent of taking in the very dynamic of the artist approaching him. He had never seen the American in the downtown Dojo before this day and already this gajin was looking for a fight...
“I said...you got a staring problem or something?” Paul smiled as his hand pressed outward, shoving the Japanese youth back, praying for a fight. I haven’t had a good fight in years, Paul felt his thoughts flash through his mind, and If I am going to be the best it’s time to test the old 1-2...Come on Damn it, fight back...
Kazuya took one step forward after the ungracious shoving of the Americans’ hand, his taped red leather gloved fists connecting with the intruder, sending him back with equal footing.
Paul rubbed the tip of his thumb against his nose, sniffing back the indignation with a cool smile. “You looking for a fight, pal. Well, Paul is going to give it to you. You want me? The outside alley.”
With that Paul Phoenix turned on his heel, adjusting his red gi as he exited the dojo through the side, leading into the main alley. Kazuya followed instantly behind, slamming the door closed behind him.
With a scrape of sparring shin guards barely shielding more than a strip of his arch, leaving his feet bare along the filthy concrete, Kazuya fell into stance before the dingy alleyway. Facing the stubble strewn, unkempt face of the flat top blond American fighter, the young Mishima waited for his opponent to stop pacing the concrete before him, cracking his knuckles in a menacing game of testicular fortitude.
With a sudden rush forward, the aggressive American let his fists fly with the double punch to left kick combination, ripe with staggering power as Kazuya threw his arm up in high guard to block. With well planned intensity, Paul rebounded against his opponents block with a sweep to Elbow strike, staggering the Japanese youth back with well timed perfection.
Kazuya rolled to his feet instantly, hardening his jaw as Paul advanced quickly. Using the force of his fists in upward thrust, the young Mishima let the Twin Pistons rush into the awaiting body of his attacker, doubling the American over.
Unnerved by the well placed attack, Paul lunged into the Hammer hand to power punch, his arm rippling with blazing Ki as his opponent, receiving the full force of the attack, landed with a dull thud onto the filthy concrete alley floor.
Rolling to his feet, Kazuya lunged into a series of punches, his knuckles landing with deadly impact into the thick blocking forearm of his worthy opponent. Taking the advantage, the brash American rushed into the Shredder, a jumping left/right kick.
Kazuya feigned back quickly to avoid the sudden rush, hitting the alley wall. Bracing all his strength forward, the young Mishima pressed his body up along the wall, lunging into a full blown, flying kick.
Caught in the surge of power, the American Judo Fighter fell back, tripping over the garbage cans littering the edge of the alley walkway, catching himself with his hands against the wall...a trickle of blood trickling down his chin from his cracked lip.
Kazuya seized the advantage, throwing punch after blinding punch toward Paul as the American ducked down low, shoulder blocking the young Mishima into the alley wall.
With a collapsed cough of air, Kazuya felt himself impact, jarring his insides with a sudden malevolent vibration. Blocking himself defensively, Kazuya and Paul stood locked together...aggressor and defender...tangled in the heat of battle with no room to move.
In a moment of struggle, Paul seized the momentary advantage. Scooping his Japanese opponent from his place against the wall, the American slammed the young Mishima down, hard to the ground. Kazuya reeled along his back, his gloved hand rushing to his forehead where the flesh had impacted the edge of a garbage dumpster on his descent from the ground.
Staggering to his feet, the young Mishima watched in slow motion as the American flipped himself over into a forward heel Neutron bomb. Reacting on gut instinct alone, Kazuya grasped firmly on the ankle of Paul Phoenix, using a Steel Pedal Drop throw to levy the larger, more muscular American against the alley wall...instantly rendering him unconscious.
Falling back against the opposite wall from the impact of the spinning Steel Pedal Drop throw, Kazuya leaned his hands along his upper thighs, gasping to catch his breath.
The American Judo fighter had been a worthy opponent for this impromptu match...equaling the ambition of the young Mishima with frightening accuracy. Yet, in the end only Kazuya was left standing, his shadow falling long against the dingy back alley wall, nestled amidst the downtown Tokyo Streets.
A shame the young Mishima would never have the opportunity to ask his ambitious opponents name...
Lee Chaolan stretched his muscles in a moment of cool down, running the back of his hand along his sweat drenched forehead. His body was aching for an entire morning spent in the art of his beloved Ninjitsu, honing his skills in preparation for the Opening of the King of Iron Fist Tournament, set to begin the following day.
The Fighters had already begun to arrive. The first to make an appearance was the American Judo artist, Paul Phoenix. With his trendy, blonde flat top of hair, Lee had only caught a glimpse of the Contestant as he registered in the Lobby while Chaolan made his way to the temporary, specially constructed Dojo on the basement floor of the expensive hotel to work out. The American was a muscular nightmare with a young yet hardened face to match the rest of his flawless form. If the arrival of Paul Phoenix was any indication to the kind of fighters Heihachi Mishima had invited to the tournament, you would be looking at a potentially vicious list of combatants.
And then, there was Kazuya. The Silver Devil, as he had been branded in his Underground Fighting days, arched the curve of his glistening spine, slipping a shirt over his drenched form. Pulling a pack of menthol cigarettes from his gi bag, Lee tapped them against the inside of his palm, eager for the refreshing taint to stain his lips. Sparking the long white cylinder to life, Lee inhaled eagerly, walking along the length of the freshly installed, temporary dojo.
Will the Being sharing his body give him an advantage in the Tournament? Lee exhaled sharply, cracking his neck to the side to feel the tension release in a profound pop. For a moment, the silver devil recalled the dramatic surgence of the Demon on the dark, downtown Tokyo streets that fateful early morning...which seemed like a lifetime ago. The being had an intense aura of power, frightening even. Surely Kazuya has the ability to tap into the reserves of the Demon sharing his soul...even if he would not dare allow the entity to show itself in such a public forum.
Chaolan wrestled with his thoughts a moment as his eyes were almost majestically drawn to the flickering torch lined walls of the downstairs dojo. The tremble and hiss of the sconces on the walls seemed so familiar. Even the scent of the smoke licking against the paint seemed to draw him back to a time in his life, a connection he had made..and nearly forgotten. A moment in the span of his years that put him on the same level with Kazuya..a time of freedom and self sufficience..a time of experimentation with drugs, women and the dark, diabolical eyes of the young Mishima. Even Kazuya could not resist the temptation of his androgenous beauty, a secret remembrance Lee Chaolan had hidden, even from himself for all these years. There was a desire in their blood, during that brief respite in their lives, spoken in the soft whisper of a kiss...a passion matched equally by the brutally soft mouth of the young Mishima.
I can’t think of these things now. It was in the past, all of this. I have to regard my own interests now. Chaolan paused, shaking his head slightly as he exhaled the last taste from his dying cigarette. What am I fighting against? He has every right to want to kill Heihachi. And that is what it will come down to, which Mishima will be left standing. But this does serve my purpose. If Father dies, I am listed as his inheriting heir to the title of the Zaibatsu. If Father dies...I get it all.
Lee extinguished his cigarette under foot, palming the butt of the smoked down cylinder as his eyes lingered back along the flames. Giving one last look at the past, Lee could not help but smile and store the passing of this memory, wondering if Kazuya ever recalled a moment of that infamous week...more precisely, that one indescribable moment.
Heihachi Mishima lowered his reading glasses as he paced along the confines of his personal library. With a loud, authoritative voice he rehearsed the speech he was prepared to give at the Opening Ceremony of the King of Iron Fist Tournament, tomorrow early evening.
The hotel had called to inform the CEO of the Mishima Financial Conglomerate that several of the scheduled fighters had arrived at check in. Still, there was no sign of Kazuya. The insolent, prodigal child who disappeared without a trace almost 8 years ago had not, as of yet, heeded the call the Elder Mishima had put directly out to him. This was Kazuya’s opportunity to strike a blow at the cruel hand of his father and still there had been no word of him. If Kazuya did not join the assembled fighters of the King of Iron Fist Tournament...Heihachi knew he could finally face the truth that his only blood son was dead.
A shame if that is the case. Heihachi sighed, pausing a moment to regard the aged photo of his father, hung with honor and respect upon the library wall. A shame to think it would not be by my hand the final blow to relieve this world of my son would be given. A shame, indeed.
Heihachi turned, tilting his head slightly to study the face of his beloved wife, long dead these nearly 18 years. Is he in your arms, Kazumi? Did you finally take him from me...to shelter him in a place I can not reach, not with all the money I have in this world? Ahh, you never did understand what I was trying to do with the boy. For all your wisdom, you never could see the child as I saw him.
The elder Mishima returned to pacing, the prepared speech trembling as he walked. The moment of truth was upon him. Too many of his years had been wasted in the search for Kazuya Mishima.
Too many years of his life had been lost in pursuit of his mistakes.
Kazuya tossed and turned in a fit of feverish sleep, his fingers wringing into the sweat drenched sheets on his bed as the grip of old memories sang to him in the tongue of a demons lullaby.
Small, bloodied fingers grasped along the jagged edge of the cliff face. It had taken all the boys strength to climb along the unfathomable chasm, writhing in agony with each upward thrust, gaining only inches of ground with each shaking handhold. For a time the child slid in and out of unconsciousness, succumbing to the blissful arms of blackness, only to reawaken in a pool of his own blood, growing colder...weaker, with each passing moment.
“The Arms of your Mother will not shield you now, boy. If you are my son, you will prove your strength to me by climbing from this chasm to take your place at my side. Should you fail, you may rejoin your Mother in the arms of death for all eternity.” The voice of Heihachi Mishima barked as he held Kazuya suspended over the dark, yawning Chasm.
“Father...no...please...” Kazuya pleaded, swinging his small arms through the air, frightened to look into the rocky face of his destiny.
“Pleading is for the weak, boy. Embrace your fate and let the strength of your ambitions power your ascension.” Heihachi smiled amidst the yawning sky. He would build the perfect machine...a most unfeeling aire, tempered in the forge of hatred and anger.
Kazuya could barely grasp the words Heihachi growled. In the instant of his desperation to understand, the trusting hand of his Father released its’ hold, sending the boy tumbling through an endless flight, his tender body crashing against the jagged rocks like tides of ocean pounding the surf. The only sound to comfort Kazuya on his descent from the earth was the echoing chant of his screams...growing more faint with each gash of jagged rocks ripping into his body. Why....Why had his father done this to him?
Sniffling back tears of exhaustion, anguish, Kazuya reached his tiny hands along the lip of the ridge. Pulling up only a handful of clumped earth, he fell back, pressing himself to the small ledge that supported him. Kazuya’s eyes rolled back as he fought to remain conscious. Drawing his fingers through the shredded whole in his shirt, he could feel the edges of his own tattered flesh matted with cold, dark blood. The boy felt his balance waning, threatening to send him spilling down the long road to his own demise. His face twisted and contorted in fear, rage and confusion. I am going to die, Kazuya realized. I am going die in the cold, alone...Mommy, where are you? With his heart, he called to his Mother who had only passed weeks before...her life expiring as she clutched her child tight to her chest.
A soft, smooth voice hissed through Kazuya’s mind. The tone was so delicate, so comforting, he wondered if Mother had heard him, coming to take his hand and lead him into Eternity.
Do not fear, Child.
“Who...who is there?” Kazuya rubbed his dark eyes, teetering on the edge of fatal resignation.
You must reach the top, Kazuya Mishima. You and I have much to do... The comforting voice boomed through his mind once more.
Grasping the last bit of his dying resolve, Kazuya reached for the lip of earth, his fingers slick with blood, holding firm to the rocks above. With a heave of breath, Kazuya vowed to pull himself over, daring the heavens and earth to stop him. If for no other reason than to spite his father, to prove his strength...forged in the flames of hatred and mistrust...rage and disobedience.
Slamming his hand flat on the earth, Kazuya lifted himself over the lip of the chasm, his body broken, bruised...exhausted. Fresh salted tears danced along his blood stained cheeks, the flow of his life was ebbing before him.
“Mother...Mother...” Kazuya cried out, looking for the voice that filled him with a flicker of resolve. The world was quiet, unreckoned before him, locked in the cold grip of night.
“Please Mother...answer me...” His small frame heaved with the agony of his tears as his face pressed gently against the damp, cloy earth. “...why do you not answer me....please, don’t leave me alone.”
Kazuya Mishima, you have made it over the mouth of the chasm, as I have promised. But you are dying. In a moments worth of time, you will be no more. The voice whispered like the wind through the trees in the garden at the Mishima Estate, the Compound he called home.
Kazuya buried his face along the gashes and bruises of his small, sun kissed forearms. His chest, torn wide open, diagonal from his heart to his ribs leaked the last reserve of his vital essence. “I..I don’t want to die...”
Ahhh...you do not have to die, little one. I can restore your life to you, fuel you with the vengeance over your Father, which you so desire. I can grant to you power beyond your wildest dreams. But there is a price, little Mishima. The cost of your body, the bounty of your soul. Should you accept my gifts, you will be mine for as long as you draw breath. I give you the choice. Will you die here, this night...on your belly like a pathetic worm...or...Will you chose life, and be my host for as long as the blood pulses through your veins? Your time is running out, Kazuya. Make your choice.... The voice was as velvet through his burning soul.
Kazuya rose up onto his knees, looking for the source of the voice. “Show yourself to me....” The young Mishima coughed, the air cracking along his bloodied lips. One hand rushed out along the ground to brace him.
You are quick to make demands on your knees before death. So be it. I grant you your request... The Demon appeared as a flash of dark purple flame, an incorporeal ghost, radiantly glowing with power...eyes of bloody fire staring down unto him. I am losing my patience, child. Make your choice and let us be done...
“You aren’t an angel, are you?” Kazuya’s head dropped low, his eyes feeling so blissfully heavy. His words were wrapped in the innocence of his 8 year old mind.
The demon laughed, the flames expanding into the yawning night. Your Choice, little Mishima. What is your choice....life or death?
Kazuya looked up into the eyes of the demon. “I..chose..life....I chose...life.” He whispered with his last mortal breath. Instantly the purple flames surrounded him, driving the energy into the childs body as Kazuya’s arms flung outward like the crucified Christ.
Kazuya screamed, his head swinging upward to the sky. With glowing red eyes superimposing over his own....Kazuya saw the most beautiful blue eyed gaze and golden mane of a white winged angel...soundlessly screaming to the heavens as tears rode down the beings’ fair cheeks. Enfolding her weeping form with her gossamer feathers, the angel slowly faded...and Kazuya fell to the ground. Kazuya bolted upright from the bed, his eyes flashing open with sudden sense of alertness. Scanning around the room, the young Mishima could see no sign of Heihachi Mishima...or the Demon lurking with heavy footsteps through his mind.
Bracing a hand to his feverish forehead, Kazuya inhaled a trembling breath. It was just a nightmare...He told himself as he fell back onto the bed..the first rays of the lightening sky threatening to break. The morning would begin soon, and with it the first steps he would take on the path to his destiny.
Ahhh Kazuya, how sweet of you to reflect on our joining. How beautiful it was, those first nights when we were bound like lovers for a brave new world of exploration. And here we are, now, on the precipice of Fate...eager to take our fingerhold on the life journey that has been a nearly insurmountable cliff face. The demon whispered almost lovingly, privy to the innermost thoughts..reflections and dreams that played along the Young Mishima’s feverish mind. We have reached the very end of our first journey together....so many years in the coming. My first promises to you are at the threshold of fulfillment in return for a lifetime of human bondage within your soul. It has been an invaluable experience to live as a mortal lives...but I want more.
“I can give you no more than my body and my soul...that is all I bartered with...it is all I have.” Kazuya whispered aloud, knowing he could have thought the same and the demon would have heard him, regardless.
Not now you can not, but sometime in the future I foresee the total experience I desire. We have a good deal of things to accomplish before then, Kazuya. The demon acknowledge him one last time before slipping into the back of the young Mishima’s aching thoughts. This day will be a strong day...make use of it as we embark upon the journey of our lifetime.
Kazuya took a deep breath, unsure of what more the demon could have possibly wanted from him. The joining of the devil to his soul came with only one downfall. Although the demon was privy to all of Kazuya’s most private thoughts, the same could not be said for the Young Mishima. Devils designs were unknown to him, silent from his attentive thoughts. Up until now, the young Mishima never wondered why the door did not swing both ways....
The assembled crowd gathered along the bar in the grand ballroom of the Uptown Tokyo Hotel they had been given rooms within. Each seemingly more enigmatic than the next, one fighter seemed to stand out...in both looks and sheer size.
Paul Phoenix smiled, nodding his flat top, ridiculously high upswept mane of blonde hair toward the bar tender. “Send that one, over there...the blonde, a drink from me...”
“Sir, all drinks are on the tab of your sponsor this evening.” The bar tender smiled politely.
“I don’t give a rats ass, I said send her a drink. Jesus!” Paul exclaimed in an alcohol induced haze as he shook his head. With a quirk of his brow, the American tilted his head down, studying to the exceptionally tall, muscular build of a Masked Fighter seated to his left at the bar. “What in the hell are you supposed to be?”
The Jaguar headed masked male turned it’s beaded, doll like eyes to the American fighter. With nothing more than a growl emanating from within the confines of the mask, the fighter turned his attention back to his drink.
Paul was relentless. “How in the fuck are you drinking that? I don’t see any freakin’ straws?”
The Jaguar masked wrestler, King, rose kicking his bar stool out from under him, opting to sit at one of the dining table, some distance away from the brash, intoxicated American.
“Hey, wait, come back freak-o, I wasn’t done insulting you yet!” Paul laughed, setting his chin down on his extended arm, draped garishly along the bar top. Exhaling sharply as another of the assembled fighters stepped up to place an order for a drink, Paul was nearly speechless.
“I will imbibe some of the liquid refreshments which seems to be placing everyone in such high spirits. What do you recommend, bar keep?” The oddly monotone voice of a seemingly foreign fighter asked as he rested his hands along the bar...sending a clink of his body armor through Pauls pounding head.
The bartender fixed a random drink of his choice, placing it before the patron. Taking a long pull, Yoshimitsu seemed to visibly shiver as he downed the glass before him. “Potent libations, Bar Keep. I think I will pass on a second indulgence.”
“Hey” Paul called out, trying to get the armor clad fighter with his hand resting comfortably on the hilt of a sword, to turn in his direction.
“Can I help you?” Yoshimitsu asked, turning his demon masked face toward the intoxicated American.
“Holy shit, the freaks in this place are multiplying. What in the name of Christ on Rubber crutches is your deal?” Paul was simply...awestruck at the odd appearance of the fighter beside him.
“I am Yoshimitsu. And I advise you to be wary of your tone, American.” The enigmatic gentleman turned, saying nothing else, as he procured a seat at one of the dining tables as the servers began bringing out plates, teaming over with food from the kitchen.
Sighing, Paul turned in his seat, glancing along the other assembled fighters as he hefted his drink. The blonde he had insistently had a drink sent to raised her glass in his direction with a subtle wink of her sapphire eye. Standing just behind her was another woman, who, with the exception of darker hair...resembled the blonde, immensely. Hey, two for the price of one. Paul smiled to himself, returning the wink of the blonde a short distance away.
Taking her almost coy response as a sign, Paul decided to introduce himself. Sliding off the stool, his head swimming slightly, the brash American stumbled his way toward the blonde, slipping in to rest along the bar. “How are you tonight. I’m Paul.”
“Well hello there Paul...I am Nina, a pleasure to meet you.” Her thickly brogued Irish accent seemed to slither along the American in all the right places. “I take it you are competing in the tournament?”
Pauls’ smile deepened as Nina’s dark blue eyes seemed to linger on his youthful, muscular form. “Yeah, I am going to win this thing too and cash myself in on that 1 billion dollar prize. You might want to stick around, I know how to treat a lady like you.”
“Oh, is that so?” Nina purred almost, kittenesque. He may be drunk but at least he looks...human. Not a bad specimen either. Very Muscular, very strong...a good ally to have in my corner, should I need it.... The assassin smiled to herself, watching the American over the rim of her glass.
“Yeah. I am going to catch some grub before the boring speech bit gets under way. Care to join me at one of the tables?” Paul pushed off the bar, looking over the Irish fighter with his ocean blue eyes.
“I prefer to stand back here for the time being, Paul. But thanks for the offer.”
“Suit yourself. Maybe we can get together after this bullshit is over with, scope the club scene, what do you say?”
“Perhaps...” Nina smiled.
“Alright then, its a date. Oh, by the way, that chic standing over there looks just like you. Is that your mother or something?”
Nina laughed, casting a wicked side glance to Anna Williams, standing just off to her side. “Although I take that as a compliment, she is my sister, Anna.”
“Ahh, sisters eh? That brings a world of dirty thoughts to mind. Heh. I will catch you after.” Paul smirked, turning to walk toward one of the filling tables.
Keep Dreaming. Nina hissed in the back of her mind as the muscular, attractive American fell into a seat at one of the tables. By the end of this tournament, Heihachi Mishima is not the only one I intend on laying to waste.
Paul sat back, snatching the glass of wine in front of him and downing it in one fell swoop as the servers set dinner before him. Setting the glass down, he reached his hand for the glass before the Asian fighter beside him. “You mind?”
The Gentleman seated beside him turned, regarding Paul before shaking his head. “By all means. I do not drink.”
“Then I will drink for you. I’m Paul Phoenix.” He offered his hand as the Chinese fighter nodded, accepting his grip.
“Marshall Law. Good to know you.”
Paul took a swig from the wine glass, engaging himself in pleasant conversation with Marshall as a large Japanese male made his way through the crowd.
“Holy shit, take a look at tubby over there. Hide your food before that big mother fucker inhales it!” Paul guarded his plate, looking over to Marshall.
Laughing uncontrollably, Marshall Law could not help but find the American hysterical. “That is Gan’Ryu, one of the most proficient Sumo Wrestlers in Japan. I would be careful what you say about him.”
“Shit, I ain’t gonna watch nothing. Jabba the Hut better check his fat ass before he steps to me..or my grub.”
“I can not wait to hear your reaction when you meet the famous Jinfrey Wang.” Marshall shook his head softly, laughing.
“Who the hell is that?” Paul barked in the brief respite from shoveling food into his hungry mouth.
“He is a wise and respected fighter and sage, a member of the martial arts community for more years than we have been alive, combined. He is a Zen Master.”
“I got your Zen, Swinging.” Paul emphasized the point with a leaning motion on his chair...a hand over exaggeratedly grasping at his crotch.
“You are definitely an outspoken one, Paul Phoenix.”
“You ain’t seen nothing yet, Marshall, my boy. Have you scoped the fine ass chics around here...” Paul pointed toward Anna and another female fighter dressed in Native American accent. Marshall had informed him her name was Michelle.
“Yeah but they ain’t shit compared to that sweet piece over there, her name is Nina and in about 2hrs I am going to be all up in that.” Paul winked in comraderie to his new found friend. “Speaking of ‘pieces’, did you see the hardware on that one, Yoshimitsu?”
Marshall nodded. “I thought weapons were not permitted at this tournament.”
“Well, between that one with the sword and that one...” Paul tilted his head in the direction of the Jaguar Masked fighter, King to find another Masked fighter had come to sit beside him at the far table. “..holy shit, He must have had kittens cause there is another cat headed freak over there!”
“They are wrestlers, Paul-san. King, the spotted Jaguar and Armor King. I am surprised you have not heard of them since Wrestling is a popular entertainment in the states.” Marshall spoke between bites of his succulent dinner.
“Oh, I don’t watch that shit. Its fake. The real deal is on the streets. You know, when I win this thing I think I might buy a nice little dojo somewhere and teach Judo Style Karate. But I am here more so for the challenge of it all. I am running out of good competition.” Paul glomped down on his dinner, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as he turned his eyes to Marshall.
“I want my own dojo too. That is why I decided to quit my job at this Chinese Restaurant I was working in, in San Francisco and came here. If I win that money...it is my dream to finally have my own place to train students in the arts.”
“Hot damn, you live in the states? I thought you were from China or something.”
“Well, I am, actually. But I have been living in the States for a few years. I have to say, it is a much different world than I am used to.”
“Its a fucking hell hole are you kidding me. Shit it looks great on the outside but trust me, I was born and raised there.”
“You don’t say?” Marshall law could not help but laugh. With a character like Paul Phoenix participating in the competition, this was going to be one hell of an interesting tournament.
The crowd slowly settled down as the spot light fell over the podium. A tall, androgynously handsome young male stepped out, taking his place before the microphone. Brushing a hand back through his molten silver mane, the Gucci suited young male parted his lips to speak.
“Good evening Everyone. I am Lee Chaolan, Heir to the Mishima Financial Conglomerate sponsoring the King of Iron Fist Tournament and a competitor within it’s ranks. I hope you are all enjoying the accommodations and I look forward to seeing those of you I am lucky enough to compete against in the ring. I would like to wish you all luck. And now, without further adieu, I present to you, my Father, CEO and Creator of the King of Iron Fist, Heihachi Mishima.”
Lee stepped back, clapping as the competitors joined in. An older male with gray, balding hair upswept in a dramatic style akin to horns, took Chaolans place before the podium. With a harsh voice, Heihachi acknowledged the assembled honored guests.
Somewhere in the dim background of the grand ballroom, a door slammed closed. Leaning against the bar, gi bag set down on the ground before his feet...Kazuya Mishima paused, his eyes falling on the aging face of Heihachi Mishima..his father...and tormentor. Seeing him for the first time in nearly 8 years, Kazuya felt the revulsion rise in his throat, thick as bile. Time had not been good to the Elder Mishima....
“Good evening, honored participants. I am Heihachi Mishima, Former Tournament Competitor Title holder and CEO of the Mishima Zaibatsu, a world renowned Conglomerate focused on the financial markets of a growing, global economy. But enough about that. I am here to welcome you as the Creator of the King of Iron Fist Tournament.”
Lee Chaolan cupped his hand below the line of his brow, shielding his eyes from the bright hue of the spotlight. In the back of the room, a door had slammed closed...and now he could see the cause of the barely noticed disturbance. Kazuya Mishima had come to receive his calling.
“If you are here, then you have been selected as the most prominent talent in your respective Martial Arts today, to compete for an immense prize. Not only the cash prize of 1 billion dollars but for the United Martial Arts and Competitions Federation sanctioned title of ‘Worlds Strongest Martial Artist’. You, Ladies and Gentlemen, are the best of the best, the brightest future..and past of the Martial Arts circle. It is with great pleasure I welcome you to the commencement of the King of Iron Fist Tournament.”
Kazuya smirked as he watched the personified version of Heihachi Mishima, his public face displayed to a world of his equals. No one but he would ever know the pain and cruelty of this seemingly wise older man at the helm of the competition. The Young Mishima, on the other hand, was cursed to never forget....
“Eat, drink and be Merry this night, my accomplished colleagues. For the friends you make today may well be your opponents come the morrow. The Round of 16 will begin in the morning. You will find your initial matches posted on the boards in the outside lobby of the hotel, available after this Inauguration ceremony. I wish you all strength and luck. May the gods be with your Tekken. Thank you.”
The crowd applauded for the Speaker as he disappeared from the podium, Lee Chaolan following closely behind. With the speech completed, the Beginning of the King of Iron Fist Tournament was finally...underway.