Tekken Fan Fiction ❯ The Stone Lotus ❯ Chapter Eleven ( Chapter 11 )

Chapter Eleven

As Wenjun had said, Chancey had had Lei's badge and gun overnighted to the Dreyfus PD, along with a several files packed neatly in a huge, plastic storage tub. The detective frowned; he actually knew most of what was in the the paperwork already just from being so familiar with Jin's case and with just about anything dealing with the Mishima family. But his boss rarely left anything to chance.

He stood by himself in storage, sifting through casually the tub, partially avoiding taking the oversized piece of tupperware out to his car and back to Paul's. Already, he was dreading this case. This was technically the third time Lei worked on this, once two years ago and once twenty years ago, when Kazuya Mishima had been killed. And the idea was always to find enough evidence that Heihachi had been the murderer or had some part in it. But, there never was any evidence. Or at least, Lei purposedly never looked for any.

He sighed heavily and picked up his holster and gun, carefully fastening the leather vest-like contraption over his black polo shirt then adjusting it until it fit right. The dectective then pulled his wallet out of pocket of his jeans and reattached his badge to it.

"No rest for the wicked..." he thought cynically, yet amused as he threw on his khaki blazer to cover his weapon. The door slowly creaked opened, and Lei looked up, carefully straightening his jacket.

"So, you're the dectective from New York that's been transferred here for that Kazama case?" the man standing in the doorway mused as he crossed his arms. Lei nodded once, discreetly looking over the other man. He was tall, almost sickenly skinny and lanky, with his slicked back blond hair thinning in the front. He wore a black tailored suit, which made his limbs look even thinner and stick-like. On his face, a pair of dark green tinted eyeglasses sat on the end of his nose, magnifying the man's beady, dark eyes.

Lei did his best to not to snicker and ended up smirking uncontrollably before asking, "And you are?"

"Jason," the man said as he came into the room fully, "Agent Jason Drake with the Bureau." The blond extended his hand for Lei to shake. "Heh, you're probably sick of working with us by now."

"They should just hire me on staff," Lei joked as he firmly shook the other man's hand. "Usually, I work with Bryan when it comes to anything dealing with the Mishimas, though--"

"--Agent Fury, I'm assuming is who you mean?" Drake said solemnly as his crossed his arms,

"Yeah, I wasn't sure if you knew him...but I guess you'd would if you're working on Jin's case."

The other man nodded once, "We were partners for awhile."

"Nice guy. He even introduced me to my, ah, current girlfriend," Lei smiled. "And it's kinda funny, I think his first case ever, he ended up being stuck with me and my partner. On a Mishima investigation, of course."

"Heh, doesn't surprise me. He was pretty much our Mishima guru."

Lei frowned and lifted a brow, "Was?"

The blond sighed heavily and shook his head, "Bryan's dead. Got gunned down with few other officers during a shootout with some arms dealers in Florida last year. He...wasn't even supposed to be down there."

"Shit..." the detective gasped.

Drake shook his head, "The irony was that, Bry was under investigation himself because of that Kazama boy. Some of the evidence turned up missing come time for legal consideration--"

"--I see." Lei shook his head sadly. "So, is that why we're beating this dead horse?"

"That's about half of it. Mostly, since there's still a body, unlike what happened to that Kazuya fellow, everyone's ready to close this, once and for all."

Lei shook his head at that comment and began chuckling. He glanced away at the large tub of files, then hunched over, his chuckled turning into a full fit of laughter. Drake was silent as he watched the other man roaring, filling the otherwise quiet room. After a minute or so, the detective managed to get his laughter under control, and slowly he straightened up. He choked back a little laughter as he finally eyed Drake again.

"What's so funny?" the blond asked quietly.

"Nothing. Nothing at all," Lei smirked as he looked away to place the lid back on the tub. Keeping his gaze away from the federal agent, he continued to fumble with the awkwardly large lid until it snapped shut. Lei then braced himself before leaning over to pick up the heavy tub; he straighted up quickly, arching his back for support as he carefully started towards the door past Drake.

"Detective Wulong?"

"I'm sorry, I have to get this out to my car sometime, you know?" he gasped, still strangely amused as he exited and began to waddle slowly towards the building exit, taking care to maneuver around people that came across his path.

"Heh, right," Drake called after him. "Then I guess we're done talking for today."

Lei paused and looked over his shoulder, "You're more than welcomed to follow me out. But, yeah, as far as I'm concerned, we're through."

With that, Lei continued his slow, painful trek to the police station parking lot.

*****

Kazuya was stretched out on his back in a bed in a motel room. He glanced over at the digital clock that was sitting on the nightstand next to the bed and sighed heavily.

The Asian woman had promptly commanded that he go to an ATM as soon as a gas station came into view. Too disheartened and exhausted to object, he obeyed. He stood and stared at the screen, wondering exactly what he was supposed to do with no card until she began slowly reciting numbers, all while gesturing for the Mishima to start punching them in on the keypad. He glanced over at her, and she nodded and repeated herself from the beginning until an account balance, his balance came up.

"Take out as much as you need," she said. He glanced over at her, brow raised and punched in a number and took his cash and receipt. After stuffing the wad of bills into his back pocket, he looked down at the small slip of paper and frowned at the obscenely high remaining balance.

"Impossible...that can't be right..." he mumbled as he crumbled up the receipt and walked off.

But he certainly couldn't complain now. He had a roof over his head for the moment and had had a warm meal, and he was certainly thankful for that, especially since he managed to get inside before the rain started again. He glanced over at the window; it was raining in sheets, making it impossible to see outside. However, he rather enjoyed the grey early daylight that was dimly lighting up his room at the moment, and he turned his head back to stare up at the ceiling again; he hummed quietly to himself the same song that Anna had been the other night. However, he stopped himself when he realized what he was doing and frowned.

Admittedly, he wanted and needed sleep, yet he couldn't close his eyes. His thoughts kept going over the picture of the boy in the obituary. The frown on Kazuya's face tightened, and he turned his head; the Asian woman sat next to him on the bed, legs crossed daintly underneath the ankle length lavendar skirt she was wearing. She looked down at him and smiled fondly before stretching out on her side, lining up her face to his then resting her chin on palm. The amusement she was sporting irritated him, but again, he didn't feel like fighting her at the moment.

"Jun," he said quietly to her. She chuckled lightly and shook her head.

"I'm not Jun."

"You look like her."

Her grin broadened, "I know."

"Why then?" he asked; his frown softened into confusion when she reached over and touched his cheek then his hand.

"Familiarity. In all honesty, I could be anyone you want me to be," she replied in a rather arbitrary voice.

He sighed heavily and looked back up at the ceiling, "So, then I am going insane."

She shifted to her back and stared up at the ceiling as well, "Far from it. You're just at a transition point." Kazuya didn't respond and instead listened to the sounds of the rain pounding outside on the roof and windows; the room began to dim more as the clouds blackened. The sky flashed violet silently from lightning somewhere far off. He strained his ears to listen for thunder, and heard none.

The woman was silent as well, aside from a light sigh. She then shifted onto her side again, sat up, then looked down at the fatigued man below her. She smiled again, though he gazed up at her, hurt.

She repeated in a low whisper, "I can be anyone you want me to be..." His eyes widened as her face morphed slowly, her eyes fading from brown into an unearthly blue; her hair erupted into autumn colors while she appeared in the nude, "I can be Anna, I can be your mother..." Then into another Asian woman, again, familiar, though with a frail, elegant beauty, small gentle eyes beneath the thin wisps of dark hair that surrounded her pale face. Slowly, Kazuya sat up, the corner of his mouth twitched nervously as he began to doubt his sanity again. The Asian woman touched his cheek, and he tensed up. However, he couldn't take his eyes off her out of fear and fascination.

Her face transformed once more, this time into a male. Her features hardened somewhat, and her skin darkened, while her hair turned silver. Kazuya's frown deepened. He recognized the eyes; they were of the little boy that he saw on the highway. It was then he was finally able to look away and cast his gaze downward. However, his companion leaned into him, hand still on cheek.

"Kazuya?" The soft, airy voice that he had become accustomed to was gone, replaced with a soothing, yet again familiar baritone.

Kazuya opened his eyes and looked up confused at the other man practically stretched out on top of him. The silverhaired man continued to lean over Kazuya, his smile gone, causing the other man to lay back slowly back onto his pillow.

It was silent then, no sounds aside from the rain and the occasional thunder in the distance. The room would flash up a brilliant blue then flicker and die away into darkness from the lightning outside. The younger man's features were defined in the brief splashes of light, the tauntness of his muscular body, the almost adolescent features of his face, his slightly parted full lips. His hands moved from Kazuya's face and slid slowly and deliberately down to his chest. The younger man then flattened out completely on top of the other man, bringing his face down to Kazuya, lips still parted lustfully; his tongue slithered out and lightly traced the older man's moist lips before gently parting them into a full kiss.

And Kazuya willingly accepted it, though all the while wondering what exactly was happening, and why everything was so real. His thoughts drifted, still of Jin and of Anna, as he closed his eyes and let his companion do as he wanted; his mouth moved mindlessly with the younger man's, and his hands snaked up and clamped down on the bare hips of the silverhaired man as his tongue rubbed lazily against the other's.

Kazuya woke up.

It was raining still that morning, though it had let up from when he had drifted off to sleep, and the small television in the room was still on though turned down low to a whisper. The sky had even lightened a bit, making the room seem almost too bright as his eyes adjusted slowly to the flood of blank light. He rubbed his eyes painfully with his middle finger and thumb before sitting up slowly then looking around. He was alone.

Kazuya felt himself relax some as he realized this, and stood up to stretch before wandering over to the window to watch the rain. He could faintly make out his reflection in the glass, most notably the soft red glow of his eyes, which he wasn't surprised by at all. He looked over his shoulder, almost expecting to see the Asian woman standing prim and proper behind him, yet there was nothing. With a chuckle, he turned back and watched the weather and the cars rolling in and out of the motel parking lot.

*****

It was too quiet that evening, even with the faint sounds of people outside of the shower room hurrying to their seats in the arena, and the distant yelling of vendors trying to hawk merchandise and ticket scalpers dodging security. He, however, had been feeling a little sick most of that week, though he knew it was entirely mental; success was coming too fast for him.

He was taping his left wrist in preparation for the fight that night, and he glowered down at the crisscross of scars that ran down the entire length of his left arm, part of him wishing that he could at least cover his arms during the match. This was going to be televised internationally, and that made his vanity kick into high gear. It had taken him years to get over the fact that he couldn't do anything about the scars short of plastic surgery, which he refused to have, since it would mean no boxing for several months. And boxing was his life.

It invigorated him, made him feel like he was alive. He was somebody when he was in the ring. He didn't have to think about life, about who he was, about who he wasn't, and so forth. There was only his fists and his opponent. The bare essence of living, man versus man.

However, as soon as it was over, he was himself again. A boring college student that could ramble Pascal's Triangle to the 64th power no problem, and had no difficulty reciting most of Hamlet from memory, though those weren't talents he often bragged about.

He stared down at his taped left hand that now matched the right, then stood up slowly from the bench he had been sitting at. Numbly, he walked over to one of the many, bland white sinks in the room, all lined up against the concrete block wall. There were mirrors hanging above each of the sinks, and he stared at his reflection.

He managed to crack a small grin. He looked nothing like his adoptive parents; both of his parents were darkhaired with round, full features. His father even had a thick mustache that hung over his lip like a limp caterpillar, and wiggled like one when he talked and smiled. The young man, however, had fairer skin, blond hair, and couldn't grow facial hair for the life of him. He turned the cold water knob on the sink and splashed his face then slicked back his hair. He looked up again at himself. His features were sharp, and the bags underneath his blue eyes told more than enough that he was letting this match get to him in all the wrong ways. He laughed to himself when that realization came to him, and shut off the water before drying his face with the towel that hung around his neck.

"Mr. Steven Fox?" a voice echoed in the room. The young man looked up then over his shoulder at the man standing behind him at the shower room when he was addressed then chuckled once, noting that the older man looked like he was straight out of a cheesy gangster movie in his black suit and dark glasses. "I have a message for you."

"Alright," Steve replied in his heavy British accent. "What is it?"

"Tonight's fight. You're to lose."

The younger man lifted a brow and slowly turned around to fully face the other man, "Come again?"

"Ewin Lewis is to take home the championship. We'll award you twice as much as you would had received from winning the belt--"

"--I could care less about money. That's not why I fight." Steve crossed his arms, though still in shock over what was being asked of him. He squinted as he tried to stare past the dark sunglasses of the man standing before him, and he leaned back and rested the small of his back on the cool surface of the sink.

The man chuckled, "Regardless, you're to lose."

"If I refuse?"

"You won't." With that said, the man in the suit turned and exited. His footsteps echoed through out the shower room, and Steve closed his eyes, letting out a heavy sigh.

Losing would mean one less thing to worry about that night. He could end the match quickly and go home. Sleep, then start training again from the bottom. It almost sounded like a perfect ending for him, since he enjoyed the road to success more than actual success itself. Though, he could hear his pride screaming with insult at the notion mingled in with the ringing in his ears.

Man versus man. Man does not bow down. Man always fights until he wins or expires. If Lewis wanted the title, he was going to have to fight for it. Steve pulled away from the sink and slowly uncrossed his arms.

And he recited slowly, 'When it occurs to a man that nature does not regard him as important, and that she feels she would not maim the universe by disposing of him,' He stepped away from the wall and began shadowboxing, 'he at first wishes to throw bricks at the temple, and he hates deeply the fact that there are no bricks and no temples. Any visible expression of nature would surely be pelleted with his jeers...' His hands jabbed, and he danced, bouncing up and down to the rhythms of his imaginary opponent.

He dodged his phantom foe and swung with a left hook, 'Then, if there be no tangible thing to hoot he feels, perhaps, the desire to confront a personification and indulge in pleas, bowed to one knee, and with hands supplicant, saying: "Yes..." '

Steve's fist paused in the air, and he was silent. He listened to the sounds of the crowd outside growing louder with anticipation. Soon, he would be in the spotlight again, though the people surrounding him would mean nothing. Newscasters speaking fast and in many languages, some waiting for him to exit so that cameras could get a snap of him pre-match. And the echo of his voice that was drowning in the sea of noise.

' "Yes, but I love myself.",' he said softly, ending the passage. His arm dropped slowly, his voice lost in his throat as fear set in. "Yes, but I love myself."

(passage taken from "The Open Boat", by Stephen Crane.)