Tekken Fan Fiction ❯ The Stone Lotus ❯ Chapter Twelve ( Chapter 12 )

[ Y - Young Adult: Not suitable for readers under 16 ]

Chapter Twelve

"Lookie at what I have!" Christie Monteiro sang playfully as she waved her hand in front of her companion's face. He looked up from where he had been reading the newspaper at the two tickets in the younger woman's hand, first annoyed until he actually took the time to read the tiny print on them. He lifted a brow in shock and leaned back onto the couch cushions.

She pouted, "Say something, Jaime."

"...6th row, middleweight championship, TONIGHT," he mumbled as he folded his paper and set it next to him. "Holy fuck, Chris, who did you blow to get these?" He stood up slowly, eyes still on the two pieces of paper that she fanned in front of him tauntingly, a huge grin across her face.

"Oh, and should I mention the parking pass for the reserved lot I got with these?" she added innocently, stepping back from Jaime before turning fully to run, laughing. She didn't get far, however, when her housemate grabbed her by the waist and tackled her, tickling her at the same time. They tumbled to the ground, and he continued tickle her relentlessly, though she still gripped the boxing tickets in her hand. After a few moments, he stopped, now stretched out entirely on top of Christie, a grin across his usually placid face; he was, like her, breathing heavily.

They had known each other for just over a year now; Jaime Chavez had showed up at Christie's grandfather's doorstep, with a message in an envelope from a man referred to only as "Marduk" and his passport. Her grandfather, Damian, had scanned the letter discreetly before even letting Jaime step foot into the house, and did so quickly without protest.

The Monteiro family themselves had emigrated from Brazil to Australia five years ago, after Damian had gotten out of prison, mostly to avoid anymore conflict with the parties involved with his arrest and conviction. After that, it became common for youths to be sent up to them to be placed under the elderly Monteiro's guidance if they were in legal trouble. Jaime was no exception.

Jaime himself spoke little of his past or even why he was in his current situation, though he had become quite close to Christie. He was a handsome young man with the typical non-Caucasian, exotic features: dark olive skin, black hair that hung in his eyes messily, and intense, dark eyes. His voice was American-accented, deep, and soft. However, he often slipped into another language that no one in the household understood, and he spoke little Spanish or Portuguese, though not completely ignorant of either language. Christie had often found herself wondering if Jaime was even Latino, like he implied. It was common for many of the young men that sought out her grandfather to change their names and so forth, and it wouldn't had surprised her nor bothered her in the slightest. However, she thought little of that these days.

Christie herself was partially of African decent, with rich dark skin and eyes. Her voice was bright and lilting, a pleasant mix of a Portuguese accent and an Australian accent. She was quite proud of her heritage, however her mother had often scolded her for being too Americanized and not being rooted deeply enough in her Brazilian side. Christie often shrugged it off, though, with the blessing of her grandfather.

"Intolerance is what got us into this to begin with," he would remind his family constantly.

Damian had passed away several months ago, and Christie volunteered to take Jaime in. Her mother had been leery about letting the young man stay any longer after the old man's death. The last person that had stayed with them before Jaime was a young man named Eduardo Gordo, who hailed from the same country the Monteiros did. And, like Jaime, Eddy had become very close to Christie; he had been the older brother she always wanted. However, he had left for the United States three years prior to Jaime's arrival, yet sent cheerful letters speaking of his travels and particularly of his settling down in New Mexico and his friends there.

The letters came often, then slowed to ocassionally, then not at all. The last letter Christie received from Eddy had been over two years ago, and he mentioned having to attend the funeral of a friend then wanting to go back to Brazil to be with his family again. This worried her. The tone of the letter was completely different from any of the letter he had sent; he had sent a somber toned letter or two in the past, however this one had been rather flat and and hastily writtened. That had been what had made Christie's mother not trust of any of the young men that stayed. She had had to watch her daughter worry over a man that everyone in the household knew she would never see again, and she would not have Christie go through that again.

"They come, and they go," the older woman had reminded Christie the night that she was to move away with Jaime.

Christie spoke little to her mother after she moved out since her mother had her prejudices against Jaime, and Christie chose not to deal with it at the time.

So, now, she and he lived alone together under strict living conditions: seperate bedrooms, seperate bathrooms, and so forth. She worked parttime during the day at one of the local diners and was going to school, while he worked two jobs as a clerk at a bookshop and bartender. And it worked well, and had been for months.

She grinned up at the older boy hovering above her now; her breathing slowed as she finally caught her breath, and they were both silent, though smiling at each other; she gazed at the older boy through half-closed eyes.

He took the initiative and lean down slowly, closing his eyes. His gentle, warm breath felt pleasant against the soft skin of her full lips; his hand moved and rested against her cheek as he moved in closer, until his own lips where literally half an inch away from hers.

"Wait," she blurted as she pulled herself out from under him and sat up. "You know, we talked about this, Jaime." He pulled back as well and sat on his knees, blushing from both near arousement and embarassment.

He placed his hands on his thighs, "Sorry. I didn't mean too..."

"No, no! It's okay!" she laughed. She grinned at him again, though that quickly turned into worry as she watched him.

Jaime had a tendancy to become silent whenever he felt like did something terrible, no matter how trivial the situation. And then there was his nervous habit of rubbing his left arm. That day, he was shirtless since he had the day off, which showed the large tattoo he had on that particular arm. Christie had always rather liked it (though, of course, her mother had pointed out that it made Jaime look even more like a delinquent). It was black, stylish, Samoan tattoo of what he claimed was lightning, with two intertwining blades that had a erotic nature to it. Coupled with his attractive, athletic build, he had a very sensual presence about him that afternoon.

She found herself fixated on the tattoo for a moment, wondering what made him decide to get something of that nature. He was almost too shy and self-conscious, always careful about what he said or did, and usually stayed off the subject of sex, aside from the occasional joke and off-color comment. With a heavy sigh, she shook the thought from her head and stood up; she hoped that he hadn't always been like that.

"Hey," she said softly, "I mean it, it's okay." He looked up at her.

"Seriously, how did you get those tickets?" he asked, changing the subject as he continued to rub his arm. Jaime then stood up as well, though still blushing a bit.

She perked up and flipped her dark hair, "You remember me telling you about this guy in my philosophy class, Grant?" Jaime nodded once and sat back down on the couch, keeping gaze on the younger girl as he listened attentively. "Okay, yeah, so he's a bookie, and sometimes, he gets good tickets."

"Nice, a bookie," Jaime mumbled sarcastically.

"Hey, now! Grant's good people, and he makes good money!" Christie smirked. "He had gotten tickets to the Lewis-Fox fight, but he had some other engagement or something. So, I mentioned what a huge Steve Fox fan you were--" She paused and waggled her eyebrows at the older boy mockingly; he closed his eyes and shook his head, laughing. Christie continued, "--And he gave them to me, no problem."

Jaime reopened his eyes and chuckled, "Wow. Talk about luck."

"No, kidding," she nodded. "He was actually planning on scalping them." She sat down next to the older boy. "We have a couple of hours before we should head to the arena, so I'm gonna go shower. But, I thought you needed some cheering up." She pinched his cheek as she stood up; he swatted her hand away playfully, and his smile turned bashful.

"God, you're so adorable when you do that," she cackled as she pinched him again before turning to head back down the hallway to her bedroom.

When Christie was about half way down the hall, Jaime called, "Hey, Chris," then stood up. She stopped, glanced over her shoulder, then turned around fully when she saw him jogging up to him. When he reached her, he wrapped his arms around her waist and pressed her against himself suggestively; the look on his face had changed from shy to lustful, something that she had never witnessed before. And she loved it, though she could hear a voice in her head that sounded suspiciously like her mother screaming at her that it was wrong.

He grinned as he leaned his head into hers, again bring his lips dangerously close to hers, and again he was quiet and restraining himself from getting anymore intimate with the woman he was holding. She was afraid to look away or close her eyes, and absentmindedly, she brought of hand up to his cheek, again not breaking eye contact.

She pleaded to herself in head to pull away, yet her body was perfectly happy with the attention it was receiving at the moment, and she shuddered as she felt one of his hands move from her waist and snake up her stomach beneath her tanktop to cup her breast. She closed her eyes as soon as his thumb brushed lightly over her nipple, and she let out a shaky breath. And as he fondled her, she knew she was pressing tighter and grinding hard against him to the point that she even heard a raspy groan from him and felt his arousal growing between his legs.

"You do realize," she began in a low voice; his other hand started to undo the top of her jeans, "We really can't be anything other than friends." She gasped lightly when his hand slipped between the thick denim and the cotton of her panties.

His response was a soft "uh-huh" as his finger rubbed up against her own arousal.

"Fuck, why won't you kiss me already?"

He opened his eyes, "No." His hand kept moving as she leaned up against hallway wall. He was silent from that point on, first undoing his own jeans, pulling out his erection, then sliding downward, taking her pants and undergarments with him until she stepped out of them. For a moment, he stayed on his knees, his hands move back up to between her legs, and he leaned slowly to part the swollen lips there with his fingers, and with deliberate, painfully slow strokes, his tongue massaged her clit with the warmth and texture that no hand could ever emulate. He did this for what felt to her like an eternity before slowly standing up, hands moving back up to her waist, then he cautiously entered her. With small cry, she gripped tighter to him when he penetrated, pulling up her legs to wrap around his waist; she then hugged his neck, still gripping the tickets, and finally lost herself completely.

It ended up being a short session, but not that either one of them cared or noticed. And just as Jaime said he wouldn't, he never once kissed her during the entire time. When he did finally orgasmed, his thrusting sped up violently to end with one hard slam in which he gritted his teeth painfully, still refusing to make any noise. After pausing to allow his body to release itself, he relaxed then loosened his embrace on her to gently set her back on the ground before pulling away completely and leaning against the opposite wall; the only sound was their breathing.

It took her a few moments for her to collect herself, but she managed to murmur, "You play virgin pretty well."

"Whoever said I was a virgin?" he chuckled as he carefully retucked his spent dick back into his pants and underwear. There was a brief moment of silence; he smiled amiably at the younger girl before him, and she at him.

"Asshole," she grinned.

"Thank you," he replied, his own shy smile growing fully into amusement.

Nothing was going to change at all.

*****

Derrick grinned as he took a swig of his beer, "Best seats in the house, if you ask me." Forest nodded in agreement as he raised his bottle and tipped it towards his companion as a good gesture. He then took a long drink before setting his drink down, and looking up at one of the many televisions hanging from the pub's ceiling.

He was sitting with both Derrick and Grant at the bar, of course waiting for the boxing match to start and listening to pre-match hype. Grant was already stoned and had spent a great deal of the evening rambling about giving up tickets to the fight.

"I can't believe I gave them to Christina," he repeated woefully, drawing out every word as he ran his fingers through his hair; the blue dye was fading, leaving his bleach locks looking almost like a sickly green, and his dark roots had overgrown over an inch. "Gods, what I'd do to fuck her..."

Derrick cackled, "And she didn't fuck you to get those tickets?"

"Fuck no, that guy she lives with. Jesus, the American, she's like in LOVE with him. Because, you know, he's American. You know how bitches are when it comes to American blokes." He looked over at Forest, eyes bloodshot and unfocused.

"Hey, I'm American and I don't have women fawning over me," Forest protested in mock offense before taking another drink of his draft.

Grant managed to lift a brow, "Law, that's because you're a fucking queer."

"Good point." Derrick nearly choked on his drink at Grant's straightfaced retort to Forest's comment, and coughed; his nose was stinging a bit from the beer that had found its way up to his nostrils and nearly shot out. He sniffed once, covering his nose in agony before glancing back up at the television like his two coherts were already doing, though Grant's attention was questionable as he squinted, trying put his vision in focus.

"All I can say is," Forest began as he gestured for the bartender to bring him another beer, "This had better be a damned good fight. And Fox better wipe the floor with Lewis."

"Amen to that," Grant mumbled.

Derrick frowned as he crossed his arms, "I'm afraid to ask," he said, gaze never leaving the screen.

******

None of the writing made any sense to Heihachi. The old man, dressed in his suit, about to be on his way to meet some families to reunite them with their loved ones that had been stuck at the institution that day. Yet for the third time, he read through one of the journals from the escaped patient, confused.

It didn't hold any of the panic and desperation he saw that even the young woman that went catatonic after she spoke him showed. Instead, there was calm sense of hopelessness and cynicalism. The escapee had been obviously been very well educated; his prose and voice were sharp and strong. However, as Heihachi had written in his notes, the earlier journals seemed confused, though still not completely frantic, just a lack of continuity and a definite stray in the thought process. This particular journal was the most recent one and still had a few leafs of blank paper in the back. By this time, the patient had been carefully documenting anything that was noteworthy, and writing everyday.

Heihachi had went and had several of the pages that struck him photocopied the previous evening, since he was to return the binders that afternoon. The handwriting and tone had stayed consistant, and again reminded him very much of his son during what Heihachi referred to as "his dormant days". He had several copies made of one page especially, and he reread one copy that he had folded up and kept in his pocket most of the day:

"18/05/xx--

"Nothing unsual happened today, aside from the lady next door to me finally dying this morning. She's the third one I've seen go in that particular room. I don't know exactly how bad off she had been... I never got to really see her in person, obviously. I just happened to peek out my door window to see the body being carried out by the orderlies on a stretcher. It was a bit unnerving, to say the least.

"Now that I think about it, she had been quiet all last night. So, I guess that must had been when she passed.

"19/05/xx--

"Today I got to finally meet Dr. Abel, my supposed 'savior'. If there is such a thing as madmen in the world, he's certainly one of them. He wouldn't say anything to me, aside from his mumbling about his genius in whatever he had done to me and running a few tests, mostly just a physical and a few blood and urine samples. Sadly, I didn't mind. I was just glad to get the hell out of my room today.

"What gets me is that...I know Abel from somewhere. I've seen him before, but of course, I can't remember where or when. I keep telling myself that it must be from when I was recovering from my surgery, but something's wrong. I must had known him before then.

"No, I'm sure I knew him before then. And I'm sure I didn't trust him then either.

"When I got back today, I had a headache. I had something stuck in my head, like a song or something. I actually don't think it was a song, maybe a poem I used to like. But it gives me the creeps now. I'd write it down if I could remember it though, maybe later on if it comes back to me. But, it reminded me of the Book of Revelations in the Bible. Speaking of which, I made Ms. Lynn take that book back after I finished yesterday. I may not remember much about myself, but I do know that I never believed in God."

Dr. Thomas Abel, a name that Heihachi thought he would never have to hear again. Abel used to be a researcher at Mishima, and had worked along side with several other world renowned scientists, most notably Dr. Viktor Bostonovitch. Most of the work Abel and Bostonovitch worked on together were on life preservation and tissue regeneration, funded quite supportively by Heihachi, mostly as a last gesture to his late wife and out of sympathy towards Bostonovitch, whose daugther was slowly degenerating from the same illness that had taken the life of Heihachi's wife.

However, a falling out happened between the two researchers. Abel had found a possible way to restore tissue, however it used organs from long deceased humans, and brought in the possibility of complete reanimation of the dead, though Abel claimed there was no possible way to do such with the tools and knowledge they had now. Yet, the minute possibility was enough to test both Heihachi and Bostonovitch's morals of both playing God and use of human subjects.

"I can give you what you want!" Abel cried angrily as he stormed into Heihachi's office nearly thirty years ago. "And you...you take me off of this project, my project?! What is this?!" He glared over his glasses over at the younger man that sat placidly behind his desk; Heihachi folded his hands quietly, keeping steady eye contact with the infuriated man before him.

Abel was silent as he recomposed himself and wiped the sweat off his brow as he straightened up and fixed his blazer collar. He then cleared his throat.

"What I found could save thousands, maybe millions of lives," he added, trying his best to keep his voice calm, though still very angry.

Heihachi shook his head, "I don't doubt the humanitarian intentions behind your work, but..."

"But what?! This is how science works! This is why technology exists! This is how logic is implicated!"

"And some knowledge, Man was not meant to obtain." Heihachi bowed his head, "I'm sorry, Thomas. I really am. It's just...I think I let wanting to redeem myself for a dead woman cloud my judgement." He looked back up, "Please, don't take this personally."

The doctor laughed cynically, "You tell me to throw away my life's work, and I'm not supposed to take it personally?" Abel turned his back to Heihachi, still laughing madly. "Fine, the project is finished. And I'm gone. I quit."

"Thomas--"

"--Good day, Mr. Mishima." With that, Abel marched out of Heihachi's office, never to be heard from again.

And certainly, from everything that had been found in Nebraska, it looked like Abel had been trying to recreate what he had done decades ago, though with little success. However, so much information was missing. So many records had disappeared, and Abel was still nowhere to be found.

And among the missing files were the records of the escaped patient and of the catatonic woman.

Heihachi glanced at his watch and sighed heavily before standing up from where he had been seated at the desk in his hotel room. This was going to be the fifth family he had requested to meet today, and he was dreading it.

Carefully, he folded the sheet of paper he had been reading and slipped it into the inside pocket of his navy blue blazer. He then gathered up the binders sitting on the desk and headed toward his door. He stopped only to grab his fedora off the back of the door with his free hand and tugged it onto his head.

Before he exited, he glanced over his shoulder over at his desk, praying that some answer would come to him, even just a tiny bit of insight to the jumble of information he had. The old man then sighed heavily, turned back to the door, and left.

*****

Steve paced back and forth, glancing up at the clock in the hallway he was waiting in with his trainer, an elderly black man named Alec Smart; they were just outside of the arena now, and the sounds of the crowds already chanting both Steve's and Lewis's name were overwhelming the young man. However, there was still half an hour before the two boxers were to make their entrances to the ring. Steve wanted to get this over with as soon as possible, though, and he felt more ill than he had waiting in the shower room.

He stopped pacing when he felt his robe thrown over his shoulders.

"Steve," Smart, began quietly, placing a hand on the boy's shoulder. "No matter how this turns out, I'm still proud of you. And so are your parents." Steve turned around to face the elderly man, his face taunt from trying to keep from breaking down. That however didn't last long, and the young man hugged his mentor, his shoulders hunching over as he finally let himself go and wept softly.

The old man was silent and patted the boy, like a father to a son, and let him cry.