The Re-Forging of the Blade

**Chapter Three**
Prayers over Steel

The downtown Tokyo streets were a blur to the Blood Talon’s eyes as he tore through the familiar roadway, hell-bent toward the club district he had come to know and love. Chang had luckily kept the keys and his bike. This was a well added bonus to the nights unfolding.

Leaving the duffle and guitar at his blood brother’s apartment, Hwoarang rode into the late hour scene in the district with fury. There was no way he could return to the apartment, well kempt as it had been…not when so much of Jin still remained there. He had to lose himself in drink and excess…lose himself…from himself, before he could even try.

Skidding into the parking lot, Hwoarang revved the engine loudly for show…before kicking the stand down and pocketing his keys; dismounting like a cowboy from a sturdy, metal horse. Nodding to the bouncers, the Blood Talon walked through the normal line and security check at the door…infamy was just his middle name.

Hwoarang made his way slowly to the bar at Club Oblivion, letting the scent and sights overtake him. Mist and sweat mingled beneath lasers and strobes, the heart pumping primal beat was as sweet as candy melting in his throat. Never before had the Korean seen this place, in just this way. The delicious heat of bodies grinding, sexual energy winding like tendrils from skin to skin. It was delicious over-stimulation…and hyper awareness. Was he seeing the Club through Jin’s eyes…or more appropriately, through what was left of Jin’s heightened demonic blood in his veins?

“I could learn to fucking like this,” Hwoarang purred at his dangerously enhanced vision and drew up to the bar, licking his lips of the erotic tastes that seemed to catch like a net against their whet silk. Throwing a few yen on the wood, he ordered the cheapest bottle of scotch on the menu. Two months ago, it would have been the other way around….with plenty of cash to burn.

**

Jin rubbed his palms along the shoulders of his borrowed attire. He had walked several hours in his tattered clothing before coming upon a fresh line of linens hanging in the afternoon sunlight. Amongst the family’s humble sheets and towels rested a pair of loose knit sweat pants with matching jacket, dark grey with burgundy accents on the shoulders and collar. Of the other bits of clothing that waved in the breeze, he surmised this set would be the only to fit him, loose as they appeared. How low had he become?


Taking the set from the clothing line, Jin hurried off into the woods like the thief he was. How far one would go to survive, taking from those who had little in order to clothe himself who had naught. There was no justification in Jin’s mind, he had already become so much of what he never believed he could be. Liar, thief…attempted murderer…a demon seething with hatred and revenge….a destroyer of nature….an abomination of nature….

All of these things the Japanese youth had done to survive had chiseled away at his ideals…had made him taste bile when he realized how far he had fallen from grace. Jin vowed to himself that he would pay for these garments before dealing out the death blow to Mishima Kazuya….salvage some semblance of his former design before the Demon consumed him whole.

Taking the time to change, Jin laced the boots he had been wearing for however long and tucked the tattered gi pants under the arm of his borrowed jacket. He would have to trudge into the next day, under the cover of foliage and darkness, to reach the other side of the island. With luck he could barter passage back to Japan Proper with a fishing crew in exchange for manual labor.

//And if they do not accept you and this plan, will you whore yourself to the lonely fish boys to return to the shadow of love you cling to? Why degrade yourself thus…when you can simply…fly to him…feathers spread majestic on the wind only to scoop our lover up and devour him as you desire. You make this much more difficult than it need be…//

“You will not find freedom again, Demon. Not so long as I draw breath,” Jin hissed, bracing one hand into his hair. The demon’s voice cleaved his brain, making the cavity seize with a pain so great, it was shocking The Devil was gaining strength inside of him…every day since it had been caged…it drained the Japanese youth more and more…it would only be a matter of time….

//I would be careful what it is you say, Jin. As you lose your energy…I gather it and store it…when next I taste the wind...it will be you who is erased from all memory, never to be seen again…not even in thoughts of our precious Seung.//

“Do not speak his name, beast. For whatever hold you believe you have on him…” Jin hissed, eyes clenching as the pain in his head slowly began to subside, “…you will never have…what is mine.”

**

“Steve motherfucking Fox!” came the bellow, reaching out through the pulsing beat and heat of the Club like a lion’s roar. This was the last person he thought he would see back in the Martial Arts circles after the well publicized World Boxing Championship title was signed, sealed and delivered to the British youth.

“Hwoarang?” Steve laughed, disbelievingly. He had thought to find the Blood Talon once he was in Japan but he never fathomed it would be so...easy. “Is that really you?” He drew closer to the Korean, watching Hwoarang lean up from his protected territory at the bar.

“What the hell are you doing back here? Thought you would be off working your title and shit.” Hwoarang grasped the Brit close, giving him a warm and affectionate embrace.

“What better sport than the Iron Fist could hone my skills any more, eh?” Steve laughed, releasing the embrace slowly. “God damn, you look like shit! Been drinking alone too long?”

“You’re no fucking prize yourself and you ain’t even drinking yet.” The Blood Talon snickered and offered his half wasted bottle to the Boxer. “So, you register yet or you just cruising the scene looking for a few good men?”

“That part of my life has gone the way of the dodo, I am afraid. Extinct.” Steve took a heavy draught of the cheap scotch, coughing at the burn in the back of his throat.

“I like a good challenge,” Hwoarang half cocked a grin, that devious glimmer in his haunting amber eyes.

“And that’s about all you like, eh, mate?” Steve laughed, returning the bottle to its rightful owner. “Julia and I are trying to make a go of it. Been difficult with her reforestation project and my traveling to defend the title, but we are both back for the tournament. Her plane is coming into Tokyo later tonight. Speaking of which, where’s that lovely little husband of yours?”

“Dead. Far as I can tell.” Hwoarangs smile at the little sarcastic quip faded as fast as rain clouds overtaking a hot savannah sky. Amber eyes fell to the floor for a moment as he pretended to look for something of interest near his feet. Just thinking of Jin…was painful. More alcohol required.

“Hwoarang, I am sorry.” Steve said no more, taking a look around the floor, apparently to locate the same phantom object that kept their eyes from meeting. “So, you staying at the hotel this time around?”

“No, think I’m gonna go back to the old digs, get settled now that I’ve seen Chang. Just needed to blow off some steam before registering for the Iron Fist.” The Blood Talon shut away his pain and returned a false jovial smile to his lips. “So, killer, how’s it feel to be top of your game…world champ…and all that shit?”

“Not really what I thought it would be, but can’t complain about the paycheck. Hey, have you come across Wulong recently?” Steve reclaimed the bottle from Hwoarangs grip, taking another swipe.

“Interpol Asshole?” the Korean huffed. “I sure as hell hope not to cross his path. Don’t need to do time for tanking a cop. You got some leads on your mother yet?”

“Some, yeah.” Now it was Steve’s turn to shut down, taking a second heavy pull on the rapidly depleting bottle. “Well, I have to hit the hotel and register for the room and the tourney. Thinking about hiring a car, want to split it?”

“I’ve got my bike. You need a lift?” Hwoarang said with that returned glimmer in his eyes. “I’m sober enough to drive, if you’re crazy enough to attempt it.”

“Hell, that wouldn’t be the worst adventure we’ve had, eh?” The Boxer returned that wicked glimmer and laughed heartily enough for Hwoarang to hear him over the music as he fished for the keys to his bike in an overly tight pocket.

“That’s for shit sure. Let’s roll.” Hwoarang snickered, taking the last pull of the bottle before handing the remains over to Steve. Within seconds, the draught was empty and the Brit followed the Blood Talon out into the warm night air.

**

It was all Hwoarang could do to grasp the bike up and prevent it from toppling over to the ground. A half drunken foot forgot to release the kickstand and as the Korean rose off the cycle, hands on the bars, the beast began to fall.

“Holy Shit!” he hissed, forcing the bike to right itself…taking several swipes to get the kickstand to come down. “Little fucking help here, Foxy.”

Steve laughed heartily enough to taste the reverb of the cheap scotch in his senses. “You’re fucking killing me.” He managed, leaning down on his knees on the curb, to move the kickstand with a strong, tenuous grip on the metal.

“You grab that kickstand just a little too well for a straight boy.” The Korean half cocked a grin as Steve drew back to height, flushed at the comment.

“Don’t go getting any ideas in that thick head of yours,” the Brit struggled for a comeback comment worthy of banter, his words stumbling over a bit more tipsy than he wanted them to sound.

“Flattered you remembered. But hell, it is thick and magnificent, ain’t it?” Hwoarang raised a sculpted brow before breaking out into a laugh. “Shit, you limey bastard. Let’s get registered.”

Steve, thankful for the distraction, followed a more drunken Hwoarang into the lobby of the hotel he had stayed in not long ago. The marble floors were polished enough to create a 4D effect, reflecting the elegant chandeliers and cherry wood finished structures that gave a rich, American feel to the five star Hotel.

Hwoarang nearly collapsed over the high counter as his amber eyes tried to focus on the two attendants that watched him in abject horror. “Hello Ladies. Well, look at that. Two of us and two of you. Well, my straight friend here is a taken man now…so that’s just one more for me…”

“Don’t mind him. He’s drunk.” Steve tried to contain a non intoxicated face, setting crystal blue eyes as stern and serious as possible. “I am here to register for my room as compliment of the King of Iron Fist Tournament. Name’s Steve Fox. My baggage is coming in on a later flight…”

“By that he means his girlfriend,” Hwoarang snickered and glanced over his shoulder at the nasty little look the Brit was throwing him.

“By baggage, I mean suitcases and yes, my girlfriend is coming in this evening. Julia Chang, also here for the tournament, can you arrange it so that we are rooming together…” Steve shook his head as Hwoarang leaned his chin down against crossed forearms.

“I am sorry, we must give all the tournament competitors their own rooms, orders of the Mishima Zaibatsu,” the nearest Japanese attendant nodded and smiled.

“What, you don’t fucking introduce me?” Now it was the Korean that shot the Brit a nasty glance as the verdict on the Boxer’s request was rendered an unfavorable loss. “Hwoarang. No need of the room. Well, hell, its free right. Book it and same as my friend here: I’m all about the tournament…except I’m gonna win it. Ain’t that right, Foxy?” The Blood Talon blinked a few times as the other attendant handed both men two signature forms…one for the room, the other for the Tournament.

“Whatever you say.” Steve shook his head and handed over his signed papers in exchange for a slim, clear plastic key card, encouraging Hwoarang to do the same.

“I don’t have any baggage. You see...my boyfriend is dead…” The Korean stood up, despite the surprised look on the attendants faces, letting his attempt at humor cloak his inner pain. He grasped the clear plastic keycard after two attempts, sliding it into his back pocket.

“Come on, Hwoarang. Time to get you some rest. I will come back down and move his bike…” Steve said, bracing the Blood Talon on the spine.

“Like fucking hell you will. My bike is like my bitch…hands off.” Hwoarang protested, even as Steve led him away from the scene he was causing and over to the elevators.

**

“I am Lee Chaolan. I am here with the Zaibatsu…and I have seen what a terrible scene the young Korean male has just made. The King of Iron Fist Tournament will not tolerate disrespect from its fighters,” the Silver Devil feigned annoyance.

“I will speak with him at once but I will require the roster sheet to confirm the signature to the face.” Lee smiled that deliciously charming smile. His name, like his reputation, was a well known staple of culture and eccentricity in the Japanese Social Elite Circles. For any who knew him, they knew at once of his standing with the Zaibatsu…and little else of his fall out with the conglomerate. There was virtually no chance of discovery with such former accreditation…and such obvious covert lying skills.

“Of course, Dono Chaolan,” the female attendant flushed, overcome with the Silver Devil’s charm, her quivering fingers lingering on the papers that were still freshly inked. “As you request…”

“What is someone as lovely as you doing working here? Please…accept my card…” Lee reached into the pocket of his tailored leather aviator jacket, withdrawing a slim silver casing. Once opened, he produced a thin watermarked business card, “My secretary will refer you to our Human Resources Department.”

As Lee withdrew his fingers from the card, he drew up the papers the attendant had been shakily offering. Scanning over them briefly, he noted the two signatures. Steve Fox, the World Boxing Champion…room 532...Hwoarang room 524. Returning the papers to the obviously fascinated female, Lee flashed his brilliant smile once more. “Please take me up on my offer…and thank you, from the Zaibatsu, of course.”

Chaolan slowly made his way to the elevator, wondering of the Boxer…who had made mention of a girlfriend, Julia Chang…adopted daughter of Michelle Chang…. Ahh, such memories. Now, Lee considered if Steve would be staying with Hwoarang till his friend was obviously more sober…or if he would find the Blood Talon alone…and vulnerable.

**

“Here, let me see it,” Steve laughed, taking the card from Hwoarangs unable fingers. With a single swipe, the door gave a slow metallic click, indicating the lock undone. “Now, follow me.”

“Who died and made you Squad leader?” the Blood Talon quipped, pushing the door open and stepping in before Steve.

“Look, I am going to check out my room and phone Julia before she boards the plane. I need an exact time to meet her at the airport. Will you be alright for a few minutes?” Steve lingered in the doorway as Hwoarang drew himself onto the bed.

“Fucking right as rain. Don’t worry about me,” Hwoarang waved the Brit off.

“Alright, be back in about 20 minutes. Sober it up a bit, a‘right?” Steve laughed and exited the room, closing the door behind him.

It could not have been more than a few moments later that the knock roused Hwoarang from a half dazed power nap. “Fuck...you’re back fast,” he yelled out, drawing onto the plush carpet that muffled the metallic sound of his spurs. “Damn, miss me that much, Foxy?” the Korean snickered as he parted the portal.

“Hwoarang,” came the elegant voice of the suave, silver haired man standing before the Blood Talon.

“Who the fuck are you?” Amber eyes looked over the older man with a sneer. “If you’re selling something, head a few doors down. Room 532.” The Blood Talon began to close the door in the face of the distinguished looking patron…when a boot caught itself between the wall and the portal.

“I am not here to sell you something, Hwoarang. I have come for a social visit.” Lee said in a smooth, almost seductive voice. So, this was the infamous Korean that ensnared a tender and impressionable Jin Kazama. It was little wonder. For as rough as Hwoarang appeared, there was a certain mixture of arrogance and danger that undoubtedly drew Jin into willing worship, on hands and knees. Delicious.

“Well, I don’t do social visits, pretty boy. Get your foot out of my door before I break it off.” Hwoarang hissed, looking over the silver haired man as though seeking a weak link in a chain.

“And what if I told you…this social visit concerns Jin Kazama.” Chaolan smiled like a diamond catching the light. “Of course, if you wish for me to fail in my mission to bring you this gift…that will ease you of his passing…then by all means, I take my leave of you.”

Chaolan turned, pretending to lose interest in the game; in truth, nothing could have been further from his mind. Hwoarang opened the door wider and looked out into the corridor, his vision still blurry…though not nearly as swimmy as before. “What gift are you talking about?”

“May I come in?” Lee said, without turning around to face Hwoarang.

“What’s the gift?” he repeated, pursing his lips like the arrogant bitch he was.

Oh, could Lee nearly taste the Blood Talon’s breaking. What a perfectly passionate Korean specimen the youth was…how like Chaolan himself was once, long long ago. “I will need privacy to unveil it to you.”

“You’re not some high paid hooker are you?” Hwoarang snickered, leaving the door open as he walked inside. Lee was quick to follow, shutting the portal behind them.

“I have been called nothing of the sort,” Lee countered, squaring off his shoulders as he fell into a lissome, fluid stance, eye to eye with Hwoarang. The Korean beauty was a treasure to behold. Paler than he would have imagined, though the brilliant copper of obviously dyed tendrils was slowly growing dull. The youth was built well, toned and muscular from training, yet still retaining an almost lithe appearance to belay his undoubtedly superior skill as a Martial Artist and soldier. Hwoarang’s facial features were angular, chiseled, with sculpted ebony brows that were natural in their flow…lips the color of dew kissed carnations…smooth and welcoming.

But it was the eyes that caught Chaolan more than any other feature. Eyes that ranged in intensity from amber to darker sienna…ringed, it appeared, with a coppery almost liquid fire around the irises. Kazuya had been right; this youth was infected with Jin…being eaten alive by the lack of the demon’s blood…the scent Lee knew better than any other...the devil’s mark, strong enough to taste.

Hwoarang’s right lower forearm was bandaged, Lee noted. He could almost imagine the Blood Talon tearing into his own skin to drink like a starving vampire...only to find no sustenance he craved remained.

“What the fuck are you checking out…you looking for a good time, old man?” Hwoarang slid his hands into his pockets as he watched the Silver Devil appraising him…like a rare coin…or a contestant.

“Forgive me, Hwoarang. I was merely making sure you were ready to receive this,” Lee said with a slow smile, the tip of his tongue licking against the edge of his lower lip.

“Sounds like a fucking line if I ever heard one. That shit don’t work on me, gramps…so lets not waste any more of my precious time. Get the fuck out,” the Blood Talon hissed, his patience stretched thin. How could he allow himself to believe this old man had something for him…from Jin?

“Then you do not desire his blood?” Lee nearly purred, watching Hwoarangs face blanch a shade paler than he already was.

“Why the fuck would I want his blood? Just leave whatever little gift you have for me and see yourself to the door,” the Korean tried to counter against his countryman with a brazen lie. By the slant of his eyes he could see Chaolan…was wearing the mark of shared nationality…either way, he was not falling for the bait.

The Silver Devil stepped in closer to Hwoarang, reaching the tip of his manicured nail against the Blood Talons cheek. With a voice so delicate, so velvet, Lee let his breath caress his captive’s starving lips, “Because you crave it, Hwoarang. Your lover infected you with his…secret…and after supping from the most delicious wine…you’re starving to death…physically and spiritually, without it. The sweet taste is a pleasure unlike any other…and no pleasure is found now, without it.”

The Blood Talon blinked rapidly as the slow, tantalizing words lingered over him like flint over stone…ready to kindle a fire. “I...don’t know what you are talking about.”

“Of course you don’t. Why would you admit to the painfully beautiful act of tearing Jin’s flesh apart with your teeth just to bathe your tongue in his blood? How sick you must feel…for the act itself…and yet, how sick you have become without it. How like a junkie…needing a fix,” Lee continued, watching Hwoarangs amber eyes burn into him like fire.

“Leave it here and get out,” the Blood Talon hissed. Whether it was the talk of blood…or the talk of his long nights with Jin…his body was responding with phantom memory…and very real longing.

“I will deliver this to you, as I have promised.” Lee reached into his leather aviator jacket, withdrawing a single, dark liquid vial, holding it out for Hwoarang to grasp. “But I warn you…”

Hwoarang took the ampoule, clutching it in his fist as the scent of blood took hold of his senses. All questions of the silver haired man, his motives and his sources, fled the Blood Talon’s junkie mind as he held, at last, that which he craved... “What…are you warning me of…” he nearly moaned, the tip of his tongue rewetting dry lips.

“The first taste is free, Hwoarang…after this gift...it will cost you…whatever price I chose to name,” Lee purred, so close to brushing his lips against the Blood Talons dry, aching mouth. How sadistically delightful this passionate creature must look in leather and irons, pleading and shaking…

Hwoarang stood, transfixed, the vial held fast in his fist, even as the Silver Devil slowly backed away. Reaching once more into his pocket, Chaolan withdrew a thin, etched silver case, producing an elegant water marked business card. In a swift motion, the velum silver embossing flashed along deft digits…reaching out from between Lee’s first and middle finger. “I will leave you this…and let’s see what you do with it.”

With the pawns on the chess board moved, the Chaolan walked to the door, parting the portal once more…giving a side look over his well toned and leather clad shoulder. A cool, almost cruel smile formed over Chaolan’s elegant features as the Silver Devil walked out of the hotel room…closing the door behind him.