The First Crack in the Metal

**Chapter Seven**
…and (the metal) takes on a life of its own

Jin was running down the pathways in the mountains of Yakushima…

The sky was dark and flickering flames had drawn his eyes, well past the fields he had played in as a boy…where his mother had been, harvesting fresh vegetables for the evening dinner. It had been sometime since her departure, growing darker and Jun had not yet returned.

The teenager had lifted his eyes from the textbook he had been footnoting, still working on the assignment his mother had gave him during home schooling, making his English writing skills nearly as strong as his native Japanese language. He was growing hungry and slowly worried as darkness descended. It was not like Kazama Jun to be so long. He stepped outside and the dark night was littered with orange hue. A horrible feeling shifted inside of Jins gut.

…and next he knew, he was running.

The path was perilous in the dark, as much as Jin knew the landscape. The closer he grew to the fields below, the more sound reached him, the sound of his mother, heavy in spirit shouts to raise her Chi.

Flames licked up from all around Jun, a sickly green creature with the stature of a powerful man, far taller than a human could be…was descending and repelled by her BuJitsu Ryu. The creatures long ponytail, orange, and the bronze armor that adorned his body was coming at her with a nonstop onslaught that was inhuman in endurance.

“Mother!” Jin shouted, fear rising in her eyes.

Jun whirled around with a back slide around the creature. “Turn back! Run from this place!”

Jin felt the intense sensation of powerless fear. His legs planted firmly in the ground. The creature was not fooled by the back sliding movement, even as Jun whirled into a cartwheel, using her legs to push the creature away. Black hair floating across her features, she could see the outline of Jin. “Run from here, Jin-Kun! Run now…”

The teenager was slack jawed with fear and fighting it back, ran down to the wall of flame that encircled the combatants like a sanctified ring. His arm came before his eyes and the creature turned at his approach, tasting the air for the Japanese youths Chi. Not strong enough to absorb, not yet.

A powerful flame shot out of the creature and knocked Jin back like a force blast, sprawling him out onto the ground, some distance away.

“Aijii! Run, please!” Jun fought like a lioness protecting her cub. The creature used the distraction to his advantage. Even as Jin rose, Jun fell to her knees, her arm hanging limply, blood glistening beneath the fire light.

“Mother!” Jin tried to move but something far more powerful than his strengthening body, kept him in place. It was like her arms were around him, holding him in place, keeping him from harm.

The creature grasped Jun by the throat and opened its mouth. Her eyes met his, streaming with tears. And Toshin, the God of Fighting…ended the warm light of Kazama Juns spirit…

**

Jin awoke with a startle, his body wracking with tears that broke through the nightmare. It felt so real, to be there again, on the field in Yakushima, the field he had buried his mother within when the God of Fighting left her broken body. Toshin, as he had come to be known, was not interested in the teenager, he had come for and claimed the prize he sought in Jun Kazama. The life energy, Chi, to fuel him.

Jin rose to his knees, wiping his eyes with his filthy hands. He had been too young, too powerless to save her…and she had died to protect him. Now, Yakushima was where he wanted to be, to rest beside the earth her body lay within, to return to the flames of the home he had burned down before he left for Tokyo….to leave no evidence behind for the creature to disturb her body.

Pain wracked Jins form and the cool wind slid against the sticky flesh of his naked back. He fell to all fours, trying to grasp his baring, to slake the nightmare from him, only to awake to a new one.

Devil. Devil had come to life, forcing the Japanese youth to transform. Jin could feel the aching soreness of his shoulders, the muscles used there for more than martial arts, but to propel the power of flight.

Green grass beneath his fingers, Jin realized he was in the park at the center of downtown Tokyo. A hallowed ground in its own right, another place he had run from like the field of Yakushima. Everywhere Jin seemed to go, he met pieces of himself there.

**

Hwoarang could not find sleep, his overtired mind working against him. Steve slept on the couch, where Ling had been last night, respectful and distanced from the Blood Talon but only at Hwoarangs request.

The feather was kept in Hwoarangs hand, the morning breaking around him like waves over ancient rocks. He could not tear his mind from Jin, from the agony and anguish pressed in his lovers eyes….the pain that slaked beneath the surface of the Japanese youths flesh.

The Blood Talon had rebuffed him, self absorbed in his own anger, at the rejection he suffered from Jins hand. Kazama was right, he intended to engage in elicit acts with his former lover Steve, just to free himself of the torment, the connection he felt to Kazama.

Why the feather? Hwoarang knew well enough it had not be there before, had been nothing Jin or Steve tracked in beneath a worn sole of a shoe. There was something to it and the Blood Talon felt it intrinsically, as assuredly as he felt sick whenever that dark mood stung into Jin and emanated outward. It was as though the Korean could feel it, with the taste of blood that was not his own, lingering against his lips.

That taste of blood was another source of wonder. At first sensation, it was Jins blood, tasted like the essence Hwoarang had supped from two years ago on a torn bit of flesh his teeth had bit too deeply into…a source at Jins lips from the first night of their lovemaking. He knew without doubt it was Jins blood…but what was the connection.

The Korean closed his eyes sharply, turning on his side of the bed to watch the vacant space Jin would be resting in, panting after such a long, torturous session of lust. The bed was empty and although he had a willing participant to take up the place, it was not Jin. No one would ever be Jin.

**

It was like a beacon. The feeling of the Devil called to him like a large blip on military radar. Half of himself, half of his blood and tainted spirit. Kazama Jin, his son.

Kazuya Mishima walked the streets of downtown Tokyo, so much transformed from his days hiding from Heihachi, running with the Yakuza, wild with freedom and possibility. Beneath Armani sunglasses, used to shield his eyes from caustic sunlight, the former dead man was searching for signs, reading the air like a beast in the wild, looking for his cub.

It was a dangerous maneuver, coming into Tokyo, unguarded. The King of Iron Fist Tournament would begin tomorrow with the kick off celebration, a custom that ran since the beginning of the blood sport. That very first King of Iron Fist Kazuya himself had risen up from the shadows to claim the title in. 20 years went by in a flash. 20 years of learning to control the devil within his spirit to the best of his abilities, of finding those he once knew, dead. If he could find his son, he could unite the Devil, free Jin of the power he undoubtedly did not understand, rise up and reclaim his rightful place as Heir to the Mishima Zaibatsu. Kazuya did not withstand death and reanimation, of laboratory tests like a rat at the G Corporation, owned by his step brother Lee Chaolan, to fail at his mission now.

The scent was strong downtown. Kazuya stopped to drink in the essence, the very sensation of Jin and the devil in his soul, near to this place. He had passed this area not long ago and Kazuyas eyes lingered on the park across the way.

A part of the ageing Mishima wondered what Jin looked like. He had heard rumor of his son, of the incredible power and strength he attributed half to the devil, half to the passing on of his own skill and spirit. He wondered silently if Jin looked like his mother, possessed her warm nature, showed signs of her empathy and understanding.

Jun. That name stung like a cut on the inside of his mouth. He had loved her, as had the devil within himself. The operative of the WWWC was the last name on his lips when he met his death at the hands of Heihachi, for nearly a second time around, thoughts lingering on the unborn child she carried in her womb. To hear his son now held a name, held a lineage and even shared a sense of his misery made Kazuya all the more wanton to find the errant scion.

Jin wasn’t making this easy. But, given time and a chance, Kazuya would find him.

/How sentimental we have grown in age, Kazuya./ the Devil hissed inside his mind, making his left eye glow red beneath those expensive sun glasses.

Kazuya ignored the voice.

/You linger on the days of yore, on the love you bore for that woman. Your son is my son, half of me…you seek to free him and yet, I seek to regain what I lost in that bastard child. Freeing Jin, frees yourself. Time marches on, Kazuya./

“Enough.” Kazuya hissed, stopping on a street corner, watching a mid afternoon hustle of Koreans near an alley not far away. Some things never change, though in the height of his day, it was held underground, not so blatantly out in the streets, daring to be captured.

/left. The scent is stronger, left./ Devil reminded as Kazuya closed his eyes, following the Demons trail. He wanted to find Jin before Heihachi did.

**
Heihachi prepared his speech for the King of Iron Fist kick off celebration. A well catered dinner meant to draw all fighters together from various ranks. Most had already arrived on the weekend, the hotel he had procured for those partaking in the Tournament kept him constantly updated when another arrived. But of those faces, there were yet two who had not made themselves known.

“But they will.” Heihachi answered himself, glancing over to the tournament schedule. Jin was alive and in hiding. Undoubtedly the publicity for the tournament would draw him out, rife to catch up with an old vendetta.

And then there was Kazuya. After an confirmed sighting of the prodical son with his own two eyes in the United States, there was little doubt he would come. His hate was as deep as his pride and the scores, far older to settle then Jins.

Two demons. One very well orchestrated fly trap. The Devil Gene would be in his grasp…garnered from one or the other. And, perhaps, if all plans went just right, Kazuya and his son would take care of that messy business for him, set on a path of destruction where only one would be left standing. Afterall, there was only enough room for one devil…

**

Hwoarang bolted when he heard the door creak, shooting upward and looking around the room, thinking himself to be in another time, another place. “Ow, fuck.” He cursed, his hand going to his splitting head. He did not recall falling asleep and now, the hang over caught up with him.

“Fuck, Steve, don’t do that shit.” The Korean growled, one amber eye on the approaching Brit, holding a cup in his hand.

“Didn’t mean to startle you. Its already after noon, thought you might be awake.” Steve said with a knowing smile. “Brought you some tea, to kill the hang over I was sure you had.”

“How fucking much did I drink last night?” He groaned as Steve drew toward the bed, holding steaming Green Tea. Ling had bought the packets from the store the day before.

“About half a bottle of that Irish Whiskey.” Steve sat down on the edge of the bed, handing over the cup to the Blood Talon.

“God damn, my head kills.” He tried to swallow, but even that minor flexation of his throat made him want to throw up.

“That is what the tea is for. Drink up and get yourself rehydrated.” Steve shook his head. “You could try a little of the hair of the dog that bit you. I hear it does wonders for the morning after.”

“I don’t even want to look at Whiskey, well, at least not until it gets dark.” Hwoarang chided, drawing the steaming tea to his lips, taking a heavy sip and disregarding the burning sensation. His palate had handled hotter.

“So, do you want to talk about your friend Jin last night. You seemed pretty distraught by the time I got back here.” Steve asked, knowing something was or had been between the two. Mere friends don’t have as much demand on someone’s energy like an intimate.

“I really don’t want to talk about him. Fuck, I just want to forget he was ever born.” Hwoarang finished the tea and leaned back on the bed. He didn’t mean it, not really.

“Something I am sure I can assist in remedying. Might also help with the hangover.” Steve said, licking his lips slightly before pulling the cover that hugged Hwoarangs body back with a short, easy motion.

The Brit lowered himself down to the Koreans naked form. He never knew Hwoarang to sleep in any other way then completely naked and that assumption paid itself off, nicely. With a falsely innocent smile, his mouth descended.

“A little head will do wonders for any condition.” Hwoarang said with a sudden moan, fingers grasping those blonde tendrils as a hiss left his lips, the other hand still clutching the black feather. “Fuck, I am feeling better already.”

**

Jin sat on the edge of the bed, his hands cradled in freshly washed hair. His body still burned, though it was his mind that ached him most of all. Everything in his world was spiraling out of control, making him feel helpless and weak. The Japanese youth was starting to wonder why he come back to Japan in the first place. Was this anguish truly worth it.

Yes, above all, it was. If there was nothing but the satisfaction of assuring Mishima Heihachi drew no more breath, never hurt another living being, then it would all be worth it.

The knock that came to his door startled him. He had the room for a month, prepaid with what money he had brought with him and more available for withdrawal if necessary under his assumed name. None knew his whereabouts, he had been careful and discreet to be sure he was not followed, not even by the obviously resourceful Ling Xiaoyu. Perhaps, by some stroke of underground street whispers, it was Hwoarang?

That false hope dashed away, Jin did not answer the knock, hoping it was someone with the wrong door, looking for the wrong party. After a moment, it came again and Jin felt a sudden pull to part the portal…heed a call he could not understand.

The Japanese youth rose and drawing a breath, unlatched the metal and drew open the entranceway. His every bit of energy was stolen the moment he met the face that greeted him. A face, like his own.

“Kazama, Jin.” came the voice and the Japanese youth stepped back, as though seeing a ghost. When the underside of his knees hit the previously torn bed, he fell into a seated position, eyes transfixed on the man who entered.

“Y..yes..” Jin managed, watching the well dressed, older man approach. He was clad in a designer suit, deep purple. Black tendrils upswept in the same style Jin had fashioned his own. There was an aura about this man that the Japanese youth had been trying to claim all of his life, a link shared in blood that only his spirit understood.

“I am Mishima Kazuya. I am your father.” He said simply and yet elegantly powerful.

“My..father is dead.” He said, though he knew the words to be truth the moment they were spoken. This was Kazuya, the picture he kept with him always told him that the moment he saw the man…the image frozen from 22 years ago that his mother often kept near to her, spoke to as though he was still alive. All of his life, Jin wanted to know this man…all of his life, he followed in footsteps so much larger than his own…footsteps that were braced with still, calm grace, before him.

“Your father was dead, Jin. But death, it seems, is yet another thing that can be considered, temporary.” Kazuya said, studying his cubs features, seeing the resemblance to himself in younger glory. He had Juns eyes, her facial structure at the lips and high cheeks, but every other feature, from broad shoulders and obviously well cared for physique to the definitions of framing brows and upswept mane of black hair…belonged only to him.

/Yes, I feel the spirit within him, the energy…strong and vital, youthful. The sweet impetuosity of youth, how it torments him so perfectly. There is restlessness there, a need for freedom. And there is so much more. Ahh, Kazuya, if only you could see what I see. Your grand designs for your son are not as they appear to be and it is not all the fault of the Kazama blood he possesses, no, there are darker taints here than even you can imagine…/ The Devil cooed, so familiar into Kazuyas voice. What did the demon know?

“How…can it be.” Jins lip quivered, unable to take his eyes from Kazuya. The very embodiment of every hope and dream, every silent prayer in the night, the strong hold of his own honor…was in this mans name. To make this man proud. A father he believed he would never know, a son he thought could never truly be.

Kazuya turned and drew over a chair, kept at a small table just before the covered window. “That is a very long tale to tell you, my son. But one worthy of your listening.” He removed his jacket, laying it with careful motion over the arm of the chair before drawing his slacks up slightly at the hips and coming to a seat, across from his disbelieving, shivering scion.