Disclaimer: I don't own Tekken



Tekken 4: The King of Iron Fist

Written by Archangel



Chapter One: Dawn of a new tournament

Chinatown, San Francisco, California

Paul Phoenix parked his motorcycle outside the Marshal Dojo at 7:54 P.M., Eastern Time. He grinned at the foundation. The dojo would close at 8. He opened the door and entered. He headed up the stairs and opened the door a crack. A Chinese man stood in the room, shoes off, in a fighting stance. He began using various fighting techniques around the room. Paul chuckled as he watched his friend work. He hadn't seen this kind of fighting in some time.

Just then, the man tried to perform his Frogman maneuver, where he flipped back, landed on his hands, then leapt back by pushing off his hands. A difficult move. The man began his flip.

"Yo, Marshal!"

"Huh?!"

WHAM!!

"Ooohh. That looked like it hurt."

"Come help me up so I can tear your head off!

"Sorry, man." Paul removed walked in and helped up his best friend (not before taking off his shoes upon entering the room, a strict policy enforced by Marshal).

"So, what's up?"

Marshal Law wrapped a towel around his neck.

"Paul Phoenix. I haven't seen your ugly butt around here lately. What have you been doing?"

"Mm. This and that. Just stuff."

"Where's Elaine?"

The grin on Paul's face slowly slid away.

"She, uh . . .we broke up two weeks ago."

"I'm sorry."

"It's okay. She said I was too full of myself."

"She had a point, you know."

"I guess she did."

"Guess?! All you did was gloat about how good you did in the 3rd King of Iron Fist tournament! You didn't even win!"

"I got close."

"How long ago was that, anyway?"

"About two years."

"You think it's about time to shut up?"

Paul didn't answer. Marshal smiled.

"But anyway, it's good to see an old friend. C'mon downstairs."

Paul Phoenix and Marshal Law had been best friends since they couldn't remember, despite their vast differences.

Paul was a 47-year-old California city slicker. He spent most of his time riding on his bike. He was a 6' 4" muscleman. Actually, if you counted the large column of blonde hair sticking straight up, he was about 7' 2". He mixed his street-fighting skills with the ones that he learned from Marshal, giving him both strength and speed. He was the original punk. Extremely outspoken. He always flaunted his abilities, which had recently got him into a bind. Two years ago, Paul got very close to winning the 3rd King of Iron Fist Tournament, a contest for the greatest fighters in the world. Afterwards, he bragged about his victories constantly. Many of his friends had left him. Paul couldn't help himself. He loved to brag! He eventually stopped seeing Marshal, in fear of going off on him too and loosing his best friend.

Marshal Law was a 5'4" quick-action Chinese man about the same age a Paul. During the day, he owned and ran a Chinese food restaurant called "Chinese Law". During the night, he taught marshal arts at his dojo. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't perfectly train Paul. The man was just not physically capable of being as fast as he was. He was too tall and had too much muscle on him for that anyway. The two made a great team. A man who fought with brute strength, and a man who used his blinding speed.

"So where have you been?" Marshal asked as they began to close up the dojo. "I haven't seen you in months."

"Just out and about, you know."

"And you just suddenly decided to come and visit me, huh?"

"Yeah . . .sorta."

Marshal froze. "Sorta? What do you mean, 'sorta'?!"

"Huh?"

"Every time you say 'sorta', it means you've got something up your sleeve, now what is it?"

"How is your restaurant doing?"

"Don't change the subject!"

"Just answer me."

He hesitated. "Not so good. Why?"

"And the dojo?"

"Could be better."

"I think I found an answer to your problems."

"Oh, I hate it when you say that!"

"Check this out!" He unfolded a poster from his pocket and placed it on the counter, which Marshal read aloud.

" 'King of Iron Fist Tournament 4' . . .NO!!"

"C'mon!"

"NO!"

"Please?"

"NO!"

"Why not?"

"NO!"

"You didn't answer my question."

"Okay, here's your answer: BECAUSE I SAID NO!!"

"That's not a reason!"

"It's reason enough! End of subject!"

"Not yet it ain't!"

"Shut up! I don't want to hear it!"

"Well I'm saying it anyway. Marshal, your businesses are going down the drain. You-" "-need the money. I know the story! It's the same thing you told my son before the last tournament."

"At least Forest was smart enough to seize the opportunity! Where is he anyway? If you won't go, maybe he will."

"Forest is on vacation in Chicago, Illinois. Besides, I have prohibited him from entering any further tournaments of this kind."

"He's a grown man, Marshal. He can make his own decisions."

Marshal chopped a table with his hand, smashing it.

"I see your point."

"Things like this are too dangerous. I will not enter for any amount of money. How much is it this time? One million? Ten Million? Fifteen million?"

"How about the entire Mishima Zaibatsu Empire?"

"Hmf. So Heihachi is back to that again, is he?"

"It's the reason you joined the first two tournaments."

"Times have changed, Paul. I cannot join. I cannot take that risk."

"What risk? Are you worried that you're gonna get creamed by the other fighters?"

"Of course not!"

"Then what is it?"

"Heihachi."

"The guy who holds the tournaments? What about him?"

"I don't know. There's just something I don't trust about that man."

"He's suspicious to me too. So what?"

"I just don't have a good feeling about entering."

"C'mon, Marshal! What do I have to do to convince you to enter this tournament?!"

Marshal stared at Paul for a moment and rubbed his chin. A smile slowly spread across his face."

"Wh-what?"

"I'll go to the tournament with you on one condition."

"What's that?"

Marshal whispered it to him.

"OH NO!!! UH-UH!! NO WAY, BUCKO!!"

"C'mon."

"NO!"

"Please?"

"NO!"

"Why not?"

"NO!"

"You didn't answer my question!"

"Okay, here's your answer: BECAUSE I SAID NO!!"

"Okay then. I'm not going to the tournament."

"But . . .but . . .that's blackmail!"

"Hey, it's your decision."

" . . .oh, man!" Paul whined.

* * * *

State Penitentiary; New York.

Five guards walked down the long halls of angry prisoners yelling at them. Cursing their names, shouting threats. They stopped at one of the few quiet cells and each took a deep breath. One guard unlocked the door and walked inside. He hit the sleeping inmate lightly with his nightstick. "Marduk. On your feet."

The inmate didn't move. He still lay there, facing the wall.

"Marduk! I said on your feet!"

"Why?" He asked, unmoving. "Did they pass a law saying those in prison can't sleep anymore?"

"The chief wants to talk to you. Now on your feet!"

He snorted and got up off the bed and followed the guards.

Craig Marduk was a beast. He was approximately 8' 2". He had shoulders the size of Texas and muscles as big as a human's head. He had long black hair, which hung down his face, making him look evil. Little was known about his life before prison.

Craig sat down in the chief's office. Three guards stood behind him and two more stood on either side of the chief.

"Craig Marduk. We meet again."

"What do you want?"

"You remember why you're in here?"

" 'Cuz I killed some guy in a leopard mask."

"Secondary Manslaughter. Very brutal. You were sentenced for ten years. So far, you've served two."

"So why am I here? My 'two year anniversary'?" He asked sarcastically.

"You're free."

"What?!"

"Someone paid off all your dues and fines and somehow convinced the governor to let you go. You're free."

"Just like that?"

"What? You'd rather stay here?"

"Not on your life! I'm outta here!"

"Uncuff him." The chief commanded. While one guard did, the others held their hands on their guns.

"One more thing." The chief said as soon as he was released. "The guy who freed you sent you this." He handed Craig a yellow envelope. "Now get outta my sight."

A guard led Craig out of the office and opened the gate for him outside. Craig saw the fear in the man's eyes.

"RAH!!" He faked an attack and every officer around pointed their weapons at him. Craig chuckled.

"You're all way too paranoid for your own good."

Craig left the prison and took a deep breath of freedom. He walked around the city, finally sitting down on a bus stop bench, scaring everyone else away. He opened the envelope. The first thing he found was an airplane ticket.

"Tokyo, Japan? What's there?" He looked further and saw a letter about the King of Iron Fist Tournament 4. He read it carefully. The last thing I the envelope was a handwritten note.

"See you at the tournament. -Avenger."

Craig thought it over.

"A tournament where you get to beat the tar out of people and not get arrested for it. Sounds good to me!"

* * * *

Sidney, Australia

If the punching bag were a human, it would have died 500 times a day from the brutal torture it received everyday. Inhuman kicks, remarkable punches, intense skills. Of course, they were still new to him. He had unlearned his Mishima fighting style and learned a few new moves. He hated everything there was to do with the Mishima bloodline. The fighting style, the billion-dollar business, and most of all, his cursed Devil Gene. His father, Kazuya Mishima had passed on the evil trait. He kept it at bay the best he could, but some days, it nearly overwhelmed him.

Jin Kazama wasn't from Australia. He originally lived in Japan. His late father had died 22 years ago. But not before impregnating his mother, Jun Kazama. He took on her last name. When he was fifteen, a deadly monster named Ogre killed her. She told him that if anything would happen to her, that he should go to the Mishimas. Heihachi took him in and taught him his style of fighting. Four years later, Jin destroyed Ogre in the 3rd King of Iron Fist Tournament. Then Heihachi killed him, or so he thought. The demon inside Jin took over and attacked Heihachi, and then fled. Two years later, here he was. He was still a pretty impressive figure. He always kept his black hair pointed back in a single spike, with a few strands hanging down his forehead.

"Hey, mate!" a man shouted.

Jin stopped fighting and looked up at the dojo instructor.

"Those are punching bags, not destruction tagets."

"Sorry."

"No worries, mate. I'd just appreciate it if you'd ease up a bit. Havin' a bad day?"

"Sort of. More of a bad two years."

"Memories of Japan, eh,?"

He did not answer.

"Say, where on eth did ya learn to foit like that, mate?"

"Some of it I just learned here and there. But most of it, I learned from my mother."

"Ah, sounds like quite a lass. Don't remember seeing her 'round."

"She died six years ago."

"Oh, sorry, mate."

Jin shrugged.

The dojo owner walked over to the bulletin board and put up a poster. Then he stepped back and looked at it.

"Say, lad."

"Hmm?"

"Come check this out."

He walked over to the poster and read it out loud.

"King of Iron Fist 4."

"Foitin' turnament. Big one. I think you'd do real well in somethin' loik this."

Jin glared at the poster through his narrow eyes. Electricity surged through his fists. "Guess there's only one way to find out."

* * * *

"King of Iron Fist 4, eh? Hmm. It appears my absence has caused me to miss one. Well, I'll make up for it in this one. Heihachi will die and the Mishima Zaibatsu will be mine, as it rightfully should be."



Author's note: This is my first Tekken story. If you're wondering about the spelling errors put in while the dojo master is speaking, think about it. He's Australian! Anyway, more to come. What did you think? Please review!