Author's Note: Hey guys! I've started up a new multi-chap fic, hooray! Although, I've started it WAY earlier than planned, lol :\ I was actually extremely worried that someone else would take my idea before I had the chance to post it, so I've decided to do it now, and because I had a massive writing burst for it. It couldn't be ignored.
No Tomorrow is an idea that randomly sprung up in my head when my Dad sent me a text message about Japanese history. And that sentence (which I'll tell you of later, but not now) sprung this idea in my head like that –snaps fingers- Then I just started linking it up with other ideas I had floating around for a future Tekken fic, and so on and so forth. I'll try and feature every Tekken character that I can here, though I'm having some trouble fitting some chfaracters in still. This fic will be good practice for a future 'Soul Calibur' multi-chap fic of mine as well, so yeah. Any practice is good practice, hehe.
This fic will not be updated very often, though, until I have completed With Me and the Prequel to that series (the title will not be announced yet. You lot thought you could sneak it out of me, hm? Too bad, hahaha). Those two fics are my main priority. However, once they are done and completely posted, I will put all of my energy into this one. I promise. Expect an update for this fic every month or two, as opposed to every three to four days with the other fics.
Now without further ado, here is the AU-fic, No Tomorrow.
One last thing – I DON'T OWN TEKKEN. I refuse to put further disclaimers in, it ruins the pace of the fics. Enjoy!
The boat gently moves as the water dictates. They never push hard enough to topple it over, yet not soft enough so that is at a stand still. The wind is just as soft, lightly pushing the white masts, though as a whole, the ship doesn't move, for it is weighted down. Both natural forces are like a soft rocking, almost like a Mother's cradling arms, putting her baby to sleep. Almost.
He saunters on the top deck of the ship, past the few that dared to stand by his side. The young boy, not quite yet a man, longingly looks towards the land that is along side his precious vessel. It's been a fair while since he and his crew decided to dock on the shores of their homeland for such a fair period of time. Still, soon enough, they would be back to their old tricks on the open seas.
His trusty dao, gold in its design, is safely secured in his scabbard by his left hip. He trusts it as though it were a person, as if it were another member of his crew. It has saved his life limitless times, and in turn, has swallowed the souls of others. In recollection of such events, he places his right hand over the end and pats it fondly, before turning to the other men on board.
He speaks to them, though his gaze eventually drifts off to the pale pink sky behind them. Night is coming very soon, and the harsh cold will again snap at their bodies, "We've got everything we need again. Food, drink, beer, clothing, and other useful utensils. We'll leave at dawn. For now, do as you wish, but meet back here by sunrise. Understood?"
"Yes sir," They say in unison, sitting up taller.
"Dismissed," The youth growls, his gaze still transfixing on the sky. He sees the sun dipping under the horizon, and it reminds him of so many small things that he dares not allow to surface. The revelation of a man's deepest, darkest and most tender pain, and memories, would lead to his early, untimely and gruesome annihilation. Such ideas should be locked in a treasure chest, and sunk deep inside the soul, where only that man could unlock them with his precious key once again.
His comrades scatter, some dispersing back under the deck, others trekking to the land for their own personal reasons. He often wonders, yet refuses to pry. To pry into one's life is to in turn, eventually have your own peered into… and he doesn't want that. There are many things he prefers to keep to himself. Many things he repudiates to share, for different reasons each time.
It is for these reasons that he runs away, letting the sea take him to wherever it may.
Captain. He doesn't look like one, but he is. He still acts and dresses like his crew mates, and he is young.
"What is it?" He snaps, finally turning away from the sinking sun.
"What are ya gonna do tonight?" The much older man asks, his breath forever stained by alcohol.
"I don't know."
He hates the pirate slangs. That's why he never uses it.
"Yar, get off yer ship for tonight. Me an' the boys'll look after it for ya. Ya deserve the rest."
The twenty-two-year-old hesitates. It took an awful lot to get this ship at such a young age, and the idea of losing it somehow to these idiots did not seem all that appealing to him. He lightly shrugs his shoulders, turns away from his fellow pirate, hands behind his back, and nods slightly, "Alright. See you in the morning, Tak."
The man lazily waves good bye to his Captain, thereafter retreating to the cabins below, "Good bye, Hwoarang."
Hwoarang's eyebrows furrow. He does not like it when they call him by his name. He prefers it when they address him as his nickname – The Blood Talon. Even 'Captain' is fine. But not his name. Anything but his name. One of the very few things he's held onto from his past life on the land – something he hopes to one day forget.
Shaking his head in the hopes of rattling those thoughts away, he shrugs it off and leaves his ship, wondering where this evening will take him. He assumes he will find himself in the arms of a nameless woman, satisfying whatever primal urges may or may not rise within him tonight. Or maybe he will be at another bar, slamming down mug after mug after mug in a different sea of people.
His brown boots lightly touch the ground, never leaving a solid footprint of where he had once been. As he walks, he looks around the coastal town, walking freely among the people as though he is one of them too. It's unusual how one moment, you are like an ordinary citizen, and yet in another instant you gladly take from these people as much as you gave them originally.
He spots two of his crew mates heading into the pub, laughing as though there would be no tomorrow. They do not notice him in the sea of people, and for that simple fact, he is thankful. He does not want to be around them tonight, because for the next however long, he will be with them all the time. He needs a break, and he needs it now.
The youth continues walking down the barely defined pathways, his time withering away slowly like a dying rose. His amber eyes are solely focused on the ground, watching how with every swaggering step, the tattered bottom of his dark blue pants sway along as well. Sometimes he wished he knew how to sew. There were quite a few times where he had tripped over because of the pants in question.
As he made a mental note to steal new pants on his next endeavour, Hwoarang jumps in slight surprise as he feels the first few droplets of cold rain caress his bare arms. Damn this sleeveless dark red shirt. He stops walking and looks up. When did those clouds get there? They assembled quite quickly… It was a blend of grey and black, like a painting dabbed together that sent a lot of the individuals around him going for shelter.
It's just rain. It's not going to kill anyone.
Brushing a few stray strands of his red hair away from his eyes, he continues on his way, pointlessly wandering with no intent to go or do anything as of yet. With the few derivative glances that were cast his way because of his beloved dao, or at the black tattoo of a Korean dragon encircling his left upper arm, he was pretty sure that wherever he ends up tonight (that was not his ship), he would be cast away. He doesn't care anyway.
It's when he hears screams does the Korean become confused. His eyebrows furrow dangerously as he hears more of it. Men, women and children – their screams are a united melody, strung of the highest notes as well as the lowest, and everything in between. They seem far off, but the crescendo in volume indicates to him that the reason for the village's retreat is not because of the rain.
A man's voice booms over the noise that the commotion is summoning, followed by the roars of more men, and the thunderous sound of hooves. Slashing noises soon join, as well as gurgled cries, and numerous and various thuds. Combined, these noises only pointed to one thing, and its very concept makes the young man bite his lip, push his dark blue bandana up a little, adjust his brown gloves and unsheathe his golden dao.
The town of Busan is under attack.
There comes a time in everyone's life where that inflaming sense of patriotism invades the body, like a disease. The need to protect your people, the desire to keep them alive, is a strong emotion, and is a difficult one to ignore in instances such as this. It occurs in everyone – even those who terrorise the land in their own special ways.
Hwoarang tightens his grip on his dao and runs toward the source of the problem, weaving through the stream of terrified villagers. He sees some men run before him and along side him, with the aim of protecting the people they cared about. As for he himself, he does not really know. He just has this gut feeling that it was not a fellow Korean town waging war. He is so sure. So, so sure…
He finds himself stopping in the middle of the two-way stream, turning to look to his right.
"What are you doing?!" A woman cries, tugging on the arm of a nearby man. Her other arm is holding a young child, who is screaming in fear, "Don't go, come with us! Run away with us! They will certainly kill you! What will I do then?! They are so much stronger than us!"
"There's no where to run," The man answers sadly, "We're trapped. If I don't go and at least try, then we will all be doomed."
A final kiss on the forehead of the child, and the man is gone. The child's screams increase in volume, as do the woman's sobs. She reaches out her free hand, her thin fingers clawing at nothing, as though to try and summon him back to her side. Her voice is an incoherent mess, "Please! Please stay here! Please come back! Don't do this to me! Don't do this to us! Come back!"
The twenty-two-year-old's face remains blank as he continues running onward, still trying to find the enemy. The sounds of battle draw closer and closer, as he leaves the coastal area further and further behind. Soon enough, he sees the entrance to Busan, and in anger, narrows his eyes into tiny slits. His suspicions are confirmed.
"Spare no man!" A leader growls, pointing his katana at the masses of people before him.
Fresh wounds are drawn in Hwoarang's memories, like the slices that were occurring to his fellow Koreans. With a small smile, he closes his eyes and lifts his dao, lightly pressing its flat side to his forehead, as though honouring the memory he relived for a few seconds earlier. The moment passes, and he charges, eyes open, yelling in fury at the foreign invaders, his weapon poised high in the air proudly.
He dodges a foot soldier's vertical slice, and successfully counters with a horizontal one. The razor-sharp edge of the dao slices through the light armour and the clothing, drawing blood immediately. The soldier staggers back and growls, one hand over the wound, the other raising his short sword in the air. The twenty-two-year-old sees the opportunity to strike again, and he does so, drawing another wound at his throat. This time, it is fatal, and the man collapses to the ground in a motionless heap.
There is a spine-tingling feeling as he spins around and ducks under another slice. Now facing his foe, the Blood Talon thrusts his dao into the chest of the soldier, piercing his heart instantly. He wonders for a moment why these soldiers are so under armoured. These are nothing of the Japanese soldiers that he had heard about from various towns, let alone the one he –
He hurriedly places his foot on the corpse and pushes it off the sword. Perfectly aimed arrows soar over his head, gliding through the air as though there is no restriction. He bites his lip, sensing another soldier or two coming up behind him, C'mon, get outta there! Why'd you have to get stuck?!
The youth pulls the dao free of the man's ribcage just in time, and stumbles back, coincidentally missing the strikes that were coming his way. With a sweeping kick, he knocks both men over, sending their own weapons flying to unreachable places. Hwoarang smirks sardonically, ending their lives as quickly as he can before he is snuck up upon once more.
When he looks back up, he sees his fellow men fall. Amongst those that fell to their deaths due to a well placed horizontal katana slice was the man he had seen earlier, bidding good bye to his wife and child. And now, the woman had no one to protect her or the bundle of youth she had held in her arms; and the child didn't have a Father to look up to.
The last thing causes the pirate's teeth to press closer and closer together, until he can feel them grinding over the top of one another. The black stallion speeds by, the killer of the man and those others sturdy atop his steed. The man who had brought about their deaths was a samurai. A leader (though clearly not the one who had spoken earlier) amongst these troops, one of Japan's elite soldiers.
Growling, he jumps on the horse before it gets out of his sight. The samurai is taken back, surprised, and looks out of the corner of his eyes to see the angry Korean. The horse is also furious at the intruder, crying in protest, and stops running, rearing back in an attempt to throw off he who decided to hop on for the ride.
The samurai moves to slash the youth off, only aiming to harm, not to hurt. He does not want to be the causes of more death. Hwoarang grabs the hand before it comes down, and twists it forcefully at the wrist. He sees past the helmet, seeing the man's dark brown eyes close in pain, and his mouth be pressed in a firm line. He chuckles.
The horse bucks once more, sending both riders onto the hard ground below them. The Japanese fighter groans in pain and sits up, holding his head, which he just realises is free of a helmet. The impact must have thrown it off somewhere, though he felt too dizzy to search for it as of now. He sits up, hissing in pain as the world seemingly spins around him.
Once the world stops spinning, he sees his opponent rising to his feet, albeit now a little muddy, grabbing his golden dao. He does likewise, reaching for his katana quickly, and falls into stance, both hands firmly placed on the hilt of his precious weapon. He refuses to die here today. His time is not now. No, not now.
Hwoarang too slips into his stance, his right hand firmly clasped around the dao. His left swiftly pushes his bandana back up, and brushes the few strands that dared to defy the small cloth strip out of the way of his eyes. He stands perfectly still, nothing moving, not even the silver necklace around his neck. The rain is now accompanied by thunder, dictating the chaos below its origins, making everything that much harder and that much worse.
The samurai charges first, moving forward to deliver a diagonal strike, one he hoped would clip the Korean's right shoulder. The attack misses, and he feels a sharp kick ensue to the side of his head. The clash of metal upon armour is soon heard, and he smiles slightly, glad that this ridiculous and heavy armour was bestowed upon his frame.
He sees in his foes amber eyes that brief flicker of doubt.
This was the wrong fight to choose.
He bounds forward again, careful that he does not slip on the mud below, guiding his katana in many fluid motions. Some hit the mark, others don't, but he continues on, the basic instinct of survival surging through his veins. The Japanese man dodges another kick that came his way, but is struck across the forehead with a horizontal strike. He winces and stumbles back, putting a freehand there, feeling the warm blood trickle from the gash.
He takes this break to study his opponent. He is around the same age as him, around the same height, a little smaller in build… yet just as skilled. The resolve to fight for his country burns in his eyes strongly, like an unwavering flame – one he is trying to put out unhappily. His red hair is a far cry from his own black hair, and the style is different, though not as distinguishable as his own. A standard hairstyle with an unusual colour. A standard colour with an unusual hairstyle. Very different.
Odd how he thinks about such things. It is a blessing and a curse. In this instant, a curse, for he is struck again. This time, the dao has successfully found a gap in the armour, and pierces his left shoulder. It is sticking out from between his shoulder armour and his main armour.
He scolds himself for observing when forcefully, his katana is thrown out of his hand by his Korean adversary. With an angry growl, he grabs the opponent's hand with his left one, the dao with his right hand, and pulls it from himself painfully, thereafter using all of his own force to wrench the weapon from his foe's hand. He throws it to the ground, well away from where he can reach it.
"You think that's gonna stop me?" The Korean snarls angrily.
"I would certainly hope not," He drawls.
In response to that, Hwoarang cries out and lashes in attack with a foot, hoping to strike his head once more. It is parried, and he is, in return, forcefully punched in the stomach. The attack winds him, and he stumbles back, greedily gasping for air. Without warning, he is struck again, a short flurry of punches and kicks greeting him. He tries to block them, but can only block some.
A break in the chain is found, and he delivers a low kick, tripping the samurai over. Hurriedly taking advantage of the situation, he drops to the ground and takes out his trusty dagger, pinning the fighter to the ground with all of his weight, forcefully pressing the sharp edge to the man's throat. The Blood Talon sneers, pushing his knee against the man's elbow joint, and pressing the blade harder against the tender flesh, "How's it feel to be taken down by a pirate, samurai?"
"Professions mean nothing, though I am highly impressed by your skill."
A light chuckle emits from the being above him as the grip on the dagger tightens, ready to rip the flesh, "Likewise."
"Here! He's over here!"
The samurai turns his head to the left, seeing some of his fellow men coming to get him. In an instant, the pressure is relieved off his body and away from his throat. His Korean opponent is thrown to the ground in an instant, hissing in pain. He sits up in time to see a swift strike occur to the side of his head, and a disgruntled groan ensue. He had been knocked unconscious, and the surrounding men were about to kill him.
"Don't kill him!" The Japanese youth yells.
His soldiers turn to look at him curiously, as he runs his shaky fingers through his black hair, trying to move the messy bangs aside. He is now standing on his feet and walks over towards his foe, rolling him onto his back with his foot. The boy is clearly unconscious. It would be cruel to slaughter him now, when so many lives already had been taken unnecessarily. The Korean is looking up at him peacefully, red hair and mud sticking to his face, and here he notices a silver hooped earring at the top of his ear.
"My Prince, you are injured," A nearby infantryman states in a bewildered manner.
"It is nothing…" He replies uneasily. He hates it when they mention his lineage.
They are silent as the nobleman turns away from his opponent, searching for that golden dao that he had fought so valiantly with. He sees one of his soldiers picking it up and observing it. Judging by the look on the man's face, he is tempted to thieve it and claim it as his own. The sinister smirk expanding ever larger is the dead give away.
"Give me that sword," The Prince says firmly, his hand extended out.
The infantryman jumps and bows respectively, handing him the weapon. He takes it and observes it himself. It is of fine make, and it looks old. Very old and aged. It has seen many battles indeed. With a light smile, he locates the scabbard on the Korean's hip and slides it in, before taking a step back and bowing respectfully. He turns to those around him, "You are not to kill him. We have won the battle, so there is no more need for further bloodshed amongst innocent people who are only trying to protect those they care about."
The Shogun upon his white stallion arrives, stopping the beast before it can go any further. It takes a moment for him to realise that his second in command has been injured noticeably, and begins to stammer, "P-Prince Kazama!"
"Jin," He states peacefully.
"We must get you back to camp to treat you. Your Grandfather would be appalled to see you in such a state!"
He shrugs lightly, large, innocent brown eyes staring up at the Shogun. The twenty-two-year-old stumbles over to where his katana lies, and picks it up respectfully, sheathing it too. His youthful hands rest on the hilt as he waits for further orders from the Shogun in front of him, eyes now downcast at the pools of blood mixing into the muddy ground. He sees his horse being returned to him in the reflections.
"Go into town. Set up the trading ports," He growls gruffly, watching as the Prince is unwillingly assisted onto his steed. He smirks and turns away once the youth is settled, eyes now focused amongst his fellow kinsman before him, "Busan is ours."