Author's Note: Yep, I just had to write a Tekken story. There is just a serious shortage of Hwoarang/Jin fics out there. ^_- (Btw, if you're looking for J/H fics, I would suggest checking out the excellent Noire Sensus. They have a bitchin' Tekken yaoi archive. (Not to mention their spiffy FF8 and HP archives.) They rock, go check 'em out. Feel free to leave a review at the door and have a nice day. ^_^
This story does contain yaoi/shounen ai content between the characters of Hwoarang and Jin Kazama. If you don't like it, I would suggest you back away slowly and keep your hands in plain sight. This story is rated 'R' for strong language, sexual situations, and violence. Thank you and have a nice day.
Chapter 1 - Army Brat
His name was Hwoarang.
He'd chosen it because it sounded tough and to a seven-year-old orphan who was a bit too small for his age, being tough was pretty damn important. If you were tough, maybe the big boys wouldn't beat your ass quite so regularly. It hadn't worked, but it had been a damn nice thought.
He didn't remember his real name anymore, though he was pretty sure he'd had one, and so Hwoarang it was. And Hwoarang it would be until the day he died.
A day which, the way he was going, probably wasn't all that far off.
Hwoarang sighed and put his back to the wall of the cell in which he'd been locked. Beck, the only old man he'd ever had that had been worth a damn, had always said his attitude would get him into trouble. He hated the fact that Beck had always been right about all the wrong things. How Beck would laugh it up to see him locked up in a cell for insubordination. Of course, then he'd break him out and beat the hell out of him in a match for it when they got home.
He was a soldier now. A disposable, replaceable solider. He didn't need to have a home. All he needed to do was keep his mouth shut and do his job... one of which he was much better about then the other. He could do his job, but there were just so many rules and regulations.... How the hell was he supposed to remember all of them? Damn. Maybe if they limited them to just like one or two he might be able to keep them straight enough not to be caught breaking them.
"Soldier! To attention!" A gruff voice called out from outside the cell.
Hwoarang groaned and pushed himself to his feet; he settled a hand against his hip and shot a nasty glare towards the closed door. "You gonna let me out of here now?"
"You haven't learned a damn thing, Hwoarang. I should leave you in there for another week just for that." The gruff voice returned, an edge of tiredness lacing the statement.
"Ya know it won't do any good, so why don't you just let me out and send me on a mission or something? I'll be out of your face and you'll be out of my face and we'll both be happy."
"You're lucky that you're damn good at what you do, Hwoarang."
"Yeah, yeah. Let me out of here, kay? I'm tired of talking to myself."
The door opened with a loud protesting squeal and some man Hwoarang didn't know stepped into the doorway. He was large, much larger then most of Hwoarang's superiors and about as scruffy as they came. He glared at Hwoarang in silence for a long moment, but there was something like amusement in his glance. "So you're the kid that won the Iron Fist by default?"
"Yeah, ya got a problem with that?" Hwoarang replied, stiffening slightly at the mention of the Tournament. It had been over three years since the tournament had taken place, but the last battle with Jin was still fresh in his mind. He still wore a few physical scars from that battle and more then a few mental scars from the events that had come before and after the Tournament. Beck's death and Jin's transformation were always there, waiting at the back of his mind to come up and slap him around a bit.
"Nah. Just thought you'd be taller is all." The man grinned broadly; showing off a row of pearly whites which contrasted sharply with his dark skin.
"Yeah, I get that a lot," Hwoarang muttered, folding his arms across his chest and tapping one foot impatiently. "Can I go now?"
"Right. Come on then, I'll escort you back to your barracks." The man answered, stepping back so Hwoarang could stride past him and into the hall. The man walked in front of him silently as they moved down the corridor that led back to the surface. Hwoarang couldn't help wanting to hurry him along. He'd been locked up for almost a week and all he wanted was a shower and a bed.
When they finally came in sight of the stairway that led out to the surface the man turned back to face the soldier at his heels, and Hwoarang jumped backwards, narrowly avoiding smacking right into the man's chest. If the man noticed, he made no mention of it. "There's going to be another one, you know."
"Another what?" Hwoarang responded, regarding the man suspiciously.
"Tournament. The prize is control of the Mishima Zaibatsu. Rumors have it that all three generations of the family will be competing."
Hwoarang kept his expression carefully neutral as he took in this news.
Jin Kazama would be at the tournament. It wasn't just a rumor, it was a fact. He knew that as sure as he knew that he would be there as well. To compete in the fourth tourament. Not for the prize, but to fight him again. To settle old scores and find a purpose again. War could get pretty fucking boring after awhile. The old fire stirred within him, whispering Jin's name like a siren's call. "Why are ya tellin' me that?"
The man shrugged noncommittally, but Hwoarang noticed a strange light in his eyes, almost disturbing. "Just making conversation."
"Yeah. Great. I've been down in the pit for a week, sleeping in the damn dirt surrounded by piss and shit, and you're making small talk. That's fucking fabulous."
"Watch your mouth, kid, or you're going right back in that pit."
For once, Hwoarang did as he was told. He didn't have time for another stay in the pit. The plans were already forming in his mind unbidden, as he had no doubt this man knew they would be. It was probably a set-up of some kind or other, but the thought of being able to see Jin again, fight Jin again, was too much temptation to resist. He kept his expression neutral, turned his eyes down and waited as patiently as he could for the man to lose interest.
The man harumphed, but soon turned on his heel and led Hwoarang the rest of the way back to his barracks. Once there the man gave him a last measuring look and left him to his own affairs. "Fucking about time," Hwoarang grumbled as he stomped to his truck and pulled out a clean uniform, t-shirt and boxers before practically running to the showers.
The showers were blissfully empty at this time of day. Early afternoon was when most soldiers were either training or on patrol somewhere in the compound. He probably wouldn't even see another living soul for a few hours yet. Not that that was a bad thing. He wasn't all that attached to the ass-kissing bastards in his unit.
Sighing, Hwoarang dropped his clean clothes on a nearby bench and ducked out of the sweat-stained t-shirt he was wearing, tossing it across the locker room, not really giving a damn where it landed as long as it was no where nearby. He barely stand the stench of either his clothes or himself just now. The boots were the next to go, set neatly beside the bench that held his clean clothes. Socks, pants and boxers followed the t-shirt on its journey across the room. Free from the restrictions of his clothes, Hwoarang stretched his arms high over his head and walked into the nearest shower stall.
The water was hot and strung painfully as he stepped beneath the spray. It felt sinfully good against his aching muscles, pounding against his neck and shoulders as he stood beneath the spray. He took his time in the shower, washing his too-short blood red hair. That was one thing he'd been kind of pissed about going in to the army. They'd made him cut his hair. Bastards.
No, he wasn't going to be sad leaving this place behind, Hwoarang decided rinsing shampoo from his hair and finally stepping from beneath the spray and twisting the shower off before striding out of the stall. He found a clean towel in his locker and dried off before yanking on his uniform. He'd leave now, take one of the jeeps and ditch it just before the next town. They wouldn't even miss him until dinner which wasn't for another three hours or so. He grinned, throwing the towel in the same direction as the soiled clothes that were still spread across the floor. He'd saved enough money to get himself back to Japan and then some. He'd always wanted to head back there when he managed to get away from the army, though he hadn't really had much of a reason for it besides wanting to ride his motorcycle through the city streets again.
"Damn, I miss my cycle," Hwoarang groaned, swiping a hand through his short red hair before striding back to his room to pack a bag.
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