Author's Note - I do not own the rights for the Tekken or Soul Calibur series. The events and characters mentioned in this fan-fiction are fictional. Any likeness to actual people, living or dead, is unintentional.
(This is the first chapter. I'm hardly considering ending it so soon. Will be back with more shortly)
Murasame Kenji stared out at the twi-lit scenery of the city of Kyoto.
It was his, he knew that of a certain. He was in control. His agents worked on the low levels: informants in the Yakuza, club owners, money launderers. He knew the system well. He knew that by controlling what the little man did and how much blood was spilt on the streets, he could move even the movers and shakers.
Like the Mishimas.
The most powerful family in Japan, controlling the most powerful corporation in the world: the Mishima Zaibatsu. Their goals were on a much larger scale, with billions more in yen, euros and dollars spent monthly than Murasame's people made in a year, and that was nothing to this giant.
But it was different for Kenji. He did not see the world as just corporations, money to be spent. He was raised up on the streets, clawing his way to the top of the societal food chain on a path of dead bodies. He knew how to control people, how to make them fearful of the unknown, and through that fear, give themselves to him.
Which was why he did not fear the Mishima Zaibatsu. His own Murasame Corporation was big enough to fend for themselves: getting thousands of dollars off of playing the "scum of the earth" paid off, and Kenji knew this to be true.
Of course, there was always competition. The Mishima Zaibatsu didn't like competition, and did what ever they could to put Kenji under their control. When "diplomacy" failed, the two groups began a corporative cold war. Neither side engaged in acts of violence - nothing to alert the "authorities" or the people about, let them think the law is in control - but they were at war nonetheless: which isn't to say Murasame's supporters didn't end up dead once in a while.
They'd just find a way to pay the Zaibatsu back for it.
But Kenji's most recent troubles didn't come from the Zaibatsu.
It was a small-time clan of eccentrics who called themselves the Manji-tou. To the common people and those on the streets who were less guilty than the money-launderers and murderers - for nobody was innocent in Kenji's line of work - these "eccentrics" were heroes, who stuck it to the "man" and kept them safe from harm.
The truth, as the upper-class corporations and powerful moguls like Murasame Kenji and Mishima Heihachi knew it to be, was that the Manji-tou were a nuisance at best. They stole money, food and medical supplies from these corporations and distributed them to the poor. It was nothing to get the police after them, just a needless flaunting of the ridiculous power these corporations held. But the real problem was what they did.
These "eccentric" thieves spread their idealistic lies among the people. They said that the corporations were playing them for fools, that the system was being used against them, that they had a choice, that they didn't have to fear them. With fear and intimidation taken out of play, things got messy.
Kenji never liked messy. Things were always best done neatly and orderly.
From a hostile take-over of a small-time corporation to the execution of a captured enemy.
Clean, neat and orderly.
Kenji's pensive gaze upon the city lights was distrupted briefly by the sound of metal upon metal.
It was not very loud, but his room was so quiet and still that he could hear it.
Something was in the room with him.
"It's you, isn't it?" he spoke aloud.
If there was someone there, they did not answer him.
"I applaud you on your foolishness." Kenji began. "A true assassin would have killed me by now and not wasted time letting himself get caught." A self-confident chuckle escaped his lips. "But you Manji-tou refuse to let the past die. You still cling to outdated principles like honor and chivalry, don't you?"
Once again, nothing.
"You know, we're not as different as you may think." Kenji said, lighting up a cigarette. "We both are idealists." He put the filtered end between his lips, inhaled quickly and released with a pleased sigh a puff of white smoke. "We hold to honor and respect."
Kenji reached for a tray at the side of his desk. His personal oiran had delivered it there a few moments ago. There was a bottle of sake upon it.
"That's what this is all about, actually. You see..." Kenji started to pour himself some of the still-warm sake. "...I hold the respect, the fear, if you will, of the people. In fear of my guns, they will support the one who tells them that he's going to make it all better...me." Kenji picked up the small cup and brought it before his eyes.
"And, as long as they support me, I tell them that everything is just right." He smiled. "It is about honor, you see. Honor your leaders." He emptied his cup.
"However, your sense of justice is...horribly misplaced." He poured himself a second cup of sake. "You see, those in charge made the laws for the people, so they know how to run themselves. They are not bound by the laws, my friend. Laws are the tools by which our rule is controlled."
The clank of metal upon metal proved that Kenji was not alone. He smiled.
"Do you have a name?" he asked his guest. "Not that it matters anyhow. Within a few minutes, my security will realize what is going on and you will be dead."
The unsheathing of a sword could be heard from directly behind Kenji's seat.
A little too close.
But he knew what his security knew. They would pay if they were late or did not arrive.
"Are you a mute?" he asked. "Did they send someone who can't speak to kill me?" A laugh erupted from Kenji's throat. He prepared to finish off his second cup of sake.
A soft, shimmering reflection of two, glowing red orbs appeared in the window out of which Kenji was looking.
"Who the hell are you?" he asked, almost gasping.
The blood-stained end of a tachi erupted out of Kenji's stomach, and then disappeared almost as soon as it had appeared.
The crash of a broken cup echoed in the deadened stillness of the room.
The hiss of a blade returning to its sheath broke the silence like a sonic boom.
A low, mechanical voice growled the answer to the dead man's question.
The door opened behind him.
It was not security that made its way inside the room.
Just a lone figure.
"Well done, Yoshimitsu." a large, boisterous voice said. "With the head of the Murasame Corporation out of the way, the Mishima Zaibatsu can now claim control over the most influential of Kyoto's business enterprises."
The figure receeded into the darkness away from the voice.
"I know you too well, Manji." the voice said. "You have no taste for politics. What is it you really want?"
"Money, isn't it? For your clan, and for the rabble you spoon-feed into helplessness day by day." The voice sounded sinister in its denouncement. But no response was heard. "Your silent treatment doesn't work on me, ninja."
A low hiss came from the figure. No noise was made, but Heihachi Mishima could tell that the figure was closer now. Those glowing red eyes were his indication.
"Tournament." Yoshimitsu hissed.
A laugh came from the head of the Mishima Zaibatsu. "You? Compete in a dishonorable fight with mugs from around the world? You wouldn't last a day in Iron Fist."
Heihachi paused a moment, thinking to himself. A new thought came into his head. He heard rumors of a young Japanese man who signed up for the Iron Fist tournament. If this ninja could engage him, it would be a sufficient test...
"On second thought," Heihachi said greedily. "You would definitely bring some color to the tournament. A fair exchange, you deliver to me Kyoto, and I give you a spot in the greatest tournament in the world."
The eyes faded for a moment, then the deep, mechanical voice spoke again.
"'Pride goeth before destruction...'"