TEKKEN 8

Chapter XIX: Red Gentleman

Not until you are filled with hope. Then I will kill you like you are nothing.

The words the man had once said to Jin Kazama himself echoed in his mind as his fingers swept over the strings of his guitar, strumming the instrument involuntarily as his train of thought was in a different dimension. "Can the devil hope?"

Miguel Caballero Rojo was perched on a wooden crate on the roof of a random building, shade included in a makeshift area of solitude for the time being. Mediation was one of his methods for bearing with the ruckus that accompanies the countless brawls he was involved in during the past week. Bad blood between him and his opponents in the neighborhood, the curly-haired man distanced himself; his guitar, his apple, and his brooding as his only companions.

"Maybe." His arm fell, hanging limply over the sound hole of his acoustic instrument. Sighing, he soaked up the calming ambience, tracking the movements of the locals going about their day in the same plain fashion as if they were robots trapped in a mode.

How's that pendejo Hwoarang doing? I haven't heard much from him since I handed him that invitation.

Taking a bite of his red apple, he jerked his head to his left, aware of the spasmodic pants that were not his own. Someone was climbing the ladder leading to the roof, and it could not have been a friend of the Spaniard's--no other soul knew of this place. Assuming the intruder was another barbarian who wanted a piece of him, Miguel menacingly approached the individual, snatching him up by the throat when he reached the top of the ladder.

"Who are you?" Slamming the stranger's body on the concrete, he pounced on the poor man, fist poised to beat him black and blue without hesitation. The intruder scrunched up into a ball underneath him, arms held over his head in defense while he begged for no harm to be inflicted upon him.

"Why are you here? Who sent you?" The King of Iron Fist Tournament participant's growl made the scrawny person sweat buckets as he whimpered from the hostile air Miguel emitted. "I came from no one, I swear! I was looking all over for you, Señor!"

"What the hell do you want from me?" He brought his face closer to the runny-nosed, squirming man, causing him to stutter an indistinct answer.

"I-I-I-I-I....um, I, uh...I-I-I--"

"Speak up or else I'll make you talk."

"It's about your friend! Hoo-woo...wow-rang..?" The person stumbled over the pronunciation of a certain biker boy's name, but the more muscular man was able to catch on. "It's Hwoarang, maldito idiota. What happened to him?" Tired of asking questions, he gave the man a stern glare, promising harsh punishment unless he would spit out a decent explanation. His fist seemed to be closer to the stanger's face than before, which caused him to splutter the first set of thoughts that came to mind.

"IwasatmyhouseandIturnedonthetele-visionandatfirstIwastryingtowatchthefoodchannelbutIsawsomethingont-t-thenewsitwastheattackontheMishimaZaibatsuandIsawyourfriendcomingo-outoftherewithotherpeopleandhel-lookedlikehewashurtsoIcameheretot-ellyou! Please don't hurt me!" The man breathed.

Blinking, Miguel retracted his fist and stood, leaving the frightened individual on the ground while he collected himself. Though he did not pick up all of his words, the Spaniard heard snippets of the important details. He turned to the much smaller man and pulled him up to his full height. "Thank you, little man. Next time, speak slower."