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Chicken!	By : Shinashi Category: +S through Z > Tekken Views: 5684 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Tekken or any of its spinoffs. I am making no money off of this fic.

Chapter List
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OH, MY! Big warning! This is slash/yaoi/BL/gay, whatever, so yea. I can't believe I forgot that... I would like to add the females (I have various scenarios for that, as I'm sure you can imagine) but I think I have enough at the moment. Sorry!
AN: My desire for Tekken fanfiction wasn’t met, so I started thinking of my own, and then I started typing them up… And now, here you go! Enjoy.
(P.S. If you’ve read my other stuff, I haven’t abandoned them. My computer was wiped clean so all the writings and notes and EVERYTHING related to my other stories are gone. I don’t even have the last chapters of Demon- those are gone FOREVER. So… Yea… Bit of a hiatus on that, but this is going to break the writer’s depression block, I’m sure of it)
Prologue
It was only after they had completely undressed for the showers when they realized the locker room side of the door, curiously made of solid steel, had no doorknob.
Hwoarang had let out a sigh and begun looking for an electronic panel of some sorts, telling Steve in his halting, Korean-accented, Americanized English that all the better hotels had them, and maybe theirs had upgraded.
Steve had then asked, slowly, as Hwoarang’s kicks were faster than his wits, that if they had upgraded, why keep a doorknob on the other side? The Korean then gave him a gruff puff of air, but with a look that told Steve that he had the sense of it. Plus, he couldn’t feel or see any control panel. They were locked inside. Neither of them were dumb enough to try to knock down the door, and the walls were merely the same metal, except painted blindingly white.
“I’ve seen- ah- gang hangouts like this, for slave traffic,” Hwoarang said with a strained voice. “This could be like that, for illegal fights. Starve us out, thirst us out, lace all the –ah- sustenance with drugs so that we are hooked. And then fat rich men could bet on which of us could kill the other faster.”
Steve blew out a breath. “By all means, keep trying your best to console me.”
“I’m not trying that,” Hwoarang replied with genuine confusion. He only looked more baffled when Steve laughed. “This is bad, Steve.” And Steve’s laugh trickled off.
Steve abruptly turned around to get to his locker, intending on preparing to take advantage of any opportunity that might present itself, but upon opening his locker, he didn’t find his clothes or shoes. Most important, his gloves weren’t there either. He checked more of the lockers with the dim hope that he had mistaken which one was his. No such luck.
The same thing went for Hwoarang, and now they both had only medium-sized towels to their names.
“Bollocks, we’re neck deep in shit.”
As if on cue, paneling in the ceiling pulled aside to introduce a large gun pointed straight at them; it was jet black, with a single bright light mounted on its muzzle to stun whatever targets it set its sights on.
“Hello, boys,’ greeted the owner of the gun, an old-sounding man with an Eastern European lilt to his English. “I do not wish to do this four more times, so bear with me at the moment. For now, only do this: Do not warn anyone who comes through the door, or you will be punished. Depending on which of you does it, I will simply kill you with my dear friend, Mr. Laser.” The old voice chuckled.
Hwoarang and Steve didn’t bother asking which was which. They’ve both come across the criminally insane, and the insanely criminal. This was a game they had to play to stay alive. So, when the gun went away, and the voice spoke no more except to order them to ass the commands on, Hwoarang started pacing restlessly, and Steve sat with dread curling in his belly.
It tensed all the more when someone opened the door and walked in- and stopped.
“Kazama?” Hwoarang gasped. Steve gave him a panicked look, and the long-legged redhead struggled to put his face to something more impassive. Failing, he turned away.
Steve looked back at the slightly bemused face of Jin Kazama. The Japanese youth stood shirtless, slightly sweaty from his presumably intense workout, and very carefully and slowly did he make his way to a locker, pulling out the towel and putting his work suit inside. Steve almost wanted to say to keep it all- he was already locked in besides- but he wasn’t sure how long the old voice wanted him and Hwoarang to play dumb, and he didn’t risk it.
Unabashedly, Jin gave Steve a full frontal view of himself, towel around his shoulders as he asked in perfect (American) English, “Why are you in my dressing room?”
It was obvious to Steve that Jin was trying hard to keep confusion from his cold, hard face, but Steve couldn’t tell him that he and Hwoarang had booked a hotel and used its gym, and was nowhere near wherever Jin’s dressing room was. As far as the both of them and the world knew, Jin Kazama was missing, or, hopefully, dead.
Other than some scars, including two enormous ones on his back that Steve saw as Jin walked towards the door, he was quite calm- and now quite angry as he realized the door was impassable. A crackle of lightning went from his head to his toes, and Steve had jumped to his feet. In the tournament Jin first entered, Steve had seen the lightning and believed it to be some trick in his gloves and clothes, entertainment purposes only. That notion was quickly dispelled with the sudden bolts going around the man’s naked body.
“What is the meaning of this?”
Steve was too stunned to speak. Something dark, foreboding, evil was emanating from Jin in quicker and quicker waves, and the British man doubted very much his naked fists would be able to do anything against it. His shoulder began to pulse erratically, right from its scar, but he was too nervous to move.
It was Hwoarang to smooth things out, in quick Japanese and points to the gun that had appeared once more. Jin smiled derisively at it, muscles quivering.
“I don’t have to worry about that,” he said, facing the mount. Steve watched as the scars on his back flexed and darkened, grew, and grew larger. They became wretched crescent lumps, twisting free from the muscles of his back.
Steve flew back as Hwoarang wrenched him closer to the wall. A fresh sheen of sweat had burst upon his brow, and Steve had the absurd thought that his pink nipples were extremely tiny in their tenseness.
When the dark masses stretched to the small of Jin’s back, another panel appearesd, this time from between the two sets of lockers, on a wall. A tiny sphere floating above a needle-like arm presented itself, smoking and purple and just as darkly dangerous as Jin Kazama seemed. The jewel began to spin, spin until a low thrumming sound could be heard and the sphere began to crackle with energy and lightning.
As soon as the sphere finally moved, despite its apparently similar energy to the Japanese youth, Jin let out a small gasp nevertheless, and he wavered on his feet. The grotesque humps began to shrink, but not without a bit of ugly fighting as they sunk into Jin’s back once more. The ex-warmonger was clutching the wall before the sphere finally went away. Lesson learned, Jin’s cold face stared ahead at nothingness as Hwoarang explained in Japanese what they had to do. Silently, Jin then went to the far wall and waited for whoever victim came next.
He was blind and blue-eyed, this next, and none of the three could recognize who he might be, if he was someone to recognize. He wore a T-shirt and red sweatpants, a red jacket on his shoulder, and he was so lost in thought, he only gave them a glance and a polite nod. He went to the would-be exit after getting undressed and said, “What the hell?”
His wide innocent eyes made Steve uncomfortable as he explained to the American the situation, the gun, and its threat. And, luckily for Robert Richards- “Call me Bob”- he had kept his locker wide open and still had access to his clothes, a full set.
“You were fatter in the movies,” Jin said suddenly, while Bob was putting his clothes back on.
Bob made a shy grin. “Yea, I’ve been getting called, like, Skinny Bob and stuff like that, but what’s been sticking is Slim Bob, ‘cause some guy called me Slim Jim.” He laughed humorlessly, shrugging into his jacket, and sat on a bench to wait. He lifted his head and opened his mouth after a few minutes, but then the door opened again.
The young man wearing red pants did not close the door behind him (it closed itself), but locked eyes with Jin. After neither of them made any move, Jin even closing his eyes, the man walked in, worrying a hand through his wildly flailing brown hair. He did the damning ritual at the locker. When he closed it, he turned to them and asked, “I’m Lars… What’s going on?” in English, with a slight European accent.
Bob had to turn guiltily away, and no one said anything.
“How come Jin Kazama is here? You all know he is a wanted criminal? That he has caused untold amounts of damage and ruined just as many lives in his hunt for power, or whatever his aim was?”
Steve’s eyes went to his feet, and Hwoarang’s went to a stray fray in his towel. Jin kept his brooding gaze hard and still as ice on Lars’ darkening face, and didn’t budge when Lars demanded, “Do you three work for him?” He looked each of them in turn. They all wished he would notice the door so that they didn’t have to keep their awkward peace any longer.
Lars then stated, “Wait, you are the movie star, Bob. In the news just this morning.” He looked at the others. “You’re Steve Fox of the UK. There’s a rumor you had gone off with some ragamuffin.” Hwoarang grunted. “But you had set for far away from where I am quartered. How are you here? And why are you all just sitting here- you three nearly naked?” When no one answered him yet again, he growled out something none of them understood, turned, and realized they were trapped. Bob didn’t even let him turn around before he filled Lars in.
Afterward, Lars rubbed his face. “I apologize for my foolishness. Of course, something was amiss. What other explanation is there?” He went to his locker to find his things gone, looking at them in understanding, but he raised an eyebrow at Bob’s full attire.
“His locker was still open when he tried the door,” Steve told him, adding, “Lucky bastard. I would love my gloves about now.”
“Pants,” Jin grunted simply.
Even Lars smiled a bit at that, leaning heavily on a locker.
After a bit, Hwoarang announced, “One more.”
At everyone’s gaze, the Korean explained, “The old man said there were four more after me and Steve.”
There were some nods and a certain anticipatory mood filled the air. There was a new list after this, just as there were newer, wilder moods in a different stance.
They all recognized the boy who came next. Marshall Law’s protégé and son, Forrest. He came in his and his father’s trademark kung fu billowing bottoms and a full bag. He gave them all a very confused look, with recognition flashing on Jin and Steve, more slowly on Bob, along with a cock of his squarish head. After such an assessment, he turned completely around, and once more turned to receive the information they all knew.
“Why ain’t you guys wearing clothes? ‘Cept for Slim, that is,” Forrest asked in his high voice.
“The old man has something going on with the lockers,” Lars answered, “and our stuff was taken from us. Do you, um, have extra clothes in there?”
Forrest nodded, taking out two extra pairs of bottoms, saying, “I came straight to the gym when I booked with my dad- where is he? Well, we’ve been on the road.” He handed Lars a pair and awkwardly held out the last. Without waiting a moment. Jin swiftly took the pants and put them on, shoving his towel in his pocket. He had to adjust the drawstring to fit, and he looked neither pleased nor grateful for covering.
“Alright, darlings,” the voice came over the speakers again, making the youngest Bob and Forrest jump in their places. “Now, I will not coat this with sugar! You boys are in a dire situation. I’ve gathered you here today to test you.”
“We’re gonna fight?” asked Forrest, checking the others, the size of the competition.
“Oh, yes, yes, sometimes. And sometimes you will play basketball or… play each others’ balls.” The old voice chuckled at his joke. “Now, you can call me Doctor, that is proper respect and you will treat me with proper respect, or you will be punished.
“Speaking of which, in lockers counting one through six is bracelets, product of my own inventions. You will put them on or I will shoot you.” He paused. “Or drain the life force that happens to sustain you.”
So, even Jin Kazama went to a locker. Inside was the large dark bracelet that looked more like arm sleeves. It was made of a metallic lining, soft leather, and a large panel glowing with a soft blue light. The panels had their names on top. Lars immediately began tapping it and switching through screens.
“What’s the number next to the stars for?” he asked.
“Now, now, boy, let’s not get a head of me. How about the ‘what’ first, hm?”
“Didn’t he say what?” Forrest asked. Hwoarang shrugged, making his bracelet more comfortable.
Just as they had the bracelets snugly on their arms, needles and wormlike appendages spread from them and into their arms, settling until they weren’t felt at all. Still, the prisoners knew that if they were wanted to remove the shackles…
“Ah, yes, so, those little babies can electrocute you to the point of unconsciousness, yes, or administer a small sedative and, of course, simply kill you.”
“How did you get us all here? We were in different places.”
“Interrupt me again, Lars, and you’ll get a taste of the poison, since I doubt the electricity has yet to be calibrated to your particular energies.
“Anyway, I was testing out my teleportation systems. They worked well for most of the time, but a couple subjects were rather big and didn’t quite go through correctly. A couple actually found my device, but a wonderful turnout nonethelessness- nonetheless”
He coughed for bit, breathing deep breaths to steady himself. As he calmed, a small projector presented itself and put an image on the back wall. Jin and Hwoarang moved out of the way to observe. The image cleared to show a video starting, and a pink-haired woman floating with wing-like jets, who cheerfully greeted them with large friendly eyes.
“Alisa?” whispered Lars. The others recognized her as well.
Alisa pointed to the bracelet she wore, same as them, and they all heeded her unspoken request.
“Can all of you see the translation of my words on your screen?” she asked calmly in Russian. “Please mark your answer on the screen.”
Forrest said lowly, “Cool!” He marked his English.
“Do all of you have the number fifty next to the sign of the star on the screen? Please mark your answer.”
She paused to register the replies and then continued, “All of you have been gathered here today to begin a grand adventure! First and foremost, the only way to be released from the campus is to collect one thousand stars!”
A few grunts of surprise and protest, but both the gun and sphere were out- from different panels, and it didn’t seem worth it for any of them to actually voice their protests.
“You might ask, hm-“ Alisa cocked her head in mock contemplation. “-how might I get more stars? Well, each day there would be a number of challenges and missions, games and bets, and- I know you wait for this- fights! All come with their own rewards- and punishments for losing.
“Now, there are other ways to lose stars aside from all of the above. There is to be no fighting that has not been ordained through the star system. If such happens- oh, dear- you will be punished accordingly, plus lose stars! So don’t do it!
“You must treat the doctor with the proper respect as well. Disrespect earns punishment and loss of stars.
“There will also be no masturbation and, subsequently, no sex between any of you.”
Forrest asked no one in particular, “There are girls here?”
Ignoring him, Alisa continued, “The compound has six rooms at the moment, all with modest furnishings, plus a gym with a small amount of equipment. There is one shower, one toilet, and no complementary anything! That means you will have to work hard for everything: for a bed, or for food, or soap! Any attempts to be a bag of lazybones and escape will be dealt with, and certain ‘well-thought-out’ cases can result in immediate death.
“Now, you big boys go have fun. And, remember, the doctor is always watching you. Farewell!”
Alisa, the projector, and its paneling all disappeared and the locker room door opened to a wide corridor. At the end of it was what could only be a gym, a small gym, as they all could see the weights and buffer mat from where they were, plus the gym’s other, close side.
Jin was the first to step out, followed by a wary Lars, and then the others. Forrest Law was again fiddling with his bracelet, and he exclaimed, “Everything’s so expensive! A friggin’ balony sandwich is seven dollars!”
“Stars,” Steve corrected. When he exited the room, he let out a startled, “Bloody hell!”
Just next to their exit was another, but this time letting out six older men. Two he recognized as Marshall Law and Paul Phoenix. They both had towels. On the other side of their door was yet another, and Steve guessed it was another group of six. One man Steve noticed to be someone related to Jin- they had to be. Another was Hwoarang’s own teacher, Baek.
The classroom-sized group slowly encircled one another, spreading down the corridor. They took in the six rooms, three on either side. The outrageously tiny things no more than 8 by 14 feet, 9 feet by height. Two had twin-sized mattresses- no bedframes, two had a single chair, one was the bathroom equipped with an open shower and a toilet (but no sink), and the last was empty, but had a window in the far upper corner facing the corridor. None of the rooms had doors, just rectangular cut-outs where one could be. Between each of these cut outs were more of the special panels, ample space for guns and spheres, they all knew. Even the rooms were paneled, although one of the rooms with a bed also had a threadbare carpet.
“No wonder there ain’t no fightin’” Hwaorand said, comfortably speaking Korean as the others read the translations on their bracelets. “We would be killing each other with this sparse shit.”
“Hwoarang!”
Baek and Hwoarang finally noticed each other, and the older Korean began a half dozen concerned questions at once.
It was just so with Paul Phoenix, Marshall Law, and his son, and both young men attested their own safety, though also relayed how fucked up their situation was.
Jin noticed Kazuya Mishima, but they merely stared at one another, until Lee Chaolan came between them and clapped them on the shoulder.
And now they were standing in a pseudo-rectangle, and it couldn’t be anymore awkward.
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Chicken!