"…are you sure we have the right match-up?"

"Aw, quit bein' a stick in the mud, Dai! Who says we can't have a few surprises?"

Dai regarded the tournament roster with an incredulous eye. The names of the next round's contenders seemed odd when placed next to each other…as if they were as different as night and day. "I'm wondering if the judges were serious or just smoking something when they drew this one…"

Hiro, of course, was hooting it back up to the audience. His voice sounded like the explosion of Mount Saint Helens. "We've got a real interesting one lined up for you, folks! Neither are strangers to the mean streets, but their styles are about as different as their personalities!" His face grew more and more red as his excitement mounted to over-dramatic levels. "Wrestling or Kung Fu…which will prove to be the best tonight!?"

Dai puffed a defeated sigh. "The match still seems odd, if you ask me…"

"Quit worrying about it!" Hiro chirped. He quickly let out an enthusiastic roar that nearly shattered poor Dai's eardrums. "This should be a really explosive round, SO LET'S GET THIS SHOW ON THE ROAD!"

Somewhere in the void, neither here nor there nor anywhere, there is a stadium. An arena, if you will. A DOME. Will it whatever you want it to be, regardless, it is it and it is there and inside this paradoxical fissure there are those strange and splendid creatures known as 'fans'. Invited guests, relatives, supportive fans, complete and utter strangers-and they gather round like cats to the promise of low-flying birds. Many things want they, and above all covet the sight of blood. Because it's cool. Like Jackie Chan or Jet Li. But LIVE, y'know? And someone might have to call an ambulance and holy shit would it be cool if someone exploded something! Damn!

Ah, the intricacies of unlicensed quasi-existent fighting tournaments.

At this moment-one of many most peculiar bouts of bruises and victory-the arena at the edge of somewhere actually was an arena. Darkened and ringed about with ropes. Classical. Some might say boring, in fact. But that is neither here nor there, because nobody ever comes to a martial arts match of questionable legality for the scenery except for perverts and people-watching oldsters who've wandered into the wrong crowd.

There was a spotlight, that the spectators might see the avatars of their gambling aspirations better. And announcers to mach, for that little bit of professional respectability that rights in a ring, as opposed to a back alley, are wont to aspire to.

Well.

All right then.

Let's get this show on the road, shall we?

"And on the left we have our challenger, the... umm..." a hiss, "Dai, who IS this?"

"Hiro," a dry, pinched voice clipped in, "third paper. Third. The one under your coffee mug. No, not that one…does she look like a professional wrestler to you?"

Coughing. Shuffling. An interlude.

"Yeah, yeah," another hack, "as I was saying-risen up from the Japanese underworld, Akira Kazama! Will this complete unknown be just the wild card to play for victory?"

"Good save."

Then started the cheering. Catcalls, hoots, yells, and various inappropriate words, noises, and gestures. The members of Soubanchou Kazama's gang were not especially known for their manners. But they WERE known for enjoying a good ass-kicking now and then, and also for being somewhat adverse to said ass kicking involving their asses and the Soubanchou's very large, very painful boot (A distinct possibility. Cheer too little, and you're unsupportive and mopping bathrooms for the rest of your high school. Too much cheering and you're checking out the Soubanchou's innocent little baby sister, you sick fucking bastard, and it really wasn't fair for her to be wearing all that leather y'know? Because option number two was wandering into Fate Worse Than Death territory, and nobody wants to go there with Daigo Kazama. Entrepreneurs are known for their inventiveness. And he's really BIG, yo.)

That, and they enjoyed prospect of making a whole fucking lot of noise without some law-abiding bastard calling the goddamn cops, as well as some possible looting, made the arena veritably explode.

For a while.

'Til it slowly petered out.

The spotlights wandered aimlessly, searching for a focus...

And the disgruntled profanity started.

"Akira Kazama!"

Nothing. Noooooooo-thing. The chickens were getting restless. Some guys in the corner had started a game of hackey-sac, and there was something faintly illegal-looking and all-around funky about the smoke in the back corridors of the eastern side of the chamber.

"Akira Kazama?"

A lone, dark little figure was shoved under the stage, blinking away from the spotlights and down at her shadow. If she'd had the wherewithal, she might have turned back to glower at the encouraging smile of her brother.

There was only a short pause before the painful cheering started up again; the other contender was making his appearance from the southern entrance. Unlike Akira, Alex marched up to the ring much more willingly, unfazed by the chaos. His nerves were as impressive as his build!

Size was the other glaring difference between the two opponents. Where Akira was small, Alex was HUGE…as in tall and built like a semi. A car could easily get itself totaled by crashing into him whereas he would walk away with only a bruise.

Definitely an odd match-up.

"Here he is, the Powerbomber himself, coming to us from the mean city streets of the Big Apple-Alex!" Hiro gave off an over-dramatic flourish. A large number of female audience members started wolf-whistling. "Wrestling and military martial arts make him a painful force to be reckoned with! He's strictly business, folks…a true New Yorker! They don't come any tougher than this, ladies!"

"You mean they don't come any more single than this," was Dai's flat response.

The sarcasm of the statement didn't seem to put a dent in Hiro's hyped personality. "C'mon, just look at 'im! I bet he has girls hanging off his arms all the time!"

Dai sighed. "If they all hound him like Rainbow Mika does, then he has my pity…"

More cheers were quick to echo through the Clash Dome as Alex grabbed the ropes, vaulting himself into the ring with surprising ease. The ruckus failed to get his attention. Hey, he wasn't there to show off or make girls swoon…he was there to fight. Fight and win. He wouldn't allow anything to jar his thinking.

That still didn't keep him from feeling bothered by how small his opponent was…

Hiro chattered excitedly. "Boy, this looks like it could be a regular David and Goliath match! Is this gonna be an easy win for Alex, or is it gonna be a major upset!?" His next statement was quickly cut off when he found himself the target of a particularly menacing death glare.

Just as Akira had friends and family standing at her side of the ring, Alex was watched by the considerably quieter trio of Tom, Patricia, and Leah. Tom and Leah watched on wordlessly while Patricia waved energetically to her surrogate brother. "Good luck, Alex!" she cheered enthusiastically. "You can do it!"

The stony expression on Alex's face quickly melted into a soft smile. Turning, he gave his corner team a brief thumbs-up, looking considerably less menacing than he did seconds ago. A number of audience members 'aww'ed' as a response; this he was quick to ignore.

"Would'ja get a load of that!" Hiro beamed, more emotional than was safely allowed. "He may be big and tough, but he's still a softie underneath! Isn't that somethin'!?"

Dai wasn't surprised when another glare from Alex cut Hiro off. "He IS only human, after all…"

Announcers are nice people.

Akira had come to this conclusion because they weren't talking about her but about that really big guy with the face paint on. He was about as big as her brother, but not her brother, so he couldn't be all that bad to take on right? Right? Riiiight?

Stance. Stance was good.

How had Daigo talked her into this? Stupid Daigo. Came home with chocolate and told her he'd been talking to a 'therapist'. Said the helmet was unhealthy. It was not unhealthy! Just because she didn't want all these people staring at her when she could be doing something fun, like souping up the new Yamaha. Stupid big brother. Dammit, she should have bought her own hazelnut truffles! Just because she had a sweet tooth was no reason to take horrible, HORRIBLE advantage of...

Sigh.

But he wanted her here, so here she would be.

With Charles-goddamn-Atlus on the other side of the ring.

Why was he trying to look at her? Oh God, he'd figured out how to psyche her out. Why did there have to be an audience with drills for eyes and big bright lights and....

Akira wanted to go home.

"My name is Akira," he was just looking at her and it made her really nervous and what was the point of this anyway? The ring was a tannish color, and all her old 'friends' were there, and she could probably beat them up and would too if they'd just stop LOOKING... Her voice was small-tiny and threaded through with cold air. Gods, she looked a fool. " If you...I mean...I don't know how you're supposed to do this...would you like to begin?"

Don't look at him. Look past him. Pretend he's not here. None of them are. Just get through this, end big brother will be happy, and this strange exercise will be over-with.

Great. He was dealing with a timid schoolgirl. Alex stared straight into Akira's eyes, disgruntled by the fact that she wasn't doing the same. His brows furrowed. He'd come all this way just to face a newbie…?

This was discouraging.

A loud -POP- issued from Alex's neck as he craned his head back and forth, ridding himself of any pre-round kinks. Akira's fluttering gaze wasn't boosting his confidence in her. Hardly. He flexed his arms a few times before speaking up, his heavy New York accent sounding pretty irritated.

"If you don't know what the Hell you're doing, then why are you here?"

Looking down at her feet from a slight, sly stretch that the Soubanchou's henchmen valiantly did NOT look at, the girl's head whipped upwards. She blithely ignored the sudden eruption of corrosive insults involving the word 'mother' from her own corner. They were always like that.

Nothing special was her adversary. Muscles and bulge and attitude. Oh, look at me, I'm daaaaaangerous. Him and half the bouncers in Tokyo - stupid punk. Who the hell did he think he was? Nobody walks over Kazama, she walks over them a and they had better fucking well like it. Everyone underestimated her - though she was a doormat ever since she was little. For not having a Home, or Friends, or a Voice, or... screw him!

Stretch upwards and crack those knuckles. Where's your helmet? Oh dear. Oh dear you shouldn't BE here... The man glowers. And from a makeshift throne, Daigo cheerfully waves. Is it possible to will yourself into a puddle on the floor?

"I am here to fight," the mechanic nodded to the crowd, causing them to fall a good deal more silent. "Are you here to talk?"

Talking bad. Fighting…also bad. Rock and the Hard Place were having a busy day.

At times like this there are only two things to do. Run, or think about Popular Mechanics.

Carburetors. New carburetors in this year. Yup. Really nice output in...

Talk. Huh. A brief glance beyond Akira's shoulder was enough to make Alex grimace. The frown did little to dull his menacing appearance. It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that the girl DIDN'T want to be here…and it was more than likely that the throng in her corner was responsible for shoving her in.

Blue irises narrowed dangerously. Punks were punks, no matter where they came from. Akira STILL wasn't looking him in the eye.

Screw it. She'd better start.

Alex's attack was nothing more than an explosive blur. He hunched briefly before propelling himself from the ring's mat, his arm snapping forward in an Elbow Slash. For a guy that big, he was pretty damn fast!

Cars hit hard. That is a fact of nature. Akira knew this fact better than most others because, to date, she had been involved in no less that two car accidents herself. Both of which involves hitting, running, and some rather reckless driving on the part of a certain someone with a fetish for skulls.

Getting hit by this guy was kind of like getting hit by a car. A big, warm, intelligent car that wants to beat the crap out of you. Far larger than the passenger, who is buffeted about with the distracted, half-hearted blocks of a pedestrian wearily crossing an intersection that is not on her usual way to work.

Roll back.

Spring up.

Reset.

Begin-a little worse for wear.

Popular Mechanics. The answer to all things is Popular Mechanics.

How do you gracefully crumble to a speeding Cadillac?

For whatever comfort it offered, Alex never was one to talk much. He had a reputation on the streets of New York just as Akira had one in the halls of Gedo; for him, it was a reputation well-earned. Questions were answered with fists, insults repaid with pain and humiliation. That was but one truth to Alex's life.

Holding true to his taciturn ways, satisfaction was not shown to the attack's partial success. Alex closed the distance with a quick dash, giving no chance to evade. The moment Akira rolled to her feet was the same moment he attacked again-this time with a quick series of painful jabs.

If the girl wouldn't retaliate, he would sure as Hell force her to…

Let it hit you, but make sure that impact is on the strongest parts of the frame. Nothing that can cause permanent structural damage-but intersections of bone with no essential use outside of acting as a frame anyway. Dance and dodge through cones. Don't listen to the music jeering all around you. And don't feel the pain-smile through it-because this is nothing but a test-drive and you're only a dummy here to prove a point, right? The Cadillac is irrelevant as long as the test vehicle in question responds to the experiment. It helps to be an excellent driver in order to pull this off properly.

Daigo in the corner is not grinning anymore. Good. Because this is pointless hitting, and he shouldn't try to force her into being something...... 'healthy', did he put it? Nobody walks over Akira Kazama. She walks over them.

But he looks so disappointed through the haze...

Sigh.

Hell.

Alex did well to hide his frustration. What the Hell was with this girl? Despite forcing his full attention on the fight, Akira's lack of enthusiasm did a good job bothering him. His attacks stilled in intensity, only for him to pull and tense his arm back.

He didn't like it. This pacifistic behavior was INSULTING.

The invisible spring holding back Alex's arm snapped. "Fight or go home!" he snarled, lashing out with the fierce arc of a Flash Chop.

Pain came in a heartbeat, and before she knew how or why the mechanic was shoved back into the ropes. She was thrown to the ground hard, and felt the skin of her palms tingle with threatened friction under black leather gloves.

"If I do neither...what will you do?" Akira blinked upwards in her own quiet way before dragging herself to her feet.

Hello Daigo. Hello Fighting Man. Wake up and smell the bullshit.

Fighting Man looks triumphant. He should not presume that this is about him. What to do, what to do.. a warning shot?

But…but…she couldn't do that…she'd mess up and everyone was expecting too much and why were they all watching this, didn't they have better things to do and…

Alex paused, surprising himself. Cheated. He seriously felt cheated. Tournaments were supposed to be a test of skill, not a place for hesitant schoolgirls! So where the Hell was that challenge he had come for? Was this someone's idea of a tasteless joke?

Much of the audience had taken up to muttering amongst themselves, their disapproval stinging Alex's ears. Disgust animated the red lines of his face like a pair of angry vipers. Why wouldn't Akira fight? Was she scared…or was she just confused?

"You idiot! If someone hits you, you hit them back!"

Strange philosophy. But to a street fighter, that's just how it went.

Alex stepped back, crouching slightly, resembling a brick wall inviting an attack. One clear chance…that's all he'd give her. If she didn't take it, he wouldn't give her time to regret it.

She should hit him…she SHOULD hit him. Of course she doesn't belong here! Why is she here? Big brother will be so disappointed, and everyone...what is she DOING? This is so stupid, this big huge guy…how the Hell is she going to win? How is she not gonna rupture something? She can't just go HIT a brick wall, right?

Helmet, helmet, helmet…what is wrong with Daigo sending her in like this? Nobody would ever think that she of all people could do this! Nobody could!

"As you say, maybe I don't belong here." Of COURSE Akira didn't. That's a given. What had Daigo and the tournament people been thinking? Maybe, if she could just get this over with as soon as possible...

Half-heartedly running in, the girl executed the quick spin which preceded her patented Gate Elbow to the opposition's ripped abdomen.

Her heart wasn't in the attack. Alex could tell the moment Akira's elbow ground into his gut. He took the full force of the blow, letting out a grunt as he staggered back a step. Pain wasn't what he'd call enjoyable…but this time he could forgive it. He hinted a smirk, satisfied that he finally got a scrape.

But now it was his turn.

Alex's expression returned to its neutral state, his instincts taking full control. Taking advantage of Akira's downed guard, he struck her soundly against the shoulders with a another Flash Chop, spinning her hard enough that her back faced him. It was too late for her now.

She couldn't escape.

A sudden grapple caught Akira at the waist. Barely grunting from the effort, Alex hoisted her off of the mat, lifting her clear over his head for a Backdrop Bomb. The world sped by in an increasingly sickening blur-

-before Alex slammed the girl back onto the mat, HARD.

The types of people that hang out in a bare-knuckle fighting arena aren't what one would exactly call…savory. Punks and hoods, thrill-seekers and wraiths floating about the edge of blue-collar. Those who don't fit in dress to, since mugging is a given bad, and life goes on most spectacularly in an air of mixed seediness.

Such people are bound to mutter and sigh when their chosen fighter-or competition, for that matter-falls to the floor without the special little thrill they so desperately vicariously want. No adrenaline? Boring. No Rocky moments, no sweaty struggle of gladiators for victory? Awful. And a lithe high school girl looking five seconds from out for good, battered and crumpled and apathetic and waiting on the floor is no match at all, is it?

The murmurs were getting restless.

But of all these people one stood out. In the poseurs and the wannabes and the honest-to-goodness citizens of the underworld, one did not try to pretend. She wore opera gloves and a dress in the most classical sense. Armed to the teeth with a violin and holding what looked to be some kind of very large eight ball.

Someone else who might stand out-a great white among the sharks-might look at the newcomer, shake his head, and turn his eyes back to his sister. Trying desperately to coax something close to reason out of her while avoiding the weakness of concern. Maybe he should...but…it wasn't healthy the way she was, and the plan had been...but his poor sister...

But nightingales? They've never particularly cared about the wellbeing or stratagems of sharks. Different states, different world, different viewpoints. They don't spend all their time swimming in circles either.

To quell her worry, Yurika Kirishima flung the ball into the arena. "Indecision doesn't suit you, Daigo. Akira, catch!"

Nearby, in the land of Popular Mechanics, an engine fires. Revved. Keyed into ignition and well and bloody pissed at the situation, the competition, the rudeness of the world, the spectators, and fact that half her body fucking hurts.

"Maybe I don't belong here," the motor on the test car purrs into life, threatening speed.

She was nearly finished. Alex fleetly rolled to his feet, watching Akira stagger back up as well. Huh…she was definitely tougher than he first took her for…but that endurance wouldn't save her. All that was needed was one more blow…

The next rush was a full-blown offensive attack. There was no expectation of a reprimand, no thought to the sleek object that had found its way to Akira's grasp. It'd take a miracle to escape…

So how do you gracefully crumble to a speeding Cadillac?

Make sure you see it coming, for gods sakes DON'T freeze in the headlights, and remember not to remind the thing that you are in fact playing an impromptu game of chicken. The use the superior maneuverability of your own motorcycle to redirect the Cadillac to a nearby, convenient wall. If none is available, a Dancing Cyclone to the chest and head, leaping over his own downward chop in a smooth little hop will do well enough. Hell-if you're motivated, REALLY motivated, you can probably milk a hell of a lot of horsepower out of that.

"I don't belong here...because YOU should already be out of my WAY!"

Take advantage of technically less efficient American make, if you do say so yourself, and make his disorientation your advantage. Knock out his drive shaft.

Take that sucker DOWN.

"-!!"

Alex barely had the chance to recover before intense jolts rained against the side of his head, blinding him with their white-hot intensity. Disorientation was quick to follow, surprise clearly visible on his wide-eyed face. What the Hell was this…!? A moment ago, Akira barely had the strength to stand!

…that helmet? It couldn't have been-

The impact of metal-plated boots on the back of his knees was enough to knock the frantic thought from Alex's mind. Finding his legs being thrown out from under him, he fell right for the mat…

…and hit hard, visibly shaking the entire ring.

If Akira Kazama were an honorable fighter, she'd probably let the grappler across from her get up.

Yup.

But Akira was not always an honorable, and neither were her fans. A consequence of size handicap and hard living. Larger, stronger, more experienced…honor, on a whole, can translate into incredible stupidity in a situation like this. Kick him in the gut. They'll love it. Which means they'll leave you the hell alone, and you can get the fuck out of here. Plan? Plan.

Buuuuuut…Daigo is honorable. And Daigo isn't stupid. And Daigo will be disappointed as it is. And that's not right at all.

Her body tensed, the biker's dark and hidden eyes reflected back upon the prone nemesis she wished would just RISE already.

"Just who do you think you are?" a voice clear and stable, finally reaching the action-hungry audience. "Street punk with pretensions of greatness."

That last attack…was definitely more than he bargained for.

God, he could barely see straight. Alex staggered onto his feet, wobbling considerably. The world was a nauseating blur…one that was just starting to clear out. He winced. Never had he been so truly vulnerable. So why hadn't Akira finished him off?

For that matter, why hadn't she fought like that EARLIER?

Things finally cleared out enough that Alex could see the Akira's face…or her helmet, to be more accurate. His cerulean eyes seemed to go through the reflective visor, hunting down the other's to make eye contact. There's no response from him, only that hard glare…

He abruptly smirked. "That came late."

Well, that was where supreme confidence had gotten him. Alex assumed his regular stance…or at least he tried to. Another wave of pain flooded his head, throwing him back off balance…

Too late.

A split moment was all Alex had. His vision cleared briefly, his head still throbbing from the earlier beating…only to see a particularly shiny motorcycle helmet-and the attached biker-looming in front of his face. Crap, if he didn't do something-!

Alex barely had the chance to shield himself with his arms, much less put up a more effective defense. He knew it was futile. The first series of Akira's blows were deadened, but the attacks only grew in strength, the impact more jarring…

-CRACK!-

It felt as if something within his chest exploded. Akira's last strike shattered his guard, nailing him dead-center against his sternum and causing every nerve in his body to scream a concerto of agony. Eyes wide, he took a faltering step back…

…and like an abused rag-doll, Alex crumpled to the mat…beaten, bruised, and seeing stars.

The entire Crash Dome was stunned to silence.

Even Hiro.

Reality sunk into Alex's pain-muddled brain. Flat on his back, he stared blankly from where he lay, his jaw partially agape. He had lost. It was almost hard to believe it was that simple. He blinked rapidly, trying to clear out more of the discolored spots that clouded his vision. All this time he had mocked Akira for being so passive when such a ferocious fighter was lying below the surface…

Alex smiled, chuckling to himself despite the fact that doing so hurt. What could he say? He got what he deserved. With a great deal of effort, he pushed himself up onto his elbows, pointing to the helmet that turned the tide of the fight.

"Next time…wear that from the start…"

And suddenly, it's all back to normal. The gloves…errr…glass is off, the engine cooled down. What just happened there, exactly? Oh, she did what needed to be done…and had better get to a doctor soon. Barely balanced on her knees, she shook her hair free of headgear and gave the surrounding roar a timid smile. Time to get out of here.

Oh dear. That poor man. Well, she'd had to prove a point, but she hadn't meant at all...

Could she even walk now? Breathe. Breathe. He deserves an explanation.

"Everyone was just...looking at me…I couldn't...but that doesn't matter now, does it? H-here…let me help you up."

She knew her outstretched hand was out of place, and she probably couldn't life anything right about now, but that didn't matter. Yurika was running in from the sidelines with music, and her brother with a resigned sort of jubilation, and everything was gonna have to be alright. Maybe Yurika could figure out a way to opt her out of the next round. Yeah, that was it, opt out…and then...

"I should have worn it…but Daigo didn't want me to, you see, because he wanted me to do it without it to prove something. And I wasn't sure I wanted to win..."

Somewhere, deep, deep down inside herself, a schoolgirl smirked triumphant.

Akira's offer of help was enough to keep Alex stable despite the throbbing headache that kept him off his feet. Leah and Patricia were already scrambling onto the ring to escort him off, anyhow. All he could do was crack a smile. Just hearing the cheers of the Crash Dome audience was enough to convince him that the girl had earned this victory…

"Can't have any hard feelings," he murmured. A quick jerk from a loudly-scolding Leah silenced him long enough to have him dragged away from the ring.

Damn, he'd be feeling this one in the morning…