Revelations

A/N: No, I don't own it yet. And here is another two-shot I just had to go and write.

And check out my profile, because I made an important statement I think you people have the right to see.

He lay there, his cheek pressed up against the hard wooden floor, enduring the stifling heat, the clogging dust, and the nauseating sense of decay.

The pain had largely subsided, reduced to short, irregular stabs, but he could still feel the droplets of blood oozing down his back, could envision the angry, red welts that now defiled his young flesh, the products of the callused hand that had borne the indiscriminating instrument of punishment so cruelly and effectively.

A simple switching, that was what his hateful father called stripping his eldest son and whipping him like a slave, then discarding him into this dusty old hole, like so much vile trash. He somehow found the strength to rise to his feet, all the while swearing revenge for this humility, and that foreign consciousness, ever-present with him, roared its approval for his strong resolve.

Kazuya glanced around. The dark attic room in which he was being held prisoner was quite small in proportion to the rest of the house. In fact, it looked to be smaller than his own bedroom, but it held more than five times its contents, ranging from broken and obsolete pieces of furniture, to ruined old paintings and antiques. There was very little to marvel at, except perhaps a dollhouse modelled after the Imperial Palace, which was exquisitely carved out of cherrywood, and contained several porcelein dolls, which were mercifully intact.

Kazuya's attention was soon diverted by a large iron chest that sat with its lid half-open. He crouched down before it and rummaged through its contents, extracting several books and even some photograph albums. He turned to those latter ones, and his heart began to hammer madly in his chest.

Staring at him from the faded old photographs was a dark-haired girl, laughter sparkling from her large, almond-shaped eyes, a smile gracing her delicately hewn features. Everything about the face was strangely familiar to him; the eyes, the lips and the high cheekbones all mirrored his own. It was a face he had yearned to behold for the past fifteen years.

Mother?

He went through the remaining pictures with trembling hands. There she was, sitting on a swing, being pushed by a man whom Kazuya took to be her father. And there too, with a couple of giggling girlfriends, adorned in a colourful kimono and positively radiating with happiness. And again, this time standing between his late grandfather, Jinpachi Mishima, and his best friend, Wang Jinrei. But try as he might, Kazuya could not locate a picture of his mother in Heihachi's company, and he noticed, as he flipped through more pictures, how the laughter seemed to gradually fade from his mother's eyes, how her smile became as enigmatic as the Mona Lisa's, and seemed equally forced.

Kazuya turned to a red, leather-bound book he had pulled out with the photographs, and his heart practically burst with excitement as he read the words etched on its front.

This journal is the property of Lady Kazumi Shirakawa

He took note of his mother's maiden name, crossed his legs on the dusty floor, and turned to the first page, ready to delve into his mother's world, and perhaps glean the truth about her relationship with his father.

A/N: That's enough for the time being. I hope you like it. Please tell me what you think so far.