Disclaimer: I STILL don't own Tekken. If I did, I would've cast Hero Jaejoong to be Hwoarang in the 'Tekken 2009' movie instead of Jae Hee (though he still rocks!).

Author's Note: Just finished this semester for Tafe, I now have a three week holiday. This idea has been in my head for over a year now (and its obviously been modified with time); so to celebrate a nice, long break, I'm writing this. I'm so looking forward to three weeks straight of writing and Sims 3 XD

SCREAM, AIM, FIRE

Such a hurtful sight.

Men are crying and dying around me, on my side or not. Smoke litters the area, illuminating it in a sickening fog that makes my stomach twist and turn, and my heart pound like the explosions that hiss around us all. My wounds are hurting, and I clutch my rifle between my hands, almond eyes closed, and pray to God in silence, ignoring the flying limbs.

The stench of death crawls up my nostrils, and I find myself shaking. I never wanted this, I don't think anybody here ever did. My brothers in arms lie dead beside me, and I don't have the heart nor the strength to bury them all; for if I am seen, I will fall just like them. But the only way out is to die. The only way out of this battlefield, this torturous hell is to die. This carnage, it isn't made for me… its made for us all, and we all suffer, united or divided.

If you want peace, prepare for war.

I find life in my frozen body, and I open my eyes. I've never been so afraid in my life. Little Hwoarang, cowering at the very prospect he absolutely adores – fighting. I turn back to the fighting line, with a loaded gun, and line up the next shot. Killing time… it's just become so robotic for me now, but I still feel pain when I pull the trigger, when I see the bullet soaring through the air, almost translucent due to its sheer speed; and impale itself into the skull of the poor man.

But it's his fault, because he chose his side.

And I chose mine.

Another man falls beside me, his body forever lifeless and limp. I grit my teeth and line up the next shot, pulling the trigger again, watching as the second man falls. Then the third. Then the fourth. Fifth. Sixth. Seventh. Eighth. And the death toll grows higher, the numbers piling upon one another like a business man's feeble paperwork. He fights the economic war, or the political war, all cosy in his chair; and I am here, drenched in mud and sweating a river.

A bullet soars over my head. I crouch down again, taking my rifle with me, and hiss in frustration. The next thing I know, there is a brown blur, boomeranging over my head; and he lands in the trench. The other men in my squad panic and fire blindly; while others run away. And as he turns his head in a sweeping movement, I recognise the face, framed by dreadlocks, to be Eddy Gordo, a fellow Tournament Participant from previous years.

We never thought we'd face each other like this.

He grimaces and turns his small handgun on me. My martial arts instincts kick in, and he is disarmed in an instant with a technique that Baek once taught me. He shifts into his handstand stance, and spins his legs wildly, like a helicopter, defending himself. I block these strikes, and parry one of the latter ones, sending him into a sudden spin, and he falls onto his back. I quickly move over to him, placing my foot on top of his chest, making sure he cannot move from where I have him; and I inwardly scream and aim.

He knows. And he does nothing but nod his head, as though thankful that I am his reaper.

Fire.

I'm grabbed from behind, and I suddenly have trouble breathing. I look down (to the best of my ability) and see that my head is in a lock. I feel cold metal press against the side of my head, and I feel a whisper by my other ear. It is silky, heartless and feminine, as though the person enjoyed this side of life; and I wonder why, "Don't move."

I am motionless. I hear my comrades yelling my name, and I hear one take a shot at the person. The person – the woman – growls when one of the shots hits her side. She briefly and swiftly moves her gun to the person, and I watch as she shoots them, chuckling darkly with glee. And as I silently mourn the man who just died trying to save me, I take this opportunity to indeed save myself. With low oxygen, I elbow the woman in the stomach with force, and she cripples, releasing me from her chokehold.

I turn around swiftly and meet Nina Williams' sky blue eyes. Without a second thought, and ignoring the fear that flashed through her eyes, I screamed, aimed and –

Fired.

And her face shattered apart, like a thousand pieces of glass, the rest of her falling down before me, dead. My breathing is rapid, and I shake my head, trying to bring myself back to reality. They chose their side. I chose mine. Those memories of years ago, fighting against them in a tournament or having a drink with them and a good laugh… they are gone. Because now, this isn't a make-believe conflict and the prize isn't some stupid Zaibatsu – it's a real war, and the prize is freedom.

…I should've taken the Zaibatsu off of him when I had the fucking chance.

None of this would've happened if I cared enough.

And now I am on the opposite side, with G-Corporation, fighting for another evil. If we bring down Kazama, will Kazuya be any better? If the tyrant is annihilated, is the coming saviour just a beast in disguise? I don't really know, but I digress, I hope someone has enough courage to try and take one of these businesses for himself. I know I'll never be that person.

Too busy in my thoughts, too unaware of the world around me – a stinging sensation in my shoulder. I fall back, clutching it, lying amongst the bodies of my fallen friends, foes and fighters; tears are blurring my vision from the sheer pain. I hear the Tekken Force's fire cease, and I look around me to find that there's no more screaming, aiming or firing. I see a few men here and there in the trench, gasping for breath, trying to cling onto the little life they have left – but they know they're going to die anyway.

I look to the handgun I recently dropped. Swiftly, I pick it up and stare at it for a moment, the shiny surface almost hypnotising me. The sound of footsteps brings me back to reality, and I move the gun to the side of my head, like Nina had done before. I watch the horizon, waiting for them to come and check out the dead. Waiting for them to find me, and then to kill me.

They'll never take me, alive or dead. I'll take my own life before they strip it of me.

I fire.

Nothing happens.

No ammo.

In anger, I throw the gun away, watching as it falls halfway down the trenches. Where's that damn rifle I had earlier?

I look to Nina's body, finding a knife strapped to her thigh. Standing and moving over slowly, I pull it from its sheath and press it to my throat. This should do. I can see bloodstains on its serrated edge. Maybe the coming person won't see me, and I can crawl back to base to get fixed up and start again. I won't do it unless they come, and like the hawk people claim I am, I watch and wait before striking. And watch. And wait. And watch. And wait. And watch. And wait.

Blondish hair peeps over the horizon. The confident strides slow, and above me, I see a tall, proud man stand above me. He is encased in red and black, a lion bestowed proudly upon his chest plate, and a cape batters in the harsh wind, swivelling behind him. He narrows his eyes, having spotted the most amount of life in this trench – me.

I press the knife tighter against me. I can feel it cutting me, and I can feel the mud wall move behind my back.

He jumps down.

I press harder, and my breaths come out from behind my gritted teeth in shallow inhales and exhales.

He raises a hand, as though telling me he is no threat – as though he's trying to stop me. I do nothing and watch as he approaches me until he is directly in front of me. My eyes glare daggers at him, and he does nothing but smiles a little, grabbing the knife from my hand and pulling it away, aware of my current confusion.

"You'll never take me alive," I hiss, "How can you fight for him?"

"Not for long," he murmurs, looking over his shoulder, as though he's worried there are people there.

I am silent, suddenly realising that although he is fighting for the Zaibatsu, he is not doing it by choice. One of the few.

And he says firmly, "Run, Hwoarang. Soar like the Blood Talon you once claimed to be."

Spared by fame perhaps? I don't know. But spared nonetheless. No screams. No aims. No firing.

I turn to my right, moving down the long trench, and I suddenly stop and look over my shoulder to him, "What's your name?"

He's climbing back up the trench when he stops, looks to me and smirks slightly, "Lars."

I nod a little, "Thanks."

And I run.