An explosion, the file said, and nothing more. Maybe it explained the scars, the silence. Maybe it only explained one or the other. Details, of course, eyes- blue, hair-black, six foot two and a hundred seventy-five pounds. Spetsnaz, celebrated. Twenty-six, young for his accomplishments. Maybe he'd look his age if he ever changed his facial expressions. Bryan hated Intel, most boring part of the tournament. Particularly intel on some no-name Russian with no feasible reason for the King of Iron Fist. But what reason did Bryan have, either. He just wanted to know if he could still fight. He closed the computer and rolled on to his back, stared onto the ceiling. Ten years ago, he'd be trying to fall asleep. Not human enough to sleep anymore. Not even human enough to masturbate himself into a good night's rest. Some days he wished he still had nerve endings. Then he got into a fight and was grateful for the lack of feeling, even in his extremities. He'd never had much use for them anyways. Whether it was his idea or not, he'd often make a move on a lady only to have his intentions turned against him, even when he was human, interested. He'd never been able to get laid, after a while it ceased to matter.

Something thumped against the wall. Repeatedly. Almost rhythmically. Bryan sat up, ear to the wall. If the room had the same layout as his, the thumping was against the back wall, by the window. With some force, another tournament player, likely. Someone who knew how to throw a punch against a solid wall, apparently without harm. Bryan assumed it to be male, the force of the blow insinuated a strength he didn't see in any of the female tournament players. Perhaps he wasn't giving them enough credit, he had to overestimate his opponents if he wanted to get anywhere. But he still found himself thinking he was stronger than any of the human players. The wall stopped banging, but Bryan stayed against the wall, listened to the man shuffle around the neighboring room. He was dead quiet, Bryan had to resort to his mechanics, sense over the room. He proved it was male, tall, lanky, uncomfortable in the room, likely meaning he was foreign. He wouldn't introduce himself to his neighbor, until he was taking him down in a fighting arena.

A knock. Bryan found himself looking at a small, attractive Aisan girl, Mishima Zaibatsu uniform.

"Mr. Fury?"

"Good enough."

"Your presence is requested at a King of Iron Fist introductory banquet. Formal dress is required."

"Yeah, yeah alright." He wasn't fond of formal events, socializing, doing anything to these people besides taking them down. Even still, he pulled on a dress shirt, checked his pants for stains or holes, and made his way to the banquet hall.

He remembered the bar. Bryan sat at a stool and was greeted with hard whiskey. "Remember me from last year?" He mumbled, to the nod of the bartender, "and the year before that, and the year before that, huh."

The stool next to him was occupied, the Russian. He simply pointed to a displayed bottle of vodka, nodded. Bryan marveled at how he got the point across silently, didn't seem to even notice Bryan watching him, and if he did, didn't acknowledge it.

Same opening speech, same encouragement to take advantage of the Mishima Zaibatsu's hospitality, play nice when the battles are not in effect. Old friends greeted each other, hugs and kisses that crossed language lines, relationships cultivated outside the tournament. Outside these walls, Bryan knew no one. Didn't want to. Lei Wulong he knew he didn't like, Yoshimitsu neither, but, as usual, he had decided not to attend. And Bryan didn't want to pick a fight here. He'd just end up getting gangbanged by the Jack army. Instead, he nodded to the Russian, didn't get a nod back. But he was acknowledged, a small hint of expression. He made a few gestures for the bartender, who refilled Bryan's drink.

"I think it's trying to tell me it's buying your drinks."

"It?"

"That."

"Yeah. Uh, thanks." He raised his glass to the Russian, surprised to see the same gesture returned to him. Even more surprised by those pale blue eyes, the only way into the uniformed man, immaculate, pressed and severe. Even so, the eyes were a little soft, mostly thoughtful. His mechanical brain told him this was Sergei Dragunov, the soldier he couldn't figure out, who made him sick tired of Intel. The human brain let it, distracted to levels of profane stupidity by blue eyes. He snorted, turned away. Hated distractions, especially of the sort that made him feel wrong. But he stayed, accepted the drink, not surprised by the lack of accompanying conversation. File had said he'd been near to silent for years now.

And they were there until long after the party had dissipated, drinking silently, but unquestioningly together. Sometime close to three in the morning, Bryan's drinking partner laid money on the counter, and got up to leave. Bryan caught his arm.

"Thanks."

He nodded, placed his gloved hand over Bryan's if only for a moment. And for that moment, even the scars softened and he was threateningly human. Human enough to take down at the fights the next morning, and human enough to never quite care about. But as soon as Bryan released his arm, Sergei Dragunov was an object of intrigue, if not quite lust.