UVR3

RumbleDome
"I'm impressed," Wanderer said.

 "For as much money as we paid, you damn well better be," Birdman replied.

 The two of them stood on the RumbleDome's hundredth floor observation deck, looking out over the maze-like bazaar outside the building. Below them, merchants from dozens of nodes had set up booths or games, creating a carnival-like atmosphere. The smells of cotton candy, popcorn, sweat, and plastic in the sun rose up, reaching their nostrils even a thousand feet above. Birdman called it "Rumble Week"; a series of games, special events, contests, concerts, and prizes for seven straight days, all leading up to the main event: the third Ultimate Video Rumble.

 Behind them, an almost totally rebuilt RumbleDome stood proudly. Where the 'Dome, last year, had been an open-air arena, this year, it was closed off, the ceiling and walls composed of the densest metals and polymers that could be scrounged up on their budget, guaranteed to withstand anything short of a tactical air strike. The hotel was similarly constructed with an eye for durability, especially after the destruction wrought at last year's tournament. The ring itself was comfortingly the same, right down to the dimensional field surrounding it. Its fresh coat of canvas, with the UVR symbol in its center, gleamed.

 "Nice party." Wanderer looked at Birdman sideways. "This to take care of those last few bills?"

 "Of course. I was able to talk a few of the fighters in attendance to doing some tricks and demonstrations, and we get a chunk of the concessions. We're doing well." Birdman turned around and led Wanderer back into the building.

 "Who's our staff this year?" Wanderer asked, his walking stick making staccato clicks on the floor. "Did Scott Johnson come back?"

 "Nope. He said something about 'Sailor Comet Kahoutek', whatever the hell that is. I couldn't find Bob Wood, either, so I hired a new guy." Birdman gestured at the walking stick. "Why are you carrying that?"

 Wanderer shrugged. "People expect me to have some personality quirk. You're manic-depressive, Terminator was slightly crazy, Kinsman was Terminator's straight man, Chris Wolvie's a sports nut, I've got a stick. Who's the new guy?"

 They entered the main offices as they spoke, waving to Kelly as they walked. "You'll meet him in a second. John's back, though, and some other guy... he says you sent him?"

 "Yeah. He's an old buddy of mine. Figured he might be able to help out." Wanderer opened the door into the main meeting room. Several people were already seated around the long table. Wanderer recognized Misty John almost immediately, seated next to a green-haired kid in a hockey jersey and jeans, and Tristan McKenzie, avoiding direct eye contact and smelling of sunblock. A small laptop sat next to him on the table. At the other end of the table from them, a man dressed in black, with an elaborate-looking gun holstered under each arm, had his feet on the table reading a copy of "Legion of Super Heroes".

 "This is Gabriel Stevens, Birdman," Wanderer volunteered, pointing at the kid. "He's a Virtual Adept. He and I go back a ways."

 "Nice to meetcha," Gabriel said. There was a small laptop on the table in front of him.

 "I thought it might be a good idea to have him around after that incident with the Dark Guy last year."

 John spoke up. "We've spoken about it. He and I can work together on this."

 "Good," Birdman said. "My turn. This is Isaac Sher. Call him Mimic. He's our new security chief."

 Mimic put the comic book down and stood up. "A pleasure."

 "Likewise." Wanderer hooked a chair over to him and sat down. "What business is there to take care of?"

 Birdman sat at the head of the table. "We all know what happened last year. It will not, repeat not, happen again. We've taken the liberty of completely redesigning the RumbleDome with harder materials to keep property damage down, as well as hiring a few dozen more security guards. Mimic, that's your job. We will not tolerate out-of-ring violence at all this year."

 "Shouldn't be a problem." Mimic looked at the door. "My second-in-command should be here any minute now; he and I will work something out. As for the rest of it, I think I have it under control."

 "I certainly hope so. We've got a week to get our act together, gentlemen. Wanderer and I will be taking care of the broadcast, obviously. Mimic, get our security network up and running; Tristan, John, Gabriel, help him with that. Our reputation as a tournament depends on there being no threats to the Multiverse again this year."

 "He says that so casually," Wanderer murmured.

 "The medication, no doubt," John added.

 "Are you two done?" Birdman asked acidly.

 "Probably not for a good long time," Wanderer replied.

 "Great."

 "A question?"

 "Yes, Mimic?"

 "If you're so concerned with security breaches, why have you invited so many quote-endquote 'evil masterminds' to the Rumble? We could have a perfectly smooth event without Jedah, for example, or the various demons, or Bison, who, I'd like to mention at this point, brought his Shadoloo enforcers with him--"

 "How many?" Wanderer asked.

 "It would appear to be all of them," Mimic said dryly. "For that matter, I'm trying to understand why we invited Demitri Maximov back, who, according to this classified dossier you gave me, tried to take over the entirety of the Multiverse using this node as a starting point last year. My guards and I can handle them quite easily, true, but it'd be a much easier job of things if we edited who came and who didn't."

Birdman sat down. "It's simple. The ones who cause the most trouble are invariably the ones who the audience likes to see the most. We have to invite them, for the sake of our ratings, and, in turn, we have to have security to deal with it. Who we invite is, in large part, out of our hands."

Mimic nodded. "Arigato, mon capitan."

"Any other questions?" Birdman asked. Receiving no answer, he continued. "Good luck, everyone."

Bazaar Back Alleys, RumbleDome

Iori Yagami could not have made his abduction easier had he been planning alongside them. The boy wandered aimlessly, smoking cigarette after cigarette, leaving a trail of people who had not been able to get out of his way fast enough and hence, had been pushed to his side.

Amakusa rubbed his hands together. "Are you prepared to do what you have to do?"

"Yes." Zankuro was as sullen as ever. "Hit him over the head and take him to your room. I understand."

"Then do it, creature, and remember who your master is." Amakusa floated up to the top of one of the hastily erected cabins to watch Zankuro leave. He, compelled by Amakusa's magicks, walked slowly forward, on a path that would intersect with Yagami's.

This festival, "Rumble Week", was ideal for an operation such as this, Amakusa mused to himself. A great deal of people came through this area every day, at any time of the day or night, far too many for even the most diligent security personnel to watch out for. Added to this was the maze that the various booths and stores formed, the cabins and lean-tos they used creating a--

"Pardon me, wizard."

Amakusa turned to face the voice, and got a faceful of violet flames.

As he shook his robes out, Amakusa snarled, and his orb swooped out of his hands, aiming directly at his assailant's neck, but his assailant had moved at some point. Amakusa circled, trying to find him, and only found a set of arms, like iron, encircling his neck.

"Tell me why you've been following me," Iori Yagami whispered in his ear, "or your head will fit in an ashtray." One of his hands ignited. "A small ashtray."

Amakusa contemplated severing his head with his mystic orb, but immediately, another idea presented itself. Amakusa reached into the sleeves of his robe, and scraped open a small vial. If Yagami did not notice this, Amakusa might live through the night... "I was planning to abduct you."

Iori chuckled. "Ah, you do not lie. I'm not used to that." The flames intensified. "Why?"

"My grimoires show that the powers of the Orochi, and the powers arrayed against them, would be manifested strongly in the 20th century, in a variety of souls... most of them are at this tournament. You are one of them. I had planned to take you all -- you, Kusanagi, Goenitz, Kagura -- and siphon your energies for my own." The pungent smell from the vial reached Amakusa's nostrils. The paint inside was still good.

Iori did not let go. "Really."

"I'm telling you the truth." Slowly, so slowly he felt he was moving in reverse, Amakusa anointed his thumbnail with the paint from the vial.

"Oh, I know that. If I didn't, you would currently be nothing more than a bad smell. But I find that funny... you are not one of the Blood. Without that, you would be consumed by the Orochi."

"I didn't know that." Amakusa slowly traced a sigil onto Iori's jacket, where Iori's arm was wrapped around his neck, and felt his magicks respond.

"Good." Iori's eyes narrowed. "Who, exactly, would this ritual work for?"

"Anyone, theoretically."

"Could you perform it for someone else?"

"Yes..."

"Excellent. Wizard, you've just bought yourself your life." Iori let go of Amakusa, and pushed him roughly to the rooftop. "Consider yourself a retainer of Clan Yagami."

Amakusa got up. "Why should I do that?"

"I'll kill you otherwise." Iori lit another cigarette off his hand. "So. You abduct Kyo Kusanagi, Kagura, and Goenitz, and give me their powers?"

"Yes... them, among others."

"What does that do to them?"

"It kills them. Their powers are linked to their life force."

Iori grinned widely. "Excellent. Then you shall do this for me, wizard."

Amakusa managed to manufacture a quiver. "Or you'll kill me?"

"You've obviously been in this position before. You know exactly what to say and when." Iori jumped off of the roof. "I'll be in touch, wizard."

"I'm sure you will be..."

Iori walked away, smoking another cigarette. In one stroke, he would have revenge upon the accursed Kusanagi, and he would have power... enough power to make sure no one controlled him again.

"No one," he whispered to the night around him. "DO YOU HEAR ME?" he shouted. "NO ONE!"

The night, perhaps thankfully, did not answer.

As he walked, finally, back to the room the Rumble had provided him with, Iori did not notice the small sigil on his arm.

The Festivities, Rumble Week Bazaar

"Come one, come all, to a magic show, the likes of which you've never seen!" Ignatius Max advertised loudly. The halfling stood on a folding chair on a stack of phone books on a hastily erected stage, the sign above which stated, in boldface, "RED CLOUD'S FESTIVAL OF MAGIC. FIVE COPPERS."

"I still distrust this plan," Luthor muttered, peering out at the crowd from behind the curtain. "We should not flaunt our presence."

"You take this too seriously, paladin," Red Cloud replied. "This is a vacation. You may wish to begin acting like it."

"This whole place smacks of strange magic, wizard," Luthor replied, letting the curtain fall. "I have seen strange creatures at every turn since our arrival. The rest of our party is still gone. I am on edge."

"They are having fun, Luthor. I realize that that is something foreign to your training, but you may wish to pursue it yourself."

Ignatius pushed through the curtain with a bag in his hand. "I've never seen coins like these, but they're copper, right enough. I've rounded up a crowd for you, Red."

"Thank you, Ignatius." Red Cloud turned to Luthor. "Take Luthor with you to spend that money. I believe he needs to relax."

"Mage, you speak of--" Luthor was abruptly dragged out of the room. Red Cloud chuckled, and ventured on-stage.

Andy Bogard was bored.

He liked magic shows as much as the next guy, but he knew they were all fake; they were just sleight of hand and trap doors, nothing more. Mai, though, was enthralled by the "mage" on-stage, who had been doing simple illusions and card tricks for a good fifteen minutes. Granted, he'd only paid five cents for both of them to see this show, but still, he wasn't having a great time.

Mai watched in awe as the magician pulled a flapping dove from a Chinese boy's volunteered baseball cap, and set it free. "How do you think he does that, Andy?" she breathed, watching the dove fly away.

"He planted that kid in the audience." Andy sighed. "Can we go now, Mai?"

"Andy Bogard, if you don't lighten up this instant--"

"And now, ladies and lords," the magician said with a flourish, "I require the assistance of one of you in the audience, who is unafraid to risk life and limb! Are any bold enough to live through--" he wheeled a six-foot-long box on-stage, "--being sawed in half?"

Great. That old trick. Andy was about to get some cotton candy when he noticed that his arm was being held in the air. "Mai, what in the--"

"I thought you didn't believe in magic, Andy," Mai whispered with a wicked little grin.

Andy was about to wrench his arm free when he heard the magician say, "Yes, the man with hair of gold! You'll serve quite well. Please, join me upon the stage."

Andy looked around, hoping that Terry was in the crowd or something; failing that, he looked at the magician and pointed at himself. The magician nodded.

"Mai, do I have to?"

"Yes, you do."

Andy sighed again, and allowed her to push him onto the stage.

"What's your name, lad?" the magician asked.

"Andy."

"Andy, would you be so good as to get into this box? I assure you, it's quite safe."

Andy looked at Mai, who winked at him, and resigned himself to his fate. He climbed in, and squirmed a little as the magician fastened the box to his neck and ankles.

"Now, behold, as I separate this man from himself! Lad, in just a short time, you will be able to gaze 'pon your own feet from an angle you'll likely never see them from again!"

"Thrilling," Andy muttered.

The magician began to gesture dramatically, casting a strange collection of powders into the air, and chant in a language Andy didn't recognize.

And, strangely enough, Andy started to feel a strange force gather.

Red Cloud cast his spell as dramatically as he could. It was a simple matter; he had modified his teleportation spell. He'd done this before a few times, and was confident that it would work.

That was before he saw a familiar face leering at him from across the street.

He was so shocked that he flubbed several syllables of his spell, before he realized what was wrong, and quickly resumed what he was doing. Hopefully, he had done the lad no harm.

Andy nearly screamed out loud.

Whatever the old man was doing to him, it felt like he was being slowly torn in half cell by cell. His soul felt like it was being boiled in acid, almost purified... He clenched his fists to break out of the box, but was powerless.

What the hell is going on? he thought frantically.

Then, all at once, the pain was gone, and he found himself looking over, at his own feet. Directly next to his head.

Andy decided that, at this point, he might want to pass out, and did.

Red Cloud hurriedly placed the box back together, and unsealed it, canceling his spell as he did so. "Thank you, ladies and lords, for your patronage. The show is over for now, but I hope that you shall attend it later!" He pulled a groggy Andy out of the box, and shoved the box backstage with his foot as he handed the man to a scantily clad woman in the crowd. "Good afternoon to you!"

The audience applauded thunderously, and Red Cloud bowed, before scurrying backstage. Grabbing his staff, he shoved open the back door--

--and ran straight into the face he had seen.

"Good afternoon, Red Cloud. I must admit... you put on a fine show." Stellarex smirked.

"What are you doing here?" Red Cloud demanded.

"I am here, much as you are," Stellarex said with relish, "to attend, and, perhaps if the fates smile, win, a tourney. My allies are, as well. This place is filled with wonders, is it not?"

Red Cloud began to glow, as the spirits within him awakened. "Can you name a reason why I should not expose your bones to the ravens at this moment?"

"I shall give you four." Stellarex pointed across the street, at a clustered group of security guards on patrol. "There they are. I've done some research, and those four are guardsmen, charged to ensure that none of us do violence to each other before we meet in the tourney. I have been ensured that those sticks they carry pack a charge equivalent to any wand or spell." He grinned evilly. "Should you like to strike the first blow, then?"

Red Cloud lowered his staff. "You shall meet your end in the tourney, worm."

"I doubt that, insect." Stellarex flew into the sky, towards the Dome that loomed in the distance.

"That," Andy said, his knees shaking, "is the last time you talk me into anything."

"What in the world is wrong, Andy?" Mai asked, helping him walk.

"He did something to me... I don't know what. I'm going back to my room, I think, and once I'm back on my feet, I am going to find that man and get some damn answers."

"I'll help you there."

"To my room, or to find that man?"

"Both." Mai was clearly upset. "No one does that to my Andy and gets away with it!"

"I'm touched."

Sub-Basement THX-11, RumbleDome

Rolento eyed the vampire doubtfully. "What?"

"You heard me," Demitri said. "I want an Infinity Gem. Don't tell me you can't get me one. I know you can, because you are the best. That is why I have chosen to hire you."

Rolento shrugged. "More likely, I'm the only one who was willing to consider talking to you. A whole lot of people want you dead, and by association that means they'd want me dead if they knew I was here."

Demitri kept from showing his irritation splendidly. "You were hardly so cautious when you rigged those stairways for me at the last Rumble."

"Yeah, but then you were the ultimate big shot. You held all the cards. Fine. Now, you're alone, you're being hunted, and it's bad luck just talking to you."

"Whatever. I can, of course, pay you handsomely."

"How much?"

Demitri reached down into his cloak and withdrew a single gleaming bar of gold, shimmering electric-blue in the light from the security camera he had wrenched off of the wall. The weight was nothing to his undead strength. Rolento was impressed by that, but not by the offer. "That's little to nothing. Can't you do better?"

Demitri smiled faintly. "Ten thousand of these on delivery of the gem to me."

Rolento hid his shock well. "Ten thousand. Hm. I'll have to think about it. It's an interesting offer..."

"And an additional ten thousand for each additional gem you manage to snatch. A further ten thousand if you can get me the Reality Gem in particular. Five thousand apiece for any magical artifacts you can garner."

Rolento blinked obviously. "I'll have to consider..."

Demitri interrupted him by grabbing Rolento's collar and slamming him against the wall. "You do NOT think!" He punctuated this by pounding the gold bar into Rolento's gut. "I'm offering you enough gold to start your own nation, or to destroy the gold standard of your entire node if you feel like it! I know you. I know your type. All you ever want is money. Well, here's money. I have more than enough, don't worry about me. Living for five hundred years will do that. So, stop thinking, AND GET ME MY DAMNED GEM!"

Room 1657, RumbleDome Hotel

There came a knocking on the door.

"Enter."

Hesitantly, the door opened, and Kyo Kusanagi came into the hotel suite, looking around.

The suite was opulent. The carpet was thick enough that his feet sank deep into it, and the furniture was tastefully ornate. A fully stocked kitchenette hummed to itself on Kyo's left, and the sounds of Beethoven's Ninth reached his ears. A smell he could not identify wafted from the living room in front of him.

Kyo walked forward, ready to attack or defend, and stopped dead.

A long table, stocked with a fine array of wine, cheeses, caviar, and bread, stood next to the kitchenette. In its center, a roasted pheasant steamed quietly. At the other end of the table, a figure Kyo could not identify sat, quietly sipping his wine.

"Who in the world are you?" Kyo demanded.

"A friend, Kyo Kusanagi," the figure said. "The last time we met, I did not wear this face. But I am, as I was then," the figure leaned into the light, "Victor von Doom, at your service."

Kyo relaxed some. "Oh, yeah, the guy who was in Jago's body. I remember now. Good to see you got out."

"It was good to get out, I assure you. Please, sit. Feel free to help yourself to the food or drink."

Kyo did, pouring himself a glass of wine. "Thanks, I think I will. I got your message; what was it you wanted to see me about?"

"It is quite complicated. I recommend that we eat first, then discuss it."

"Fine by me." Kyo got up and obtained a plate, filling it with bread and slices of pheasant, occasionally asking questions of Doom about the wine or caviar.

Finally, he set down a ridiculously clean plate and wiped his mouth. "Thank you. That was great."

"It was no trouble."

"What was it you wanted to ask me about?"

Doom poured himself another glass of wine -- his second -- before answering. "I have followed what I could of your exploits since last we met. You lead a dangerous life."

"It's a living." Kyo waved it away.

"Not for much longer." It was not a threat. "I have made it a point to watch what little of your latest tournament I could find. Every year, Master Kusanagi, your enemies grow stronger. I am prepared to offer you an alliance against them. I enjoy a certain... reputation. My friendship can mean a great deal to you."

Kyo's eyes widened, then narrowed. "What's in it for you?"

"Excellent." Doom rose. "You have enough intelligence to suspect my motives." He walked around the table with a wineglass in his hand. "I had an opportunity to study your powers last year. You are quite powerful."

Kyo's eyes remained narrowed. "Go on."

"In exchange for my patronage at this event, I would require you to return with me to my homeland, Latveria, for a period of two weeks. I believe that your powers, given sufficient study, tap into forces so primal that they make nuclear physics seem a fistful of fireworks. With the unparalleled intellect that I wield applied to this task, I believe I could, in time, artificially generate a link to the same energies you tap into -- in short, limitless, clean-burning fuel. With your powers, I could herald a new age, freed of the clumsy constraints of fossil fuels." Doom's eyes glittered inside the armor. "What is your answer?"

Kyo pushed himself away from the table. "Look... I appreciate the offer, but I can take care of myself."

"You are certain of this."

"Yeah, I am. Look, sir, it sounds good. It sounds too good to be coming from you. I've heard some stories about you from some of the guys last year, and you never do anything unless there's something in it for you."

Doom crushed the wineglass to powder. "Do you realize who you are speaking to, child?"

"Yup." Kyo's hand sparked faintly; behind him, on the wall, the thermostat slowly climbed. "I nearly lost my soul to my powers last year. I'm not risking that again. I redesigned my entire style so it wouldn't happen again, and I'm not going to let it happen again because you want to save pennies on the electric bill. No sale."

Doom's gaze froze him to the bone. "Very well. You have made your decision. I hope you do not live to regret it."

"I doubt that." Kyo headed out the door. "Thanks for dinner."

As the door slammed behind Kyo, a new voice came from the living room. "You knew he'd do that."

"Of course." Doom turned to speak to Ichiro Tsunami. The samurai sat calmly on one of the couches, his hat on the table next to him. "This is why I have chosen to employ you."

"So you want me to make his life difficult, and, by so doing, force him to accept your offer?"

"Indeed. I have others to consider, so you will do this alone, with as little assistance from Doom as possible."

Ichiro rose to his feet and bowed. "I shall begin immediately."

"See that you do. Hire whatever mercenaries you need to accomplish this."

"I've a few names in mind already." The samurai left the room, leaving Doom alone to think.

Auditorium, RumbleDome

[Transcript begins.]

DRAC: Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to the Fighters' Roundtable.
[Applause.]
DRAC: Our panel tonight consists of, from the Darkstalkers node, Bishamon, Anakaris, Morrigan and Lilith Arnsland, Lord Raptor, Victor von Gerdenheim, and, somewhere, Demitri Maximov. From Samurai Shodown, Kubikiri Basara is with us, and, from Street Fighter, Necro. The realm of Ravenloft brings us the zombie Aardrus. From Mortal Kombat, we are joined by Scorpion and Kabal. The War God, Voodoo, rounds out our discussion. I am your host, Count Dracula. And so, seeing as how Demitri Maximov is now fifteen minutes late, I'm going to assume he's not coming.
BISH: He'd better not.
DRAC: Quite. Anyway. The topic at hand is the Role Of Undead In Tournaments.
ANAK: I think we play a valid role in tourneys. We bring with us history; we are the past embodied. By fighting, we can remind the living of what we once were and what they strive to be: legend embodied.
ARDRUS: And also rotting flesh.
RAPTOR: Say it, bro!
ANAK: Oh, shut up.
VOODOO: No, I think he's got a point. Our rotting flesh is very stylish these days, in a Romeroesque kind of sense. Tarantino knows about that.
MORRI: Mmmm. He's sexy in kind of a weird way.
LIL: Is that all you can think about?
VOODOO: Nothing wrong with pursuing our primal urges, be they sexual or homicidal. After all, most of us are still here because of them.
BISH: Speak for yourself.
BASARA: HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Urges!
VOODOO: Oh, right, you're the noble one.
KABAL: [ominous silence]
RAPTOR: Why are you here, anyway, mate? You're not undead.
KABAL: [removes mask]
RAPTOR: Ah. Good point.
DRAC: Look, could we get back to the--
BISH: No, no, I think we should get this out. You have a problem with me, Voodoo?
VOODOO: Not with you personally. I just look at you and think "whatta shmuck, he's got all this extra lifespan and he's gonna waste it moping..."
ANAK: (to SCORPION) Ten bucks says they fight in the next five minutes.
SCORP: (to ANAKARIS) Make it the next ten minutes and you're on.
BISH: MOPING? Maybe I didn't hear you correctly?
BISH'S FLAME: Yeah! Bishy don't mope! He wails occasionally, but that's in his job description, so that's okay.
BISH: Shut up...
VOODOO: No, you got me right.
RAPTOR: You know, you are rather depressing...
BISH: Don't even start.
BASARA: HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Manic!
NECRO: Um, about thith free food...I don't eat body partth...could I have a PBJ or thomething? The Doctor giveth me that all the time.
VIC: I love PBJs! They're good. Sweet and tasty.
VOODOO: Look, could you two simpletons just be mumble to yourselves? Some of us are trying to discuss our role in society here.
ARDRUS: What role? We're dead. We're finished with society! Our only role is to destroy. Pity we can't rape any more. I enjoyed that.
ANAK: You're disgusting.
ARDRUS: Whaddya want? I'm rotting.
RAPTOR: Well, so am I, but I never talk about rape. Groupies, well, that's another story. But rape is just not a good thing.
VOODOO: I beg to differ. It's a fringe benefit.
BISH: You know, I'm seriously considering chopping you in half right about now.
ANAK: (to SCORPION) Pay up.
SCORP: (to ANAKARIS) All we have so far is threats. Not until...
VOODOO: Don't write checks you can't cash, blueboy!

[*WHAM!* *SLICE!*]

SCORP: Oh, hell. Here you go.

Room 345, RumbleDome Hotel

"Nice digs," Wolverine muttered, throwing his duffel bag on the bed and unzipping it. It wasn't too much more than a normal hotel room, but it had a clean bed and bathroom. That put it head and shoulders above some places he'd been right there.

He wore his normal clothes, for once, and wasn't looking forward to putting the tights back on. He pulled them out of the bag and examined them; maybe it was time to switch uniforms again.

"You and Drake can come out now, Betts," he said without turning around.

"I will never," Psylocke's voice seemed like it was coming from thin air, "understand how you can do that." She stepped out of the shadows behind Wolverine, letting her telepathic illusion fade, with an un-iced Iceman in tow. Both wore street clothes.

"Clean living." Wolverine sat down on the bed and lit up a cigar. "You see anything interestin'?"

"Depends. I know where Magneto, the Silver Samurai, Doom, and Juggernaut's rooms are, as well as the rooms of the other people from our dimension. If you like, I can go looking for others." Her fist clenched. "Or maybe Morrigan Arnsland."

"Don't worry about that right now, Betsy," Iceman said.

"Drake's right, Betts. We'll handle her later. Big problem, right now, is Magneto. I want to know what the hell he's doin' here and why."

"Why are we doing this cloak-and-dagger routine, Logan?" Iceman asked. "Why not just tell Captain America that Psylocke and I are here?"

"Because," Wolverine took a drag before replying, "I want an ace in case something goes wrong. Betts can sneak around, and you, Drake, know all the players from last year." He put out his cigar on the room's "No Smoking" sign. "Betts, keep tabs on Magneto and tell me what he's doin'. Avoid a scrap 'less there's no way around it. Drake, go buy a ticket and sit in the stands; keep your mini-communicator on." Both of them nodded.

"What are you going to do?" Iceman asked.

Wolverine opened the door to his hotel room. "The Cajun and I are gonna go see if we can find a decent bar in this joint, and round up some buddies. This caper's got me on edge; too much can go wrong."

As the X-Men filed out, though, they did not notice the man watching the three of them speak.

Sub-Basement EJC-1131, RumbleDome

"Thank you for coming, ladies and gentlemen," Heihachi Mishima began.

He didn't get a response. He hadn't expected one. Bounty hunters, mercenaries, and assassins, as a general rule, were not a talkative bunch, especially these men and women.

In the unused storage space, they were crammed together like sardines. Vermilion was already glaring holes in BB Hood's back, who was engrossed in something inside her picnic basket. Al'Rashid, being Arabic, was not as uncomfortable as the rest, but Mordos Kull was crushed against the wall next to him, and appeared to be slightly annoyed by the assassin's presence. Ralf Jones and Clark Steel stood ramrod-straight on either side of the door, their hands folded behind their backs, paying close attention. Taki's eyes never left Heihachi. Koyasha was studying Rashid with a kind of gruesome intensity, paying only slight attention to what Heihachi was saying. Shadow, of the Eternal Champions, was obviously just happy to be anywhere other than her home node, and watched Heihachi intently. Finally, Blue Mary leaned on the wall in the corner, obviously wishing she was somewhere else, but listening just as intently as the rest.

"As I mentioned in my letters to you all, I am prepared to offer all of you substantial fees for two individuals who are here. Their names are Demitri Maximov and Morrigan Arnsland. They are," Heihachi's tone became ironic, "hard to miss."

Next to him, his grandson Jin Kazama bit back a chuckle.

"Dead or alive, they are worth quite a sum to me. I am prepared to offer a fee of no less than two million dollars, which is not set in stone, for their demise or arrival. Are there any questions?"

"Is it okay if I shoot 'em full of holes?"

"Ms. Hood, as long as they are demonstrably the individuals whom I seek, I do not care what you do to them."

Hood's eyes lit up. "Did you hear that, Sparky? We get to use lethal force!"

The puppy barked happily.

"What are 'dollars'?" Al'Rashid asked, his English accented heavily.

Hehachi blinked. "Currency. Money."

"Ah. I request my payment, then, to be submitted to me in English gold."

"I would prefer yen," Shadow began.

"We shall discuss that if you are able to bring me what I ask for. If there are no other questions, then," Heihachi concluded, cutting off a half-dozen protests of competence, "I shall turn you loose. Good hunting, ladies and gentlemen."

The bounty hunters filed out.

"Grandfather?"

"Yes, Jin?"

"Why are you hiring assassins to deal with this man Maximov? Why not just deal with him yourself?"

Heihachi turned to look at Jin. "Not a man. A vampire. He wronged me a long time ago, when I was attending this event as a spectator. I have kept this in mind for these last twenty years." Heihachi cracked his knuckles. "Maximov is far too intelligent to be caught by any of those whom I've dispatched after him, and, if the years have dulled him, two million dollars is a small price to pay for revenge. If they have not, my 'employees' will throw him off balance, and I will be more than willing to take advantage."

Jin nodded. "That's a good idea."

Heihachi smiled. "I'm so glad you approve, grandson."

"But what about the God of Fight? What about Ogre?"

"You, me, Kuma, and Ling will deal with him when the time comes. Now, go train. We've only got a few days until the tournament starts."

Bazaar, Rumble Week

"Ho, friend Wolf! Watch, as I knock over these bottles, and win a prize!"

Stryker grinned. It hadn't been terribly exciting at home since Shao Kahn had been defeated, so he'd decided to use up some of his vacation time to come to the Rumble. Now, as an added bonus, he was running a target-shooting game, tucked in between Caffeine Nicotine's "You Too Can Learn An Ancient Fighting Style If You Can Tear Up This Matchbook" stand and some blue-haired anime girl who was selling okonomiyaki, and he'd been raking in the cash.

Each target consisted of six bottles, stacked on top of each other one-on-two-on-three. The beginner target was three feet from the customers; the intermediate, six; the advanced, nine. He'd provided three guns that fired ping-pong balls in sets of five. However, while the guns were more than enough to knock down the first two targets, the third was somewhat more difficult. The guns didn't quite have the range to do more than jar the bottles, unless fired just right.

The two men in front of him were finding this out. He recognized them both from the fighting last year; their names were Jeffry McWild and Wolf Hawkfield, and they were Virtua Fighters. Neither of them were what could be called crack shots, but both had managed to knock down the first two targets, winning a small dart gun and a stuffed bear. The advanced target confounded both of them, though, and both men had blown about five bucks trying to knock it down.

Wolf finally threw his gun down on the counter. "This is hopeless."

Stryker kept his face carefully blank. "No, it's not. We had someone win just the other day."

"Really?" Wolf was suspicious. "Who might that have been?"

"Well, her name was Hood..." Stryker scratched his head. "I had to take her prizes away, though. She blew out the back of the booth with an automatic weapon."

Wolf grimaced. "Ouch."

"You're tellin' me."

Jeffry, meanwhile, was taking careful aim with his last shot. As he did so, he blinked, and straightened up. "Ho, friend Wolf! I have come up with a new strategy!"

"What now, Jeffry?" Wolf rubbed his temple.

Jeffry, beaming the whole time, fired his gun into his hand and flung the ping-pong ball at the target with all his strength. Bottles went flying.

"I did it, friend Wolf!" Jeffry cheered.

Stryker gaped at him. "Um... congratulations. Here's your UVR T-shirt... how in the..."

Jeffry, beaming, put on the T-shirt and led Wolf away, looking for another game.

Sub-Basement 8-23-12, RumbleDome Hotel

"...and, finally, there is that man." With a wave of his hand, Blackheart allowed the scrying pool to fade, obscuring the image of Jeffry McWild.

"A pUrE sOuL," Asmodeus hissed. The room was far too small for his physical body, but he made do by warping his dimensional portal appropriately. As ever, Grendal stood by his side, ever alert for someone he could bludgeon. "I hAvE nOt SeEn ItS lIkE fOr MilLeNnIa."

"I have never seen its like..." Jedah said, dividing his attention between the gathering of demons and the intricate design he was carving in his left arm.

"That'zzz becauzzzze you're zzzzo damn buzzzzy carving yourzzzelf up," Q-Bee muttered under her breath. Lilith Arnsland, next to her, remained silent.

"You were right to call us here, Blackheart," Ogre mused. He stood in his smaller form; his voice carried an unmistakable hint of the urbane. His brainwashed slave, Nina Williams, was with him, staring intently at absolutely nothing. "One of the more innocent lives I've had the pleasure of examining, and a fighter... that's Thanksgiving dinner for me."

"NoT lIkElY, WoRm," Asmodeus interjected. Grendal, next to him, took a practice swing with his club. "A sOuL oF tHaT qUaLiTy wIlL iNcReAsE mY pOweR a ThOuSaNdFoLd."

"Is that a threat, my good... what are you, anyway?" Ogre calmly stood up straight, and assumed a Mishima karate stance. Nina, next to him, instantly snapped into her own stance, arms ready.

Jedah's blood suddenly surged between Asmodeus and Ogre in a short vermilion wall. "Gentlemen, there's no need to fight... the soul will be mine in the end anyway, so you might as well not waste your time beating each other senseless."

"ENOUGH." Blackheart's voice carried the unmistakable authority of a King of Hell. "Do not fight amongst yourselves for a treasure of infinite value, fools. I command it."

"Dear chap, what authority, exactly, do you have over me? We're from different dimensions," Ogre asked calmly. He seemed to ignore Asmodeus' gaze.

"Different dimensions, different worlds, but Hell is always the same," Blackheart sneered. "Think on this, little man; if I possess the power to become the king of my Hell, how much better will you fare if you move against me?"

Ogre pondered this for a moment. "Point."

Blackheart grinned viciously. "See that you remember it." He waved his hand a second time, to reveal another room, elsewhere in the hotel. "We, of course, are not the only ones plotting. There are items and beings of great power abroad at this event, and all seek to turn them to their greatest advantage. Jeffry McWild is a pure soul, and we all know the value of those. A man named Ryo Sakazaki is here, who was instrumental to thwarting the Dark Guy's plans at the last tournament, as well as having been touched by divine powers. Also, there is Demitri Maximov. The price on his head in the realms of Hell is legendary."

The assembled demons nodded. Demitri had made the Dark Guy look a fool by escaping from his realm; that kind of anger crossed dimensions and times. Everything from the smallest imp to a demon king knew of the reward for Demitri's head and/or soul.

"But, of course, we must deal with the various mortals who seek similar goals if we are to succeed. For example, this one." Blackheart's scrying pool came alive a second time.

Asmodeus recognized the man who came into focus. "DeiMoS..."

Room 1237, RumbleDome Hotel

"These rooms," Lord Deimos murmured, "are adequate."

The room was sumptuous. Since its devastation last year, the RumbleDome Hotel's upper floors had undergone an almost total renovation, employing state-of-the-art architectural techniques to build something both durable and comfortable at once. Each luxury room, one of which Deimos had paid for with Arabian gold, came with a waterbed, satellite television, a video-game system of the tenant's choice, wet bar, fully stocked refrigerator and kitchen, shag carpeting, and full climate control.

Of course, Deimos' opinion of his room was colored to a certain extent by the company he was keeping. Sir Dregan and the man known only as the Executioner were not particularly good company; Dregan's manners were impeccable, but both of them smelled strongly of death and pain.

"Where is Rashid?" Deimos demanded. "That Arabian jackal was meant to enter here long ago."

"I don't know any more than I did the last time you shrieked at me, Deimos," the Executioner growled. He leaned on his axe as he said it, knowing full well it was the only thing keeping him alive in the face of his impertinence.

"If he does not--" Deimos began, but was cut off by the door opening.

"This realm," Al'Rashid began in his heavy accent, "is wondrously strange. Scheherazade herself could not have dreamed of the sights I have seen this day--"

"Yes, yes, very well. You're a thousand years in the future, fool. Their magicians have evidently learned much. What have you to report?"

"I have asked questions of all I dared, Deimos, and passed on your offers of employment," Rashid said, helping himself to a glass of something from the bar; Deimos had found the spirits from it weak and unpalatable, but Rashid savored them. "There are others who, if not from our time, are from a time nearby, and were quite interested in your offer. They will approach us in due time."

"Sire?" Dregan asked.

"What?"

"Why hast thou spread such an offer? Do you not believe our numbers sufficient, aye, even mayhap o'ermuch, for any task that may be set before us? My might alone can wipe a field clean of the enemy."

"Dregan, this is not an ordinary campaign." Deimos sat down roughly on the couch, which complained under the weight of his armor. "Asmodeus is here. There are other mages and sorcerers here, some with powers that might even exceed Asmodeus's."

Dregan gasped. Rashid, at the bar, swallowed wrong and appeared to be having difficulty breathing. The Executioner snorted in disdain.

"The Infinity Gems, for example, which I was able to gain some information on, confer virtual omnipotence to those who procure all six of them. There is a blade called Soul Edge that confers unbelievable might upon its wielder, as well as another mystical blade, here as well, which I have felt the presence of, but not yet seen. Finally, there is a man named Guy, who won this tourney the last time it was held, and thus may have become a conduit for powers beyond human comprehension."

"'May have'?" the Executioner muttered.

"Better to find out for ourselves than learn it was so when an enemy uses it against us," Deimos replied smoothly. "Here is my plan."

Room 1247, RumbleDome Hotel

"...so, your fighter takes..." Lion Rafale rolled some dice, "...17 points of damage from the ogre's club."

"Aw, man..." Yin grumbled. "I've only got 10 left. Yang, I don't suppose...?"

"I already used up all my healing spells, Yin," Yang replied. "Does anyone else have anything they can help him with?"

"Umm... is this a healing spell or something?" Sie Kensou pointed at his character sheet.

"Naptha's something you use to set a fire, Sie," Ibuki replied. "Lion, I'm throwing a dagger at the lead goblin."

Lion looked up. "Okay, roll. His AC's 6."

"You guys do this for fun?" Rimururu asked. "This seems just like you're playing house to me."

The six of them were sprawled out in Lion Rafale's luxury suite, playing AD&D (for which Lion had just about every book ever printed). For one reason or another, they'd all decided not to go out to the festivals that night, so they'd elected to hang out in Lion's room and take advantage of the kitchen and wet bar (unfortunately, the bar had been restocked with soda pop; the Rumble management was ever-alert for something which could result in another lawsuit, such as underage drunken martial artists on high floors of a tall building).

"You're not enjoying the game, Rim?" Lion asked. "By the way, Ibuki, the goblin pitches over with your dagger in his eye."

Ibuki grinned. "Of course he does."

Rimururu giggled. "Ne, I am. I like the part about being able to cast spells and stuff--I'm going to cast this sleep spell, I think, on the lead goblin--but the rest of it is just like how my life is back home. It's kind of weird."

"That must be cool," Yin said. "Lion, I'm running away. Fast."

"Good plan. Rim, your sleep spell knocks out five of 'em."

"Yay! It's okay, Yin, I guess," Rimururu said. "I do like it when I'm here, though." She stood up. "I'm going to go get a candy bar from the... vend... ing ma... chine. Is that how you pronounce it?" Ibuki nodded. "Does anyone else want one?"

"There's candy in the kitchen cabinet, Rimmy," Sie said.

"I know, but there're Zagnut bars in the vending machine. I like those better."

Ibuki turned around. "Zagnut bars? Can I have one?"

"Sure." Rimururu smiled.

"Do you need any change?" Lion asked.

"Nope. C'mon, Konril!" Rimururu patted her thigh, and her ice cube hopped out of the refrigerator and over to her. It frisked along behind her like a puppy as she let herself out and walked down the hallway.

When she reached the vending machine, she reached into her pocket and produced a quarter she'd borrowed from Galford. Kneeling down, she whispered, "Can you make one like this, Konril?"

The ice cube bounced up and down, and spat out a small disc of ice the same shape and size as the quarter.

"Good boy! Three more?" Rimururu patted the ice cube, picked up the "coins", and fed them into the machine. Giggling to herself, she punched the buttons and watched the candy fall into the little drawer at the bottom of the machine. Picking them up, she noticed the door to the next suite over hanging ajar, and walked over. Who's room is this? she wondered. Maybe they'd want to play that game...

She reached to close the door, and a single word reached her ears: "...Guy."

Rimururu kneeled next to the door and listened. Guy had won the last Rumble... he was back to defend his title, if she remembered correctly. Galford had been hoping for a rematch ever since they'd gotten the invitation. Quietly, she eased open the door and peered through.

The man she saw was tall, and wore a turban and veil. She didn't recognize him, but she saw the scimitars at his waist and immediately became wary. Both blades were stained to the hilt with blood. He was listening intently to whoever was talking.

"...champion from the year before that was a conduit for divine powers. The vampire, Maximov, tried and was prevented from tapping into that power via a sacrifice." Rimururu held back a gasp. They were talking about Haohmaru! "Then, this man 'Guy' won the tournament, dissipating the power."

"If the power was dissipated, why do you want this new champion's soul?" The new voice was rough, and oozed cruelty. It reminded Rimururu of Genjuro's voice.

"He is a champion, and as such, he may have the same kind of dormant power the last one did. Even if there isn't, a man can always use a spare soul..." The speaker began to laugh evilly.

Rimururu got to her feet and snuck away as quickly as she dared. They were going to kidnap and murder Guy!

She had to tell Nakoruru about this...

Main Offices, RumbleDome

"So, how was your vacation, anyway?" Wanderer asked Birdman. The two of them were going over printouts of the scheduled draw for the Rumble on their way to the security offices.

"Good and relaxing. Unlike yours."

Wanderer studied the floor intently. "I didn't *mean* to start being on television all the time... it just sort of happened."

"That's right, attention junkie. Deny it."

"I am not a junkie."

"Classic signs, man. Denial and everything." Birdman, still reading the printout, kicked the door to the security office open, and walked right into a nine-foot tall mecha.

He immediately tried to climb into the air. Printer paper scattered.

"Don't worry," Mimic called from behind his desk, "it's unarmed and unmanned." A sign above his desk declared to all who cared to look: FABRICATI DIEM, PVNC. He was rolling constantly back and forth between the two computers on either end of his desk, one Mac, one PC, each computer accompanied by a currently blank monitor. Each time he rolled across the desk, he ran the risk of tipping over one of the two glass cases behind him; both had a small hand-lettered sign on them reading IN CASE OF DARK GUY, BREAK GLASS. "I gave the pilots the week off when I got them."

"Now you tell us." Wanderer poked his head hesitantly into the office, his face white, to see seven more of the mecha stacked up against the wall, posed on objects that looked somewhat like mechanical dressmaker's dummies. "What in the hell are those?"

Mimic kept his eyes fixed firmly on his computer screens. "They're suits of power armor, obviously. I rented 'em from the Virtua On node for the duration of the Rumble and had the techs shrink 'em down. When in doubt, go with something that can level a terrestrial hemisphere, right?"

"Only eight? You couldn't get Zero Gouki?" Birdman asked.

"That," Mimic said, glancing momentarily up from his screen, "would be silly."

The office door suddenly gave a loud creak, slowly swinging open on its hinges. Wanderer and Birdman turned to see who it was; Mimic didn't even look up before speaking. "Ah, that would be Vincent. Guys, I'd like you to meet my Second-in-Command of Security for this event. Vincent, if you please?"

The tall figure nodded, slowly. Clad in a blood-red ensemble of cape, boots, headgear and body armor, the man had a oddness to his body language and movements that set him apart as much as his odd choice in clothes. In one hand, he carried a large paper shopping bag, the other hand currently adjusting the newly added UVR badge on his chest. "Gentlemen, my name is Vincent Valentine. I have been hired by Mr. Sher to assist with enforcing your security measures for the 'Rumble'. Mr. Sher, that is, 'Mimic', told me that you would be aware of my qualifications for this position. Do I meet with your approval?"

Wanderer glanced to Birdman, who shrugged and nodded. "No problem here, Vincent. You're in."

Birdman craned his neck to see what Vincent was carrying in the shopping bag; "What've you got in there, anyway?" Mimic's smile broke into a grin as this question was asked.

Vincent stepped towards Mimic's desk, and placed the bag in front of his superior officer. "Two dozen video tapes, Mr. 'Birdman', containing films from an area known to you as 'Hong Kong'. Most of them feature a man named Chow Yun-Fat. Mimic thought that I might find the creative uses of firearms in these movies... instructive. I quite agree. Your tapes, sir."

There was a pregnant silence for a moment after that.

"Oh. My. God," Wanderer murmured.

"Thought you might like that," Mimic replied. Hitting the power switch on both computers, he rolled to the middle of the desk. "Okay, I've got the perimeter secured. The guards are armed and motivated. So far, we haven't had any real incidents except for some kind of altercation outside Uncle Albert's shop yesterday."

"Between...?" Birdman prompted.

"Sean and Dan." Mimic grimaced. "Weirdest damn fight I've ever seen. Anyway, things have been quiet, which means anything that's going to happen is in the 'creep around in dark alleys and plot' stage. We're standing ready."

"No one will dare do anything after the first who tries. I guarantee it," Vincent said. The crack of doom was implicit in every word.

"Good to hear it--" Birdman started to leave.

"-- except for one thing." Mimic gestured at the suits of armor. "Those constitute my quick-response, hard-hitting, oh-hell-Juggernaut-got-drunk-on-Jaegermeister-and-is-trashing-the-'Dome strike team. However, I have no one who can pilot them."

"Are they hard to work?" Wanderer asked.

"No, but I don't have anyone I can spare to use them, according to the security perimeter Vincent and I worked out. I want to have people sitting in that armor for the duration in case something goes wrong."

Wanderer shrugged. "We could put Tristan in one of them..."

Birdman snorted. "Yeah, sure. Tristan can't call for pizza without a personal crisis. Putting him in power armor would be a waste. How about--"

The intercom buzzed at that point.

Mimic pushed the button. "Yes?"

"Hey, Mr. Mimic, sir, this is Kelly... are Birdman and-slash-or Wanderer up there?" There was a sharp report as Kelly popped her gum into the receiver.

"Who's this?" Mimic asked.

"That's Kelly... she's the secretary." Birdman leaned over the desk. "What's going on?"

"We got a bunch of little guys here, Mr. Birdman. They say that they're here as observers to make sure nothing bad happens to their node like last year...?"

"Tell them that we have no idea what they're--"

There was an indignant yell as the other end of the intercom was commandeered. "We sent you a letter last year. We're here to make sure that nothing happens to our village like it did last year, smurf-face."

"Patience, my little smurf..." another voice added.

"Smurf?" Wanderer wondered aloud.

"Smurfs," Birdman responded.

"Smurfs!" Mimic burst out.

"What?" Wanderer asked.

Mimic hit the button. "Um, Mr. Smurf, and company, please come up to our offices. We will be more than willing to let you observe."

"The security officer's cracked again, Birdman," Wanderer observed. "It takes a shorter time every year."

"Oh, come on." Mimic grinned ear-to-ear. "I have an idea."

Rumble Week

"It is good to see you again, Liu Kang."

"Likewise." The two shook hands. "This is Kai, a Shaolin like myself. Kai, this is Ryu. We know each other from various tournaments in the past."

"It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, sir." Kai shook Ryu's hand almost mechanically.

"You can relax, Kai," Liu Kang said. "This is a carnival. It's allowed."

"Shinnok could attack at any time," Kai said, quite seriously.

Ryu almost cracked a smile. "Who might Shinnok be?"

Liu Kang rolled his eyes. "Another year, another interdimensional tyrant threatening Earth. What've you been up to?"

"A new Street Fighter tournament was declared this year. I have been competing. The fighters are quite skilled."

"Same old same old, then?"

"I would not have it any other way."

Kang clapped him on the back. "I'm sure. C'mon. I'll buy you a drink and we'll talk about old times." The two of them began walking towards the nearest bar.

They didn't make it.

About halfway there, a small blur moving at a high speed hit Ryu and knocked him head-over-heels to the ground. The blur wore a sailor suit.

"Ryu! I'm so glad you're here! I finally caught up to you, and we're going to be in the same place for a whole week! I can finally get some training out of you!"

"Sakura," Ryu began, "shouldn't you be in school?"

"I'm on summer break! Besides, they're used to me being out of class; they let me out all the time now ever since I blew out the wall of the gym." Sakura finally got up and helped Ryu to his feet. Kai and Liu Kang regarded the scene with amusement.

Ryu looked at Kang. "Yes?"

"I didn't see anything."

"Of course not." Ryu turned back to Sakura, and studied her for a moment. "Sakura, you look... just the same as you did years ago."

"What are you talking about? I just saw you last week at the mall."

Ryu was baffled. "What *are* you talking about?"

Sakura giggled. "You know, that weird tournament? With Apocalypse?"

"Who is Apocalypse?"

Sakura slowly stopped giggling. "That's not funny, Ryu. Apocalypse nearly killed us all. Don't make jokes about it."

"I am not making jokes. Who is Apocalypse?" A sick suspicion began to overtake Ryu. "Sakura, how old are you?"

"Ryu, I'm sixteen. You know that."

The suspicion was confirmed. "I am not sure what I know anymore, Sakura..." Ryu quickly turned away. "I will speak to you later. Right now, I need to talk to Kang. Alone."

"Um, okay..." Sakura was confused. "I'll look you up when I get back to the hotel, then."

"Yes... that might be for the best..." Ryu nearly cursed as he walked away from her.

"What was that all about?" Kang murmured.

"Akuma's dimensional traveling at the end of the third Dream Tournament caused a number of difficulties. It is difficult for me to remember exactly what occurred then, but I do know, because of Rose, that we somehow traveled through time. Some of the things that happened during that time are hazy to me, and I barely remember them; Ken remains convinced that the whole thing was but a dream even today." Ryu's eyes were distant. "But Sakura is here, no older than I remember her being. I need to leave."

"What? Where are you going?"

"I need to find Chun Li." Ryu was running before he finished his sentence.

Ballroom, RumbleDome

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen," Birdman said, resplendent in a suit and tie, "and welcome to the pre-Rumble festivities."

Unlike the rest of Rumble Week, the party before the Rumble itself was fighters only. Security was out in force to make sure that nothing funny or explosive occurred at the party, and some fighters, such as Asmodeus or Juggernaut, had not been invited at all, instead being coerced or forced into staying in their rooms during the festivities.

King was catering and bartending this event by general consensus, and thus had known well enough to give Shun Di and Chin Gentsai their own bar in the corner, which was approximately five times as big as the one everyone else was using. This kept both of them well occupied playing shot-beer-shot-beer for most of the night.

The food was nothing fancy; however, the hamburgers, served by the chef of Burgertime fame, were fantastic. The punch got spiked, of course, but aside from an ugly incident involving Xiao Long, Dhalsim and the true nature of enlightenment, no harm was done, and fresh punch was brought in. The party, all in all, was going incredibly well, especially when considering the occupations of the people attending it.

There was only one small thing going wrong.

The band was... different.

Oh, all right. The band sucked.

The New Faces, a rock band snatched up at the last minute by Birdman when no one else accepted, were all right under ideal circumstances, but these were not ideal circumstances.

Yashiro Nanakase tried to concentrate on the music, but it proved difficult. As he started up one of the band's old numbers, something bounced off of his head and skidded to a stop on the stage next to him.

He tried not to look at it, but he did anyway.

The human arm quietly stopped twitching, but managed to throw itself off the stage before it ceased to move.

Yashiro threw down his guitar in disgust. "All right, you freaks--"

"Ooooh...." one of the freaks in question jeered. "Is the leader of the little suck band getting upset?" Rancid had the biggest imaginable grin on his face.

"We wouldn't want that, would we?" Orion added, flinging a disembodied leg at Chris. It bounced off of the boy's blue shirt and rang his cymbal for him. Chris whimpered.

"BRING OUT INSANE CLOWN POSSE!" Leif, who was very drunk at this point, yelled. His tossed limb went well to the left of the stage, and wound up knocking a waiter over.

"Ummm... could you stop dismantling my friends, please?" Tempest asked. She and a couple of the other Bloodstormers had had the table next to the Time Killers, before the Time Killers had decided they needed ammunition. The other Bloodstormers were fulfilling that purpose, and lay scattered across the floor and stage.

The Time Killers, of course, ignored her in favor of jeering at the New Faces. Unfortunately for them, the 'Killers were gatecrashers, a point that was driven home quite near instantly by Vincent's summoned chocobo, which ran up and kicked them out of the room via the window. Since the dance hall happened to be on the tenth floor of the hotel, most of them ended the night, as they often did when they were at the Rumble, in the infirmary.

"I'll have white wine, please," Erland said.

"I'll have the same," Shinesta added.

"Whiskey," Xenobia murmured.

"Ale," Torgo finished.

"There are no tabs tonight, ladies and gentlemen," King said. "I'll need money up front."

Erland made to pay, but Torgo fished a small purse out of his pocket. "I'll get it." He opened the purse and slid six copper coins across the counter at King.

King was unimpressed. "You've got to be kidding."

"What?" Torgo demanded. "That's copper, sure an' right enough."

"That's not enough for the price of a drink, pal. I'm gonna need a few hundred more of those if you want those drinks."

"A FEW HUNDRED?!" Torgo appeared on the verge of swallowing his own tongue.

Xenobia turned around. "Drinks are a hundred copper?"

King nodded. "Or two bucks, if you've got it." She was used to currency disputes by now; not only did she have a half-dozen different kinds of money in her registers, but, for example, Mordos Kull had tried to barter livestock for his drinks, Sophitia bought herself wine with a hacksilver bracelet, and Galford's early 19th century American money was next to worthless.

Xenobia seemed a little taken aback by this, but nodded. "Fine, then, but you had best serve me that whiskey in a rainbarrel, for this price." She slid a gold coin across the counter at King. "Will that, then, buy me a drink?"

As she picked up the heavy gold coin, King's eyes bugged out of their sockets. "This... will do..." She hurriedly went about serving them all their drinks.

"The girl's feeble," Torgo muttered into his ale mug. "She can't count. First it's hundreds of copper, then it's a single gold... all for this weak swill."

Xenobia leaned against the bar. "As I keep telling you, at least it's--"

"--not Ravenloft, aye, that's true enough." Torgo downed the rest of his ale.

King tapped Xenobia on the shoulder. "Here's your change, Miss." Xenobia turned, and King handed her a thick sheaf of small papers.

"Change?" Xenobia sorted through the paper. "This isn't..." Her eyes fell on the numbers, and she gestured at King with one of the papers. "This, then, is a 'buck'?"

King nodded.

Xenobia fished out a buck with a twenty printed on its corners, and handed it to King. "You have nice eyes, girl."

King turned a vivid shade of something between pink and purple. Xenobia, ignoring this, went back to counting her money. When she was done, she sat down on her barstool as if she'd lost her bones.

"Is something wrong, Xen?" Shinesta asked.

"I think... I think we're all rich," Xenobia breathed.

Hanzo Hattori had begun this evening simply. It was not often that he was afforded the opportunity to have a quiet cup of sake, and almost unheard of for him to be able to talk to his peers without a sword blade being involved. He had had an exquisite conversation with Ukyo Tachibana about the values of American trade and the art of the haiku, but it had been interrupted by a loud argument happening at the next table over.

"You have no skill," one of the men involved sneered.

"How," another man, an American with long blond hair, growled, "can you say that?" Hanzo knew the blond man; his name was Terry Bogard. He was a fighter from Hanzo's own world, but a century later. He sat at a table with three other Americans, another man and two women, all blond, all looking equally annoyed. The other man, an Asian man wearing a white suit, was not familiar to Hanzo.

Ukyo coughed. "... so much... for quiet..."

Hanzo stood. "Gentlemen, is there a problem?"

Bogard looked at Hanzo. "He appears to think that anyone who's mastered a projectile technique is a-- how did you put it?"

The Asian sneered. "A fool without fighting skill who must rely on strange talents and skills to carry him through a fight, rather than the conditioning and training of the mind and body."

"You are so far off-base it's not even funny, pal," the other American man added.

"Masters is right, for once," one of the women said. "I don't know any distance moves; how'd you like me to show you how little skill I have? You can apologize after the bones knit."

"Mary, please--" Bogard said.

Mary snorted, but stayed quiet.

The other woman put a hand on Masters' sleeve. "Ken, come on. We were having such a nice dinner..." Ken Masters -- Hanzo recognized him now; he looked out of place without his gi, and older besides -- visibly relaxed.

Hanzo turned to the Asian. "Your issue is with those who have learned distance techniques, then?"

The Asian man nodded defiantly.

Hanzo considered him for a moment. He was definitely a martial artist, and he appeared to be in good shape. He was arrogant, but so many were. "If I said I could teach you such a technique, would it change your opinion?"

The man's jaw dropped. "You can teach it?"

Hanzo nodded. "It is not simple, but it is possible. What is your name?"

"Kagemaru."

"Very well, Kagemaru. My name is Hattori Hanzo. Come to my quarters tomorrow at sunrise, and we shall see if you are capable of learning such techniques." Hanzo walked back to his table and quietly sat down.

Kagemaru watched him go with wide eyes.

On the dance floor, they were like clockwork on ice.

Next to her, Ryo still felt like both his feet were the left one, but he managed, somehow, to keep up with Athena. She could dance, he'd give her that; he'd never seen her do it before, but once she started, she seemed unable to stop. The music was some punk band -- Duck King had finally given in and agreed to DJ for the dance, saving the New Faces a great deal of embarrassment--but Athena moved to it like a ballroom waltz.

"Aren't you having fun, Ryo?" she yelled over the music.

"Sure!" he yelled back. "I love this band!"

Athena giggled. "You didn't strike me as the Operation Ivy type, Ryo..."

Ryo tried to hide his look of confusion without success. "Who?"

"I have one of their records! They're great!" Athena turned around again and kept moving, singing along, saving Ryo the embarrassment of having to continue the conversation.

"Can I cut in?"

Ryo thought whoever it was was asking for Athena, so his surprise was total when he was grabbed by both wrists and whirled away from her. He was spinning around in dance steps he didn't recognize, off-balance, until he was snapped up to his feet and looking into a very familiar face.

Morrigan Arnsland kissed him on the nose. "You never write, Ryo, you never call..."

Ryo pushed her away from him. "What in the hell are you doing here?"

She acted offended. "Just visiting with some of my friends. I'm sorry I couldn't make it to the wedding... I had a dress picked out, flowers, everything."

"Stop trying to screw with my mind, Arnsland. It won't work."

"Oh, I know it won't, love. Your whole family has insane amounts of willpower... I learned that last year." Morrigan smiled widely at the look of anger on Ryo's face. "Besides, I'm not here to try and seduce you away from Chinese Spice over there."

"Then why are you here?" Morrigan said that last part singsong, simultaneously with Ryo.

"A warning, actually." Morrigan leaned in and wound her arms around his neck; she smelled like roses and something wild. "You're a marked man, Ryo. Demitri's here, the Dark Guy's here, and there are demons here. They all want you for the blue plate special. Watch yourself."

Ryo slipped out from between her arms. "Thanks for the warning. What's in it for you?"

Morrigan moved backward, melting into the other dancing bodies like smoke. "If I let them take you, Ryo, you'll never be able to repay my favor from last year. Later, love!" With that, she was gone, either physically or mentally; dancers moved to conceal her, and when they moved away, she was no longer there.

Athena, sweating, hopped up next to Ryo. "What's up? I lost track of you! Hey, you're so pale..."

Ryo turned to her and forced a smile. "I think that food didn't agree with me. I'm going to sit down."

Athena's eyebrows lowered. "Oh, I hope you aren't sick.. that wouldn't be any good 'cause then we couldn't fight together later on and you'd have to watch from your hotel room and then I'd probably have to beg off because I'd want to make sure you got better and then there wouldn't be two hundred fighters and the organizers would get mad and--"

Ryo stopped listening to her fuss as she led them both to a corner booth. He was too busy worrying. Demons. Demitri... what have I gotten myself into?

Nighttime, Rumble Week Bazaar

After midnight, in one of the bazaar's storerooms, one of the boxes opened.

It was supposed to have been empty.

This completely escaped the notice of the man who climbed out of it.

As he stood, he threw his hair back behind his head and looked around.

"Mai?" he called out. "Mai, are you here?"

When no one answered, he smirked. "Good." With a flick of his fingers, he created a spark of chi, and used it to see around him.

He kicked out the back door and walked into the street outside, unhurriedly, trying to put as much distance between him and the broken door as he could.

Unfortunately, he didn't move quite fast enough. A flashlight beam lit him up from behind.

"Turn around and put your hands on your head!" a voice cried. With a sigh, the man did so, moving as slowly as he could, squinting against the light.

The guard with the flashlight couldn't have been very old, in his early twenties at the latest. He held a small rifle, a flashlight taped to the bottom of the barrel. When the light hit the man in the face, the guard squinted for a moment, and then smiled.

"Hey, I know you!"

"Do you, now?" the man muttered.

"Yeah, you're on Team Italy! You're one of those Bogard brothers, from the KOF tournament." The guard lowered his gun. "Man, I'm one of your biggest fans, Andy--"

He shouldn't've lowered his gun.

The man's foot slid out in a smooth overhead kick, slamming the guard's head downward, nearly breaking his neck. As the guard stumbled forward, the man's fist shot out into his solar plexus, then the back of the guard's head. The guard crumpled like old tinfoil.

"You're not one of my fans at all," EX Andy Bogard said.

The Overworked Writer:
Thomas "Wanderer" Wilde

The Editor and Schemer:
Christopher "Birdman" Bird

The Comic Relief and Smurf Wrangler:
Isaac "Mimic" Sher

The Webpage Guru:
Scott Archer
[http://www.slack.net/~arctic/uvr3.html]

Special thanks go out to:
Bruce Y. Chung, for services above and beyond the call of common sense.
Rift, for helping Wanderer out with KOF96 knowledge.
Anthony "Little Mac" Jennings, for sideline editorial work.