Mortal Kombat - Smoke Ch. 01

Finally, after the last of the crush fades, I take a moment to rest. I have one hour left in my shift, but I'm luckily entitled to another break soon, so this last part should go by fast. With no one lining up at the registers, I take a few seconds to let my mind drift off into space and look forward to relaxing once I get home.

One more hour and I can go home, kick off my shoes and watch Hotch and the gang track down the newest serial killer. Maybe they'll finally catch-

"Sara!"

A deep voice snaps me out of my happy trance, dragging me back into reality with an exhausted groan. I look up to see James, one of the store's senior salesmen striding toward me, a look of serious confusion on his face. His short, dark hair is slicked back today with about ten tons of gel, and his soft brown eyes are narrowed in focus. It's odd, but nice, to see him like this. Usually, his hair is wild and messy and his eyes are always staring at my boobs. But right now, he looks less like the owner's son and more like the owner's apprentice.

His eyes find me and his usual, sloppy smile returns. I sigh to myself, hiding my annoyance. James has been chasing me down since my first day here, promising me promotions and pay raises if I went out with him (and slept with him) once. I'm not that desperate or that stupid, so I declined his offer, opting to prove my worth to his father instead. It was a good choice since his dad would rather claw out his own eyes than fire me because of a jilted son.

"Yes?" I ask happily, trying to mask my annoyance.

James walks over to my half of the counter and leans over it, bracing his elbows on the slick surface and cupping his round face in his hands. "There's a few guys in the knives department who are giving us hell."

I cock a brow at him. "They're not being assholes, are they?"

He shakes his head. "No, just being super indecisive. It's an off-duty cop and two cosplay ninja guys. Dylan's been working with them for half an hour, but the cop can't make up his damn mind. He's gone through at least twenty blades."

Great, another indecisive idiot who can't pick...wait...

"What do you mean by cosplay ninja guys?" I ask cautiously, hoping this isn't another one of his pranks.

James sighs. "I'm not lying about this one. There's two guys back there with the cop dressed who look like they walked out of Street Fighter. It's freaky, Sara. One of them looks like he wants to kill me."

He wouldn't be the first...

Sad, but true. James is a nice guy, but he can come off as an ass sometimes. He's the owner's son, so he's got a little of that "boss-man swagger" that shouldn't belong to him just yet. Some people think it's a sign of character, others find it offensive that he's trying to be his father. Personally, I just think it's annoying and ignore it.

"So...what do you want me to do?" I ask, already knowing his answer.

He looks into my eyes, his gaze cold and slightly fearful. "I want you to help them. You're the resident knives and weaponry expert, so you should know what they want. Besides, you're a ninja in your own right. They won't freak you out."

I sigh. He's got me pinned there. According to our laws, every Necromancer child is taught to fight from a very early age. Since my father is basically leading the Japanese Necromancer army, this was an inflexible rule for me. They're encouraged to pick a specific fighting style and stick with it for the rest of their lives. For me, it was ninjitsu. I've been flying, kicking, punching and handling blades since I was in elementary school, so yes, I know what I'm talking about when it comes to weaponry. It was one of the main reasons Mr. Fowler hired me, besides my amazing abilities to do math correctly and smile a lot.

"Alright, fine," I groan. "At least I'll get a few minutes to breathe without another geriatric horndog breathing down my shirt."

James laughs at me. "At it again, are they?"

I scowl. "It's like the Small World ride at Disneyland. It never stops."

He smiles and steps around the counter. "Then I'll take over your spot. Maybe they'll give me their numbers instead."

I laugh and roll my eyes at him, but accept his offer for personal space. Not only will I be in my element at the knives counter, but being back there will get me away from the hoard of horny men and envious women waiting to line up at my register. I turn and sign out of my register, moving aside so James can take my place. He signs in and gently shoves me out from behind the register, urging me to head down to the knives counter so the indecisive guests don't get bored and decide to kill Dylan.

I slip out from the cubicle-like compartment of the register, waving to Emma as I leave. She smiles and waves back, mouthing words of encouragement and envy as I leave. James waves goodbye too, a last-ditch effort to remind me that he's still interested. I smile back awkwardly. James would make a wonderful husband for the right woman, but not for me.

Not interested at all, but thanks.

Tearing away from the mass of men and women lining up to check out, I make my way towards the back of the store where the knives are held. While our store deals mainly in clothing and home accessories, we do sell a lot of weaponry. No high-powered guns or ammo, though. Our manager doesn't believe in the Second Amendment for some reason, but he's more than willing to sell a random person an eight-inch blade. Go figure. I guess it's good for me, though. I know a lot about knives and traditional combat techniques, but I'm clueless about firearms.

That's right. I live in America and I don't know how to shoot a gun. Sue me.

I walk down the endless rows of merchandise, dodging customers left and right as I make my way back. Amazing how people never bother to look up when they're pushing a cart, then get angry when they crash into you. Taking a sharp left, I pass by the wall of flatscreens, watching the over-hyped reruns of past games from the corner of my eye.

At the end of the electronics section there's a row of glass and wood cabinets set up parallel to the wall that contain all of our blades and smaller types of weapons. The entire department goes to the far wall, about six cabinets down, with the heavy-duty weapons like machetes and swords lining the wall behind the cabinets. The cabinets themselves, along with the bigger items behind them, are locked up tight. Only myself, James and the store owner have the keys, so if a thief wanted to steal an antique claymore, he'd probably want to go after James. The owner stays locked in the main office, making him almost impossible to get to, and I'd probably just kick the thief's ass.

As I get closer to the counter, I can see the three men James was talking about earlier. They're standing near the cabinets, perusing the merchandise and waiting for me to come over and help them.

The one closest to me is definitely the cop. He's got the stereotypical cop face: strong, square jaw line, straight nose and a serious-looking mouth. It's his off day, so he's dressed in a tight navy shirt and loose khakis. A Yankees baseball cap hides most of his short brown hair. He's quite tall, maybe six-two, but certainly not the tallest man I've ever seen. My father's got him beat by at least three inches, and for a Japanese man, that's saying something!

The other two do honestly look like they're waiting for a cosplay convention to come around. The one closest to the cop wears several layers of navy blue fabric under a heavily embroidered Chinese-style martial arts shirt. The fabric is wrapped tightly around his neck and shoulders, and leads up to a navy face mask the hides everything below his eyes. A thick armored cap covers his head and extends down towards his back, concealing everything above his brows. His pants are black and slightly loose, although they're held tight around his claves by heavy metal shin guards and boots. A decorative metal emblem in the shape of a lion's head adorns his waist and rests above a steel-tipped strip of fabric that hangs down below the belt. Metal guards cover his forearms and biceps, making him look every inch a warrior.

His partner is just as heavily covered, but with a silver uniform instead of blue. Plates of metal have been hammered into the fabric covering his torso, mapping out his chest and abdomen. He wears a similar style of pants, but his armor is detailed with chain accents and sharp angels. His mask also hides most of his features, but he goes without a helmet, allowing a mass of ghostly-white hair to whip around in the soft breeze of the opening doors. His skin is paler than the other two, giving away his European ancestry. Dark, chocolate-brown eyes flick hurriedly around the store, seeking out any potential threat.

Whoa. Comic-Con, here we come.

As I get closer, something in my gut stirs, alerting me that these men may not be harmless comic nerds. The armored men are probably as dangerous as they look, though with those face masks I can't tell whether they're angry or relaxed. The cop looks freakishly calm around them, so he's either good friends with them or he's crooked and wants in on the score. Still, my stomach doesn't like the scene I'm looking at and twists tighter,

No. It's more than them being suspicious. It's that they...what the hell was that?

I'm motionless for an instant, staring wide-eyed at the three men in panicked confusion. Something inside me has shifted drastically, a warning light that I should probably be heeding. It's a tight, almost suffocatingly painful pressure around my abdomen that cuts off the air in my lungs. My heartbeat races, pounding in my ears as I struggle to breathe. My brain shuts off temporarily, leaving me dazed as I try to cope with my body's panic attack.

Oh, no. No!

A scorching heat settles deep within my gut, a fire that robs me of my ability to move or think. It's beyond any kind of wistful longing or teenage boy-hunger I've ever experienced. This is a yearning so deep it's almost painful, a desire so ancient and archaic it's impossible to comprehend. Something about one of these men, a supernatural aura or a hyper-sensitive piece of his soul, has gone beyond attracting me as a woman and has touched off something in my very core. Whoever it is that causing the reaction, he won't last very long if he stays in the store. The Necromancer within me, the part of my being responsible for my connection to the underworld and to death itself, wants him. Now.

Get it together, Sara. Just relax.

Taking a long deep breath, I manage to shove down the worst of the burning until it's just a small tingle under my skin. I swallow loudly as I reclaim my ability to breathe. My body hasn't quite recovered despite my commands for it to control itself. My fingers twitch and spasm uncontrollably, but they're small enough to conceal from the general public. I take another long breath and push the rest of my original desire down, hoping to hide it from whichever of them men set it off in the first place.

Shaking my head to clear it, I resume my walk towards the knife cases. Thankfully, none of the men have noticed my previous panic attack, so I won't have to explain myself while helping them. Reaching the cases, I grab my keys and unlock the small gate at the side of first case, letting it close behind me. The sound alerts the cop to my presence and he looks up from the cases, smiling at me warmly.

He's a handsome man, with classic young cop features and a perfect set of Colgate-brand teeth. Early thirties, six-three and with the slightest hint of stubble on his jaw. If I were into men in uniform, this would be my man. But I'm not, so he's just another ruggedly attractive face.

"Morning," I chirp happily. "My boss said you might need help choosing a few knives?"

His smile widens, his steely blue shining in the glaring lights above us. "Good morning back. And yes. The last two men couldn't find what I was looking for."

I smile back. "That's why they sent me."

I scan him as we chat, reaching into his soul and searching around for the source of my burning. I sigh in relief. It's not him. He's a normal man looking for knives, nothing more. The other two men have moved away from the counter, making them too far away for me to read. Mercifully, though, the burning inside me has lessened a bit since they've stepped aside. It must be one of them, I can't tell but which one.

"I'll warn you now, miss, I'm a bit picky." The cop smiles proudly as he admits his fault.

I smile wider. "Picky enough to drive Dylan off, and that's a feat here. What is it you're looking for?"

He purses his lips for a moment. "Something for close combat. Not too long, not too short."

My smile turns sarcastic. "Collector?"

He shakes his head. "No. Just learned a few new skills and I have the urge to show them off."

"Hunting knives? Or something more specialized?" I ask, sounding as professional as possible.

"Specialized, if you don't mind. And nothing too long. I'm not a swordsman."

I nod, flicking through my mental rolodex of blades. I tick off machetes, short swords and any hatchets and picks. Anything with a serrated blade goes off the list, as well. None of those will suit his needs.

I scan the cases for a moment before bending down and unlocking the cabinet on the far right. I pull out a six-inch switch blade with a solid wood handle and brass rivets. For a cop, this will fit perfectly into his arsenal.

Relocking the case, I stand up and release the blade. The cop reaches out and gently takes it from my hands, turning it in his fingers as he inspects it. I watch him carefully. He may be an officer of the law, but it wouldn't be the first time someone tried to rob me with one our blades.

A small smile crosses his lips and he inspects the knife. "Not bad for a first pick. The last two tried to sell me a sword on their first try."

I roll my eyes. Of course they would. The swords we carry, especially the big medieval-style ones, can cost thousands. Selling just one of those would make our sale quota for the entire day.

"James and Dylan and a bit more ambitious than I am," I say, leaning against the cases. "I prefer to find out what you want and sell you that."

Much appreciated," he laughs. He flicks the blade closed and hands the knife back to me. "Do you have anything bigger?"

I nod. "Just a sec."

I replace the first knife and move to the third case, pulling out and eight-inch combat blade with a composite handle and steel rivets. I hand it over to him, more comfortable letting him handle the thing on his own bust still keeping an eye on his hands. He laughs again, a grin now adorning his face.

"You're really good. I'm impressed."

I smile back proudly. "I know my blades."

He nods playfully. "I don't doubt that...maybe a tiny bit bigger."

God, he is picky.

Feeling playful, I sigh dramatically and reset the blade, enjoying the look of relief on his face. He knows I'm joking around and he's thankful for it. James and Dylan can be overly business-like at times and probably bored him to death.

Fine then. He wants bigger, we'll give him bigger.

I reach into the fifth case and pull out a foot-long steel machete. I pull the blade out of its sheath and set it down on the glass, smiling proudly at him and watching his burst out laughing at my sarcastic answer to his request.

"Now you're being a smartass." His grin never fades.

"And you're indecisive," I counter, smiling broadly.

He grins directly at me. "I like you. You actually know what you're talking about."

I sheathe machete and set it back in the case. "I need to. I was raised on blades."

"Really? I would never have guessed. You don't look-"

"Stryker." The warrior in blue, followed closely by his companion, steps up to the counter, his cold blue eyes focusing on the officer. "We don't have time for idle talk. Get your blades and let's be on our way."

The officer turns his head and gives the warrior a sharp glare. "Relax, will you? Not everything in life is a rush."

I stare at the three men, caught off guard by the sudden sharpness of their tones. The man in blue immediately makes me uneasy. Maybe it's because his tone is so cold and calculated. Come to think of it...he seems cold, and there's a sudden arctic chill in the air around him. I peer closely at him trying not to seem too obvious, and I notice that when he breathes, thin wisps of super-chilled air pour from slots in his mask. More threads of frozen air flow down from his fingertips, making a thin sheet of frost appear on the glass cases.

What the hell?

I take a tiny step back, trying to conceal my shock. It is him. He's actually freezing the air around us, making it so cold I almost start to shiver. This man isn't human at all. I'm too freaked out by his ability be naturally cold to read him and find out what he is. Some things are better left alone.

As he and the cop argue, his companion in silver also steps up to the counters, watching his two friends with slightly pained eyes. This obviously isn't the first time he's watched them bicker. Strangely, the officer and the blue warrior may be having a heated discussion, but this man has caught my eye. I turn my attention to this quieter, more mysterious warrior, trying to get a good look at him through his armor.

He's taller than the other two, but only by an inch or so. Still, that makes him well over six feet. His armor is made of thick slabs of steel and heavy black leather, making him look like a badass version of the bikers that come through the store. His eyes, from what I can see, are a dark chocolate brown. They're quite beautiful, really. His hair is barely above shoulder-length and is a pale, almost ghost-white color. It whips around in the gently breeze from the doors, catching the light and shining like liquid satin. The only parts of his body not covered in armor are his upper arms, which happen to be thick and perfectly defined. He's not a body builder by any means, but he's probably strong enough to tear a tree trunk straight from the ground without any issues.

Oh...Oh my. Those are some very nice muscles on that man. By the gods, what I would do to just touch those arms...

I nearly slap myself. I've been twenty-two for three months and I'm already devolving into a gibbering teenager! I force down the ten gallons of drool pooling in my mouth, irritated that a single man that I've never met could make me feel so childish, so foolish, so on fire...

No. Wait! Not again!

Without warning, the burning in my stomach comes roaring back, knocking the wind from my lungs and making my head spin. I groan softly and close my eyes, trying to keep the room from spinning. It's this one, I know it. He's the one making me feel like my body in combusting from the inside out. But why? I do a quick mental scan while I'm still able to breath, trying to find a reason behind his unnatural hold over me. He's got a soul, so he is human, but it's missing pieces. Parts of it are gone, leaving holes that can only be filled by something far more sinister that normal magic.

Taking a chance, I open my eyes to stare at him. It's a bad decision. While the warrior remains staring at his two friends, I can see something moving in the shadows around us. The chilled air from the blue warrior's hands mixes with the darkness within the shadows, pulling it out from beneath their feet and dragging it upwards from the ground. Slowly, it swirls and tangles around itself, forming a misty, unfocused outline of a man. This shadow creature stands beside the silver warrior, staring at the other two men in annoyance.