Article: 17313 of alt.games.mk
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From: vctr113062@aol.com (Vctr113062)
Newsgroups: alt.games.mk
Subject: FANFIC: "The Blood On My Hands" 4/8 (Kitana)
Date: 1 Nov 1994 01:01:05 -0500
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	Who was this Kung Lao, and what in all the Astral Planes was he
trying to do? Get himself killed?
	"Bzzzt! Sorry, wrong answer, but don't worry, you still get to
take home our fabulous consolation prize!" Kung Lao removed his hat and
hurled it like a discus. The hat's rotating brim sparkled with reflected
light. I realized that the brim must be edged with a shiny substance,
probably metal. The twirling hat made the air whistle as it curved sharply
upward, clipped the dragon across the chin, and arced swiftly out of
sight. Yet when I returned my gaze to Kung Lao, I saw either the same hat
or an identical copy on his head. More magic. 
	The blow hadn't really injured the dragon, merely annoyed it. Its
lips peeled back in an irate snarl, and it gnashed its obsidian teeth.
Kung Lao worked his teleportation spell again, reappearing on the beast's
right side, although this time it was ready for him. As soon as he
resolidified, the dragon lashed its tail at his feet, tripping him just
like it had felled me only moments before. 
	"That didn't hurt," Kung Lao commented buoyantly, transforming his
fall into a graceful reverse somersault. The dragon raised its head in
preparation to strike. Kung Lao started to stand up, saying, "And now, for
my next trick-"
	The dragon's triangular head descended. 
	Kung Lao spun.
	From one knee, he pushed with his free leg, turning on the pivot
of the other leg's joint at first, then extending his arms and bringing
them in as he rose. His rotation rapidly picked up speed. Again, the air
crackled with occult power, only this time it carried quadruple the
strength. Visible ripples of frosty white energy swirled around him,
pushing outward with such force that I felt a whisper of their pressure
even from my distant vantage point. The dragon may have tried to reverse
its downward momentum, but it did not have enough time. A small explosion
popped the air as the beast collided with Kung Lao's barrier. The dragon's
head snapped back, its spine curling into an inverted curve; yet its hind
claws remained firmly anchored, and it did not lose its balance. 
	The dragon whipped its head forward. Its abdomen flexed wide, a
telltale signal that it was about to spew fire once more. Kung Lao slowed
his spin, but the dragon opened its jaws before he came to a stop, and I
knew he would not be able to dodge in time. The roaring, rushing sound of
the dragon's blast completely drowned out my useless cry of warning. I
could do nothing but watch- 
	-as the dragonfire again fell short of where Kung Lao stood.
	In addition to singing his garments and blistering his skin, the
inferno's backlash knocked Kung Lao off his feet. He sailed several yards
through the air before half- crashing, half-skidding to earth just
opposite of my hiding place. I saw him use the same techniques that I have
practiced to help cushion his fall.
	"...okay, that did hurt," he remarked, much more weakly than
before. He rolled to his side, wincing, and slowly climbed to his knees.
Then he saw me and hesitated. "You're still here? Kitana, I told you to
ru-"
	"Behind you!" I gasped. 
	Kung Lao pivoted in place; perhaps he attempted to summon his
occult shield, but before he could make even one complete revolution the
dragon's front claws slammed him back on the ground. The beast's great
weight pinned his torso and both his arms, trapping him just as I had been
trapped. I cowered behind the rock, desperately trying to come up with
some plan of action. My hands itched, and my side felt like there was an
iron spike in it; pain and discomfort chipped away at my ability to
reason. I knew that among all my weapons, only my drugged darts had a
prayer of felling the beast before I slipped into shock. Or maybe I was
already in shock. That would explain why I'd been crouching here like a
stupefied animal, instead of doing something to increase my odds of
survival.
	The border of the Living Forest was barely a hundred yards away,
yet it might as well have been a hundred miles. The dragon was too close
for me to sprint the rest of the distance; if I were to try, it would see
me and probably burn me before I crossed the halfway mark. I could have
gambled that its flames would miss, just as they had missed Kung Lao; but
I knew too little about the variables to estimate my chances. And that was
given that I could run more than few steps. At the rate I was bleeding, I
would be lucky to stand up.
	At long last, my brain began to work properly. I cut a strip of
fabric off my cloak and used the cloth to bandage the wound in my side. My
injury ached more than ever, but at least the action distracted me from
the irritating itch on my stained hands. It took a little time to do;
fortunately, the dragon's attention was still fixed entirely upon the man
it had ensnared.
	#I HAVE HAD _ENOUGH_ OF YOUR ANTICS,# it bellowed, pausing to
inflect every word, #AND MORE THAN ENOUGH OF _YOU_. YOU _NEVER_ KNOW WHEN
TO QUIT, DO YOU?#
	"All right, you got me." Kung Lao sounded unusually calm for
someone at the mercy of a fire-breathing behemoth. "So, what's next, Liu
Kang? Are you going to bite my head off? Crush my thoracic cavity into so
much paste? Am I hors d'oeuvres? Entree flambe, perchance?"
	#DON'T TEMPT ME.# The breath rushed out of Kung Lao's lungs. The
dragon must have increased the pressure of its hold, I thought, as I tied
a sloppy knot on a pathetic bandage that probably wouldn't do me any good
at all. Why did I even bother, anyway? The dragon would eventually shift
its attention back to me and kill me. There was nothing I could do about
it, because none of my weapons could scratch its hide, and - wait one
moment.
	It had taken me long enough, but I finally had an idea.
	I stood and shouted, "Liu Kang! Dragon! Understand this - I am
_not_ Shang Tsung's minion!" The dragon's head swivelled in my direction.
It seemed unwilling to release its prisoner, just as I had hoped. And I
was out of range of its bite, so that it would probably try to...
	#YOU! YOU WILL BURN,# the beast rumbled, noisily drawing breath.
	"Liu Kang, no!" Kung Lao cried.
	I dashed toward the dragon, then poured all that was left of my
strength into a final leap, timed to coincide with the moment the beast
cocked its head back. The dragon opened its jaws, ready to spew forth a
torrent of flame, and I threw an envenomed dart into its mouth.
	The sleeping-sap I use on my darts is extremely potent. The
original, instantly lethal toxin is harvested from the Trees of Muffled
Death, near the heart of the Living Forest. No small amount of complex
sorcery goes into the refinement process, which can only be performed on
the anniversary eve of the Great War's first battle. When injected into
any portion of the bloodstream, the refined substance nigh-
instantaneously slows all bodily functions down to the bare minimum
necessary to sustain life. Once my sleeping-sap darts prick someone or
something, he, she, or it is as good as dead if that's what I want.
Unfortunately, the toxin's collection and distillation are so fraught with
peril that I never have more than four or five darts at my disposal for
the length of a year. Otherwise, my job would be a great deal easier.
	The dragon's exhalation turned into a strained wheeze. Instead of
fire, only a few sparks and small plumes of smoke escaped its mouth. It
rocked back on its hind claws, releasing Kung Lao, and voicing a wordless
cry that ended in a whimper. Its eyes fluttered closed and it flopped on
the ground like so much coiled rope. The monstrosity's outline lost
clarity and resolution, dimming, shrinking, fading... until there remained
only the half-naked body of an insensate monk.
	"I sincerely hope you haven't killed him," Kung Lao cautioned,
gravely. All traces of his lighthearted former banter had evaporated. He
approached Liu Kang's still form and lightly rested his fingers on the
monk's neck, feeling for a pulse. I tried to comprehend Kung Lao's insane
concern for the man-beast that nearly destroyed him, and failed. I looked
for my wyvern; when I saw its unmoving, broken-necked body, I tried to
think of a safe way to transport Liu Kang to Shokan, and failed. Lastly, I
tried to halt my own, creeping descent into unconsciousness, and failed in
that as well.

*****************************************************************

	My dreaming mind recalled clues that had slipped past my waking
notice. I remembered the legend of Kung Lao, often called "the Great," a
Shaolin warrior who had once defeated Shang Tsung in single combat. Kung
Lao spared Shang Tsung's life and banished him from Shaolin Lands. A few
years later, Shang Tsung returned to the Shaolin martial arts Tournament
with the Outworld prince Goro. Goro ruined Kung Lao's body and Shang Tsung
took the Shaolin warrior's soul, in addition to the souls of his family
and friends. The Tournament remained in Shang Tsung's hands for five
hundred years, until... well, you already know the rest. But if the Great
Kung Lao and all his kindred were gone, then who had sorcerously distorted
space to pull me out from under the dragon's claws? The unanswered
question slipped out of my mental grasp, deteriorating into entropy before
I could examine it any further. Everything grew darker, fading first into
grey, then night, then inky blackness. 
	I felt a loathsome itch on my hands.
	It consumed every square inch of their skin, even underneath my
fingernails. In an effort to relieve the consuming burn, I wiped my hands
on my clothing, and wrung them so strenuously as to risk damaging my
fingers. The detestable sensation only intensified, flaring into a rash I
could not withstand and could not assuage. It spread, slowly, maddeningly,
to engulf my wrists and forearms.
	A small, concentrated pool of furiously bright light manifested
close to me. It coalesced into the face of a blond woman, who might have
been considered attractive if not for the fletched poison dart lodged
firmly in her right eye. The light dimly showed her arm and hand, which
were pointed straight at me.
	(You killed me,) she intoned, in a reedy, hollow parody of her
sermon voice. I tried to back away, and ran into a solid wall of warm,
concentrated blackness. Make that hot, concentrated blackness... scalding
hot...
	(Go away,) I snapped to the apparition. She did not leave. The
sickly-purple, distorted face of a man appeared next to her.
	(My Princess, you killed me,) he rasped, in a mournful whisper.
Both figures took a step forward. The heat intensified.
	(Leave me alone!)
	More faces and figures appeared, shambling and calling out to me,
each frozen in the moment of death. Men, women, and children, humans and
mutants, young and old enclosed me in a tightening ring. There was no
escape. My heart pounded; I pressed up against the wall; and my hands felt
like they were being seared in a bonfire.
	(You kill us all,) hissed the sharp-toothed, grinning head of an
Outworld mutant, with a black quarter-moon tattoo upon its cheek. A pair
of arms bearing sickle-shaped blades carried the head, arms attached to a
decapitated body.
	(Yes, yes I did!) I shouted back at them, curling my agonized
hands into fists. (And there's nothing you can do about it! You're dead,
you're all dead, dead and gone forever!)
	(And you're not?) sneered a young mutant boy with the point of a
spear protruding through his neck. He reached for my face with his clawed
fingers.
	I fumbled for my darts, for my fans, for any weapon at all; but
the affliction on my hands had increased to the point where it destroyed
their dexterity. I forced my hands up into a defensive stance, despite
their crippling pain. What little light there was reflected on them,
revealing flowing rivulets of dark blood, grotesque scraps of torn flesh,
and shards of reddish-white bone. A creeping rot burrowed through them,
withering and peeling away skin, muscle, and leathery tendons. Worse, it
was spreading; I could feel it delving further down my arms, working its
corruptive decay inward. When I tried to speak again, black bile gushed
from my mouth and spattered the front of my body. It felt like acid - no,
not like acid, like a hundred thousand tiny insects digging in to eat me
alive. An approving murmur circulated through the gathering of walking
corpses.
	I screamed. 
	...and screamed, and screamed; even when I woke up from the
nightmare, a part of my mind continued screaming, while the rest of me
huddled in a fetal position and wished for it all to go away.
	"Shh, easy. You're safe here. You're going to be fine. We were
worried for a while, but you've pulled through the worst of it."
	Who...? No, wait. I recognized that voice. 
	"You - you're supposed to be dead too..." I whispered to Kung Lao.
I kept my dirty hands pressed tightly over my eyes, for fear of seeing him
as horribly mutilated as all the others.
	"The rumors have been greatly exaggerated, I promise you." His
comment was dry, but not unfriendly. "Are you all right? Can I get you
anything?"
	"Water," I croaked.
	"Coming right up." He handed me a small leather flask, then made a
puzzled sound when I poured its contents on my hands and rubbed them
vigorously. The cool wetness helped a little, but didn't completely remove
the sense of dirt, staining, and foulness. If I peered closely, I thought
I could still see tiny flakes of dried blood embedded in their skin, and
underneath my fingernails. I dug the cuticles of my right hand deep into
the back of my left, trying to scratch away the offending filth.
	"Um... what are you doing?" Kung Lao asked, hesitantly.
	"I need soap. And a washcloth."
	"Huh? Hey, hey-" he grasped my wrists and pulled them apart. "What
on earth are you doing to yourself? Are you sure you're okay?"
	I looked down at my hands, which I'd nearly scratched raw. They
still didn't feel right, but I'd have to deal with them later. "I'm...
fine." He nodded and let go.
	"You sounded like you had a nightmare. I heard you cry out." 
	"It is nothing."
	"Are you sure?"
	I arduously tore my gaze away from my unfit hands, and looked up
at him.
	His apparel was eccentric, at best. The loose, sleeveless black
vest draped over his chest had an emblazoned scarlet character that
immediately summoned my attention. The character, which looked as if it
had been painted by a large brush, was the symbol and word for force of
arms. Beneath the vest, he wore a sea-blue jumpsuit. A pair of ebony shin
guards, each with twin straps encircling his calves, held the jumpsuit's
leg cuffs in place just above his white socks and flat black shoes. Layers
of thick bandages wound about both his forearms. He still wore his
atypical hat which, I noticed, was held snugly in place with a chin strap.
It had a slight upward tilt, exposing his face. 
	His features were smooth and softly rounded. He might have
appeared similar to Liu Kang, at first glance; a closer inspection
revealed subtle differences. Kung Lao's skin had a lighter, more olive
tint, and his short, dark hair was wavy instead of straight. His
brownish-black eyes didn't have quite as sharp a slant, either. I
suspected that, unlike Liu Kang, Kung Lao was not purely of Middle Kingdom
blood. He also seemed shorter than I might have expected. Wasn't the Great
Kung Lao supposed to have been taller, and more muscular...?
	"I think I'll let that slide," he said wryly, leaning back in the
wicker chair opposite my bedside. I hadn't been aware of speaking that
last thought out loud - an inadvisable habit for anyone in my line of
work. "Anyway, I assume you're curious about what happened. Well, you
weren't in very good shape, so I put a few more bindings around that hole
in your side and carried you here. 'More muscular,' indeed... oh, wait;"
he quickly continued, lifting his left hand and displaying its palm, "I
said I was going to let that slide."
	"Liu Kang?"
	"He's also here."
	"Where is 'here?'"
	"The Living Forest. We're inside Jade's home. You'll have the
chance to meet her soon. She brought Liu Kang here while I brought you;
then she and I took turns applying a damp cloth to your forehead, and
fanning you to keep you cool, until your fever broke. That gash in your
side had become infected, you see. Fortunately, Jade knows a few things
about healing and medicine, and you, Kitana, are about as tough as they
come. You've been out of it for only two days. The rate at which you've
been healing is simply astonishing."
	"You are not native to the Outworld, are you?"
	"You get a cookie!" His spoke the peculiar exclamation with such
smooth, congenial zeal that it took me a moment to figure out what he
meant.
	"We are at the edge of Master Kahn's aura. That is what supplies
the needs of the body, and speeds its natural recovery." Did I see him
flinch a little when I referred to the Master?
	"Yes, yes, I've heard about that. Must wreak havoc on the
fast-food chains." 
	"Have you also heard that Master Kahn can recall us from death, if
he so chooses?" 
	There was no mistaking that response - shock mixed with horror.
"Did you say - from _death_?"
	"Yes." 
	"So that is how Shang Tsung returned to plague the living," he
reflected, shuddering. I found his superstitious attitude toward a common
fact of Outworld life very strange indeed. "I wonder what it must be
like..."
	"To be brought back from the dead?"
	"Er... on second thought, never mind. Is there any limit to... um,
to this power he has?"
	"It is impossible to recall someone without a portion of the
cadaver, and virtually impossible to recall one who has been deceased for
more than three days. Master Kahn might be able to do it, if the soul of
the departed individual had a strong enough will, but the energy cost
would be prohibitively high - it increases more sharply with each passing
hour."
	I studied his reaction to my mention of the Master more carefully,
this time, and decided I didn't like it. Normally, I would not have so
freely given information to a possible enemy, but this situation was
definitely not normal, and I hadn't told him anything that wasn't common
knowledge. Intent on learning more about this unorthodox warrior, I leaned
forward and inquired, "Who are you?"
	"Don't remember?" He stood up and bowed. "Kung Lao, at your
service."
	"Kung Lao died five hundred years ago."
	"In Western terms, I suppose I'd be Kung Lao XIX."
	"Kung Lao's entire family also died five hundred years ago."
	He cleared his throat and raised his curled right hand just below
his chin, as if holding an invisible object. In an enthusiastically
affected tone, he said, "And now it's time for everybody's favorite game
show, Family Relations!" Switching back to his normal badinage, he
continued, "The Great Kung Lao's eldest son once, well, it's a long story.
The short version is, Kung Lao Junior (to use another Western appellation)
was banished from Shaolin lands shortly after Shang Tsung's historic
defeat. Junior's alleged crime was so terrible that the Great Kung Lao
publicly absolved all blood ties; Junior was, for all practical purposes,
no longer 'part of the family.' The Great Kung Lao also had all records of
his wayward offspring destroyed or changed. Which turned out to be quite
lucky for the young fellow, as Shang Tsung never learned of his existence,
and Junior had the chance to live a long life in exile. Well, he had the
chance, but he ended up dead in a Portugal bar brawl, leaving behind his
ladyfriend and her soon-to- be-born illegitimate son. A century or two
after that, the latest Kung Lao of the ragged family line got tired of
being spat upon as a part-Chinese mongrel; so, he decided to return to the
Middle Kingdom, where he could be spat upon as a part-Iberian mongrel
instead. He found acceptance, or at least a lack of expectoration, in one
of the Honan province's more remote Shaolin temples. I am the last of that
line. And... the second to last of that Temple." 
	For one moment, his veneer of cheerful banter cracked. Looking at
his face, I saw sorrow, grim resignation, and anguish. I cast my gaze down
to the wooden floor because, strange as it may seem to you who have
listened to me so tolerantly and for so long, I truly don't like pain.
	"And that's... the story. I think I'll check on Liu Kang now, if
you don't mind." Summoning his former whimsy, he added, "I don't know what
you gave him, but he's been out like a light for as long as you have." 
	"Why do you have such concern for him?"
	"He is my Shaolin brother."
	"Didn't he try to kill you?"
	"No, he did not," Kung Lao corrected, more soberly. "Twice, he
could have; but he didn't. There is still a part of him that remembers. It
is not too late for him - not yet."
	I pondered this information after he left. If it were true...
which it probably was... then Kung Lao had saved my life, but I had not
saved his when I brought the were- dragon down. Which meant that I owed
him a lifedebt. The more I thought about that, the less I liked it.
	Feeling somewhat dizzy but not insurmountably so, I swung my legs
over the side of the bed and stood up. I was wearing a loose robe; a
folded change of clean clothes lay on a small table in the room's far
corner. They were... an identical copy of my standard uniform? Intrigued,
I examined them - a one-piece, black-belted leotard with matching
elbow-length gloves and knee-high leggings, headband, and mask, all made
of smooth satin. The only difference between them and my old garb was
their color: light, silvery-grey instead of deep blue. There was even a
brand-new sable cloak; I knew that it was not my own because it still had
the stiffness of a garment not softened by years of wear (and because no
strips had been cut off of it). It had pockets for concealing the array of
weaponry that I usually carry, although they were mostly empty... except
for a few which held what were either my fans, or ones just like them. I
stowed the half-used flask of water in another of the cloak's folds. 
	Did this raiment belong to the one Kung Lao referred to as "Jade?"
	My head swam with many other unanswered questions; I pushed them
all back. Despite the madness of recent events, I had not forgotten my
mission: to present the warrior Liu Kang, alive and unhurt, before the
Master. Duty called. If I were to move quickly, perhaps I could subdue
Kung Lao and depart with my prisoner before Jade returned. I would have
preferred to search the dwelling for my possessions first, especially my
darts and the unbreakable cord, but that would have taken too much time.
Whoever Jade was, if she dressed like I did and used razor-edged fans like
I did, then I did not want to risk confronting her. I didn't really need
the cord to restrain Liu Kang because the sleeping-sap would keep him
dormant for at least another five days. That gave me time enough to
complete the return journey to Master Kahn's castle. As for my darts and
other weapons, well, I'd just have to cope without them. At least I still
had the unexpected bonus of my fans.
	I stepped out of the bedroom. There were no windows in the small
dwelling, only a short hallway with another two doors, a cramped central
room, and a tightly shut exit. The entire building was composed of wood -
fresh, young wood, which must have been thick enough to be soundproof, if
Jade's home were truly within the clamorous Living Forest. 
	Careful not to make a sound, I approached the door next to mine
and lowered my eye to its keyhole. Through it, I saw Liu Kang stretched
out on a bed that was almost too small for his lanky frame. The
unconscious monk's head had been carefully positioned to one side, a
standard precaution to keep him from drowning in his own saliva or choking
on his own tongue. Kung Lao kneeled nearby, his hands clasped and his head
bowed, as though in prayer.
	Easy pickings, I thought. Sneak in, hit him from behind, and
abscond with Liu Kang. I knew that I probably ought to kill Kung Lao, who
was almost certainly an enemy of the Master, and yet... Master Kahn hadn't
instructed me to assassinate anyone while on my mission, not even by
implication. The outlandish warrior had rescued me from certain
destruction. Leaving him alive would be the least I could do. I moistened
the door's hinges with water from the flask, preparing to silently swing
it open just far enough for me to slip in.
	A soft chant interrupted my task. Its rhythm gradually blossomed
into a richly textured tenor, projected with inner strength. Kung Lao - it
had to be - intoned each note with flawless pitch, inflecting the melody
with a wistfully mourning theme. I tried to make out his words, with only
partial success. They seemed to be in a Middle Kingdom dialect that felt
close to Mandarin, although I could be wrong. I am familiar with several
foreign languages, including Mandarin, but not particularly fluent in any
of them. I thought I detected the gist of the song's meaning, though,
partly through what few lyrics I could understand, and partly through the
sheer emotion of the music. It was beyond doubt a dirge... a lament of
regret, and misery... or mayhap a plea that the lost souls of those
closest to one might find peace, in the grey kingdom beyond the furthest
borders of the Astral Planes.
	It was the most beautiful thing I had ever heard.
	My hand slipped away from the doorknob. Very slowly, I turned
around and returned to my room. Something blurred my vision slightly as I
climbed into the bed; I touched my index finger to my right eye and lifted
away a single tear, the first I'd ever shed since... since the day Mileena
killed me, I suppose. Unwilling to spend any further thought on what it
might or might not mean, I let my head rest against the soft pillows and
drifted into thankfully dreamless slumber.