Chapter Text
There’s been a flood in Houston. Kabal opens his eyes, body groggy and sore from the night before, as the news report filters through the room. So many casualties. His fist curls around his blanket and he pulls it far up over his head. He gropes around with his other hand to turn off the stereo, mainly just to turn off the news. While it’s a good alarm, he’s never quite in the mood to listen to disaster after disaster, which just seemed to come with this side of the realms.
It’s raining, and he doesn’t need a weather report to tell him that. He can hear the rhythmic pitter patter on the glass, a quiet but constant reminder of everything that lays beyond the walls of the apartment. It always seems to rain here, unless it’s summer - then it gets so unbridledly hot that Kabal has to cut down on food money to pay for decent air conditioning. But he doesn’t need to worry about that right now. In fact, he’s shivering, even under his covers.
Leaves outside are yellowing, but the city only has two seasons, so it may as well be white out. Kabal slowly sticks his head out to tuck the blanket around his neck, just to preserve as much heat as he could. While his room is blurry with sleep clouding his vision, he makes out the small window on the other side of his room, each droplet of rain simply a smudge. The distance between him and that wall is about three steps. Deciding that he is now, unfortunately, awake, Kabal reaches out to his bedside table to grab his bottle of pills and swallows two of them dry.
The walls of the room are a pale cream, he’s never had the desire to redecorate in the ten years that he’s lived here. All he’s done was stick up newspaper clippings that ever so indirectly mentioned him, and a few posters that bands on the streets handed him as an incentive to listen to their outright atrocious music. He has a stack of drawers under the window, with a singular picture frame on top of it, as well as a small stack of paperback books. His floor lamp’s pole is bent in an awkward direction, and the apartment doesn’t have any bulbs to replace the one that doesn’t work.
Kabal sits up in bed, staring at the small device on the side table, flashing 13/10/12, 11:33am at him as if laughing.
“Happy birthday,” he mumbles to himself as he looks away from the stereo and staring ahead of himself at the door that leads to even more shit rooms in this entirely shit apartment.
Kabal decides that he should probably get up around midday, and so he does. He doesn’t bother getting changed, scratching his neck as he slumps into the living room, his holed socks sliding about on the floor slightly. He can see the red beeping on his answering machine, and he just rolls his eyes as he presses ‘play all’ before he slouches into the kitchenette to make his breakfast. He almost drops the pan out of the overhead cabinet as the mechanical voice begins to read out the script.
“You have six new messages.”
All six of them are from Kano, all with varying degrees of disdain. But at least he wished Kabal a happy birthday in one of them, he thinks as he scrambles his last two eggs over a barely flickering flame on the hob. Kabal just sighs, mouthing invisible insults that he wished he could scream at the Aussie now. He kicks one of the counters for good measure, the anger and the rage and the hatred becoming far too much for him. Then he takes a deep breath, because his mama always said he needs to keep his anger in check.
“… and just remember, Kabal, you owe me big time. Don’t get too cocky ‘cause it’s your big day. It never stopped you from fucking up before.”
What a sad, sad life he lives, Kabal thinks. Whichever of the two he’s referring to, he doesn’t know himself. He dishes up the eggs as soon as Kano’s final mad rant wanes out and sits down on the tiny table in between the tiles of the kitchen and the carpet of the living room. It’s supposed to be a patio table, but he’s long since stopped caring. Picking at the eggs with his boss’ words ringing in his head, the only sound is the rain and thunder pounding down on the roof of the apartment complex.
He begins to mutter to himself angrily, so caught up in the fact that he ‘owes’ that bastard anything that he almost misses the knock on the door. Well, he does at first. Kabal is completely absorbed in his own mad ramblings that he completely blanked the sound before the second attempt to get his attention rings out louder and more urgent. Kabal glances out of the window at the rain, groaning slightly as he abandons his breakfast and makes his way to the front door - inches away from his tiny kitchen.
He doesn’t care that he’s still in his pyjamas with his tits barely stuffed into a tight vest and half of his legs exposed by bottoms that haven’t fit him since he was sixteen. He expects it to be Kano - because who else would come find him on today of all days? Especially after all those calls. Kabal opens the door with a frown, only to almost stumble back at the sight that greets him.
“You look like shit,” Kabal says. The rain splatters down from the opened door into his apartment. It wouldn’t make any difference, he already knows of a few spots that will break a leak with these conditions.
“Do not insult me while you are dressed like that,” Reiko says, his hair plastered to his face, his warpaint dripping down his cheeks in a way that makes him look as though he’d been crying. But it’s Reiko, and Kabal doesn’t think the man is capable of emotions outside of anger and bloodlust.
“Whatever. Get in,” Kabal says without further thought, stepping aside so that Reiko can track the rainwater into the house. He’s shivering, and Kabal notices now that the normal intricate adornments on his shoulders and chest are gone. He’s left shirtless with just a few leather straps, and a big gash along his back. It doesn’t look as though it’s bleeding, but Kabal can’t get a good enough look at it as Reiko begins to prowl the place.
There’s a loud, tense silence. His landline rings again, and both men glance at it, but neither do anything about it. Reiko probably doesn’t even know what a phone is, and Kabal doesn’t have the energy to talk to Kano right now. They look up at each other as the ringing stops, and the message goes to voicemail. They hold eye contact, Reiko’s piercing blue eyes shimmering in the dim light of Kabal’s apartment, his damp hair dripping on the carpet.
He wants to ask why he’s here of all places, and how he found him, and why it’s him of all people he’s run to. Yet, he can piece together a lot of it from the weirdly dejected look on the otherwise stoic, proud soldier stood before him. A droplet of rain slides down Reiko’s nose and onto his chin, and he raises a hand to brush it away, his gaze never leaving Kabal’s. Should he get him a towel? Kabal ponders this for about five seconds before realising he really can’t be bothered.
So, he goes back to the table and continues to eat his eggs. He hears Reiko start to tread over to the table, smelling damp and dingy, far too much like a dog who had far too much fun in a puddle. As Kabal hears the scrape of the chair on the tiles, he looks up from his breakfast and shakes his head.
“Not when you’re wet,” he says in the most painfully accurate impression of his mama that he’d ever heard, only without the accent. Reiko grumbles but remains standing, still shivering, and obviously freezing. Kabal chews a mouthful of scrambled eggs, swallowing thickly before he speaks again. “Well?”
Reiko pauses, his eyes narrowing before he sighs.
“He tried to kill me.”
“Who? Shao Kahn?”
“Indeed.”
“Why’d he do that?”
“Because I tried to usurp him.”
“Yeah, that’ll do it.”
“But I escaped! I’m here now!”
Kabal sets his fork down and buries his head in his hands. This is great. Really, it is. Wonderful, even! He pinches the bridge of his nose, pushing his plate of scrambled eggs aside, not even being surprised when Reiko starts to pick pieces of it up with his fingers and eat it.
“You hungry?” He asks. Reiko nods, continuing to eat the eggs without any thought or care, clearly just craving the sustenance. “You been on the run long?”
“Not too long.”
“Are you planning on staying?”
“Will you have me?”
Kabal wants to bash his head against the table. This perhaps tops his sixteenth for the worst birthday he could have ever experienced. Well, maybe not quite. He’d much prefer Reiko on his birthday than Mr. Shimekake and his idiot son. Who he still works for. Who is ringing him again, it seems, as the phone goes off once again. Kabal just stares at Reiko as he finishes off his breakfast, watching how he devours every bite like a man who hasn’t eaten in longer than he’s letting on. He’s barely chewing, swallowing before he should, and Kabal just sighs.
He knows the man. Knows him because when you’re both the right hands for two powerful men who want nothing but more of that power, you’re bound to meet. Crossing paths over checking the perimeter during arms trades, making more-than-small-talk in the hallways outside meeting rooms, meeting eyes and making looks while sorcerers and clan leaders and emperors and cowboys wont seem to shut up. Full of anger and vengeance and a small part of camaraderie that apparently didn’t stop at surprisingly deep talks during negotiations.
Reiko, who is standing before him more bared and more lost than Kabal has ever been in his life, and he knows that’s saying something. He drums his fingers against the table before he glances at the door, almost expecting the Outworld emperor to come bursting to kill them both with a heavy swing of his hammer. When that doesn’t happen, Kabal’s shoulders sag and he pushes away from the table. He trudges to his shitty bathroom, grabbing a clean towel from the rack, and bringing it back out to toss it to Reiko.
A silent confirmation that he’s at least willing to help him in the moment. Reiko nods, beginning to dry his hair, understanding the insinuation in only the way the outspoken can. Kabal watches him from the doorway of the bathroom, his arms folded across his chest. He really should stop getting himself into danger on his birthday.
It was following an argument with his mama on his 16th that had led to Kabal slamming the door on his way outside, still muttering under his breath as his mother continued to yell at him, echoing throughout the neighbourhood and his skull. He wanted to yell in return, but someone had already threatened to call the cops to their house the last time his father had come over a few months ago at that point. He kicked a stray pebble as he walks down the path, not even knowing where he’s going.
That’s when Kabal saw it - a shiny red Ferrari just casually parked down the street from his house. He blinked, his anger dissipating as he approached the vehicle, his fists unclenching automatically. He was almost convinced it was part of his imagination - there was no way a car like this belonged to anybody in this shitty neighbourhood. He shoved his hands into his pockets as he admired the sheen and polish.
“She’s a beaut, ain’t she?” Kabal heard a voice speak, and he quickly jumped back. He hadn’t noticed him, but there was a boy - no, more like a man - stood leaning against it. At first glance he could have been Kabal’s age, but he definitely must have been older than him by a few years. He’d later learn that it was by 8.
“This yours?” Kabal asked the guy, and the guy shook his head. He pointed towards the house the car was parked outside of, and just then did Kabal notice the cigar in his hand. He definitely did not suit the look with his scraggly brown hair and poor attempts to grow facial hair.
“My dad’s. I’m just minding it while he… well, does business,” the guy said, blowing smoke into the air. He was far too relaxed to be the son of a man who could afford such a nice car, but his bent nose suggested it was more of a false sense of security than anything. Kabal knew better then, but now he can’t help but be lulled into it.
The guy had regarded him for a few silent seconds before he spoke again. “You look like you’ve seen better days, mate.”
“Just a stupid argument. You know how it goes,” Kabal said with a shrug.
“What about?”
“Money.”
“Been there.”
Both of them had locked eyes before Kabal looked back towards the car. He was mad then because how on earth did this guy think he was? Complaining about money while parading this car around. He could probably guess how his father got it, though. And why exactly he had drove it to his neighbourhood. He wasn’t an idiot. He knew how shady this part of the state was, and how prevalent crime was. Hell, it was half the reason Kurtis kept trying to get him to join the police cadets. On some days, he was half tempted.
Kabal stared at the car some more until a man he would later know as Mr. Shimekake walked out of the house. He was tall, had a slight limp, and he would turn out to be a fair boss before he was stabbed in the heart. His son was quiet until the uneven footsteps came closer but he greeted his father formally. Kabal couldn’t place it, but the look Mr. Shimekake gave his son made his skin crawl. Their conversation wasn’t in English, or Spanish, so Kabal couldn’t understand them - but he knew the tone of a disapproving parent too well.
“I’ll be seeing you!” The guy had called out to Kabal as he had begun to make his way down the street, far away from his house. Kabal had scoffed at the time, rolling his eyes as the Ferarri whirred to life.
Every single day since, he had really wished that Kano was wrong. That Kabal wouldn’t ever see his face again, and live his life how he planned - joining the force with Kurtis and settling down with that pretty girl in his science class, maybe having kids. Not… this. Not running around with criminals and harbouring wanted Outworld warriors from the bloodthirsty emperor that wants him dead. The rain never seems to stop, and it hasn’t since he was sixteen. And even when it does, the heat suffocates him in a way that almost feels like foreshadowing.
Kabal rubs his throat as he pushes away from the doorway of the bathroom, heading instead to his bedroom to see if there’s any clothes that may or may not fit Reiko. He doesn’t want him permanently shirtless and hanging out in half of his warrior’s garb. It felt… wrong. As if he’s seeing a side of him he wasn’t meant to see. He thanks Shao Kahn under his breath for such a ‘gift’ on his big day as he grabs some bits and pieces he’d accumulated after a few late nights after work he’d rather forget.
“Don’t mind the smell,” Kabal says as he tosses the clothes in Reiko’s direction. Reiko catches them but tosses them aside.
“My back,” he says simply, and Kabal just sighs for what feels like the hundredth time this morning.
So, he ends up sitting down on his closed toilet as Reiko sits on the cool tiles of his bathroom floor, head down so that Kabal can wipe the wound with a few antiseptic wipes and stitch him up as best as he can. Fortunately for Reiko, it was October, meaning he’d spent most of his last paycheque on bandages and thread as opposed to new underwear and socks. He taps some of his exposed toes against the tiles as he works on fixing up Reiko.
Part of him thinks this whole thing is ridiculous, part of him is surprised that he went along with it so easily. Of course, he assumes that Reiko will only be here for about three nights max. He doesn’t want any more part in his plan to evade Outworld, lest he face the dangerous and very plausible repercussions from such a thing. He can envision it now - being strung up and slashed to bits by the emperor’s deadliest weapons and most dangerous fighters.
“There,” Kabal says as he finishes off Reiko’s stitches, the thought of being cut apart limb by limb still plaguing his mind. Reiko grunts his thanks, though his head is still lowered. Kabal prods him in the back of his neck. “What’s your plan now, big guy?”
“Now… I do not know. Recover enough to fight back when they come for me. That is all I have.”
“Be sure to leave by then, yeah?”
“Believe me, Kabal, Earthrealm is not a place I intend to stay longer than ultimately necessary. You are just a means to end.”
“When aren’t I?” Kabal asks before he gets up from the toilet and offers Reiko a hand to get up, wary about the state of his back. It wasn’t as though it was cavernous, but the wound was deep enough that he’s worried that it’d cause serious trouble if the stitches reopened. Reiko bites his lip as he gets hauled up, stifling the reaction he wants to give to being moved around. “Do you need me to help you get changed?”
“No,” Reiko says, and Kabal deflates with relief, not particularly wanting to see the other man in any less clothes. “Just know, Kabal, Shao Kahn’s helmet will be mine in due time. I do not care how I have to go about accomplishing that.”
Kabal blinks at him a few times. He’s expecting something else, but when Reiko doesn’t speak, he leaves the bathroom and hides back in his bedroom so that Reiko has some decency while he changes. What an insufferable, terrible man, he thinks. He thought he knew Reiko’s prerogative. There was an undeniable loyalty to his emperor to the point of lunacy. But now here he is, trying to dissent against one of the most powerful beings in all of the realms. Much like on his sixteenth, to prove a point, Kabal slams his bedroom door shut.
Through the thin walls of his apartment, he can hear Reiko shuffling about. He shouldn’t trust this man alone in his space, but there’s nothing worth taking anyway. Plus, the particular and peculiar alignment of their odd friendship makes it hard not trust him. Which is why, in a way, he supposes he can see him finally getting ahold of the power be so clearly craves. Kabal collapses back onto his bed, half hoping to wake up from this nightmare, starting his day over again where all he has to worry about is money he can’t seem to scrounge up and a boss that holds it over his head like a carrot on a stick.
Instead, he’s got himself stuck deeper into mud that he knows he won’t be able to dig himself out of. He turns on the stereo. There’s still a flood in Houston.