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“Do you know what it’s like?” He speaks to no one, his voice barely above a whisper, alone in the artfully-kept displays of the Shirai-Ryu’s Fire Gardens. There is a koi pond nearby, with a small cascade dumping its sparkling contents into the clear water from a stream that seems to loop all the way through the picturesque place. It is almost unbelievable that one of the two deadliest assassin clans calls this place their dojo and home. His reflection ripples back up at him as he turns to watch the fish and he frowns. “Huh?” He grunts, “DO you?”
Of course not, he thinks bitterly, how could you—how could you know what any of this is like when you are so… so perfect? His frustration mounts and he pulls the wide-brimmed hat off his head and sticks the bladed edge angrily into the dirt next to him. The breeze picks up and rustles the leaves which diffuse sunlight down onto the carefully manicured grounds. He tries to concentrate on the sound, but cannot fight through the pounding of his own heart.
In times of distress, every teacher he has ever had has repeated the same mantra, telling Kung Lao that meditation is an acceptable, even laudable solution—sometimes the only one. He swallows down the thick, ugly lump in his throat and chokes on his resentment which he knows to be foolish, bratty, and misdirected. It is unbecoming of a White Lotus. He knows what Lord Raiden would say.
“Release your anger, Kung Lao,” he rumbles in his best imitation of Raiden’s thundery voice, “it will only consume you.”
He scoffs as he settles, picking up an orange leaf and examining it without really seeing much of anything; it is just an exercise to draw him into the depths of calm. His eyes scan the veins and cracks without absorbing any of it before he tosses it into the pond. It is light and does not go as far as his ire wishes it would. He feels himself seeking a stone, but stops, clicking his tongue with embarrassment. Color settles high on his cheeks as he props his chin on one hand, elbow on the same knee.
“Tell that to future you, Lord Raiden—frying your favorite student and letting the spare…” He reaches up reflexively to rub his neck where he can almost feel the pressure of hands wrapping around jaw and shoulder, wrenching his spine and ending his life. Well… sort of. He and Liu Kang had recently come face to face with their revenants and, while they, the living Shaolin, had been successful, seeing himself, torn, ashen, cracked like the earth just before a volcanic eruption, with such deep hatred in his eyes… it had been jarring. Do I really look like that inside? Is that what this feeling makes of me?
It deeply unsettles him even now as he observes his own, sharp, dark eyes in the pond once more. A fish surfaces to beg for food, prodding at the leaf. Unsatisfied, it sinks minutely, and then twists, flashing its beautiful orange-and-white body once and disappearing through the crystalline ripples. He wishes he could follow it, slip into those cool depths and quell this bile-filled, smoldering chunk of a thing which has settled in his chest. It is not his heart. It is a thing of lead and coal, a hot, irritating ember.
“How can I release something that is part of me?” He tilts his head back, running his hand over his bare scalp, feeling the growth of a few days, craving a razor. He has become so accustomed to a lack of hair that any little bit makes his customary leather cap begin to chafe. Today, it is absent as he and the others have been instructed to rest before the assault on Kronika’s keep.
Entering one realm of afterlife and, thence, crossing the Blood Sea to lay siege to the stronghold of a Titan, a being beyond any realm, above even the Elder Gods, is a foolhardy task, or a tale for children. Up until quite recently, the mortals had not even known of the existence of the Titan class of being—the Elder Gods were all they knew and even then, only vaguely. With Shinnok’s downfall, however, they’d run out of even those, leaving a wide gap for those beings greater even than the gods.
Perhaps on a more selfish note, Kung Lao does not relish the thought of entering Netherrealm on his own steam, but it is, he thinks, perhaps a bit better than doing it at the command of someone else, unable to resist. He shudders. Yes, to choose is better than to be forced. But it is still Netherrealm and… the Sea of Blood. He wonders if it smells…
Supposedly they will, if all goes as planned, be utilizing Kharon’s fleet to sail that crimson ocean. The ferryman of hell can evidently be persuaded to help them right the wrongs Kronika has committed upon the people of this timeline (and apparently many others, though his understanding of such things is beneath what one might call rudimentary). For once, Lao is content with the “it is not for us to know” explanation. Thinking about this, about any of it, makes his head spin. And while spinning is usually his specialty, this feels very out of control.
Of himself, he thinks he has done well, has kept his cool as best he can, has done anything and everything Raiden has asked of him, would gladly do it again now that he has seen the god’s power in action properly and has gotten to know Raiden the way Liu Kang always has (or seems to). Lao is, at least for now, somewhat content with the work he has done. He has contributed to a real, tangible cause and that does, indeed, feel good.
But it is not good enough. It does not settle entirely upon his restless spirit. He cannot decide if it is his doubting nature, or if it is something else which drives him now to continue this one-sided dialogue. None of this is very monk-like and fits more with his calling to be the Kung family’s black sheep—or one of them. If nobody is around to hear, however, what is the harm?
“Do you know why my parents named me Lao?” His smile is harsh and bitter, like the rare sunlight over Arctika. In theory, it is the sun, but in practice, it is little more than chilly, diffuse illumination. Lao pauses as if waiting for a reply, but the fish and the breeze offer none, so he continues. “A prophecy.” His shoulders sag and he slumps a little, staring at his hands. They are strong hands, calloused and scarred with many healed cuts—and some not-so-healed. They have served him well, but, like everything else in his life, never well enough. “I think they just wanted me to be like my ancestor, you know? The Great Kung Lao—so they call me Lao and hope that I… do not dishonor his legacy.”
He allows the silence to hang in the air, accompanied only by the burble of the stream and small waterfall that feeds the pond, the whisper of leaves dancing in a light breeze, and whatever non-sound sunlight makes when it falls gently upon the earth. In the distance, he might, were he to concentrate, hear the voices of his friends. He might be compelled to join them, but for his inward-directed attention. He stays grounded, therefore, mind entirely on the here and now, grasping and processing his feelings.
“They are more worried about being dishonored themselves.” Lao scoffs, leaning back and watching the sky overhead. Large, fluffy clouds glide serenely above, unaware of the turmoil in his heart—perhaps uncaring. He wishes he could let it go. He wishes he too could cease caring and simply do his duty as the ideal, humble monk. “But I cannot,” he growls, “because I AM not. I… fear and I doubt and I fight harder than anyone else just to be… second best.” If that.
It wasn’t that he disliked Liu Kang—not in the least. Not at all.
Orphan or not, it was Liu Kang who should have been named after the Great Kung Lao. It is he who carries the legacy, even if Lao bears the name and the blood. Much rests upon that name in their ancient and venerated clan, so there is much to dishonor. Lao has become skilled only at repeatedly doing just that, despite his best efforts. Liu Kang has never done so. He would be the ideal son. But he is not a Kung. Lao is...
At least I am not the only disappointment in the family, he thinks bitterly. It is an unkind reflection and, though he has only actually met his nephew a handful of times, briefly, and of course when the boy had been much younger than he likely is now, he does not equate their struggles. All the same, he considers, I would become his friend, I think… if I survive this.
Plans for return are far from his mind. In fact, Lao has come to grips with the fact that he will likely not be coming home at all. “That should bring the honor I was missing all these years,” he opines, extending his legs out to either side of the rocky edge of the pond and bending over them, stretching his limbs and breathing deeply, trying to follow Raiden’s imaginary advice. Even without the thunder god’s pedantic scolding, Lao knows that this, too, is a selfish thought and centers himself to banish it, as well. He finds himself attempting to banish many thoughts these days, but they are only coming on more strongly as if in response. To give of oneself without thought of one’s own aggrandizement is true martyrdom; the moment one considers it so, it loses all honor and becomes an act of vainglory.
Bending first to one side and then the other, Lao stretches, breathes, and then sits back up, straightening and re-folding his legs. The sunlight glints off the edge of his hat, still lodged in the earth nearby as he lays his hands in his lap in the old meditative pose, closing his eyes. His chest expands and contracts with forced slowness, all effort concentrated into wrangling, controlling, and releasing the thoughts which buzz about his mind like angry hornets. Outwardly, he is the picture of serenity, the perfect monk.
He supposes that this is how it must remain. Until he can prove himself worthy, he will always be the number two Shaolin. That is not what rankles him most, however. It is that Liu Kang is absolutely his biggest fan, his most ardent supporter, and actually listens to him when he does express doubt. How can he harbor any harsh feelings toward or in relation to someone like that?
I love him, he thinks, and he’s going to walk right into his death… I will follow him, because that is what I always do. If Liu Kang is the lamb to slaughter, then what does that make him? What abattoir awaits them in Netherrealm and whatever is across the Blood Sea? Is Raiden yet again leading them into a massacre? Lao’s hands are balled into fists upon his lap and the meditative serenity is lost, if he had ever really found it. He feels tears sting the corners of his eyes.
“I love you, Liu Kang.” And it is too damn late to do anything about it.