#mortal kombat conquest

Some MK Conquest Doodles…Ifound a regular point, some shows or movies’ costume design and props are excellent, but the stories are terrible … On the contrary, some shows’ props ,costume and special effects look very cheap…but the story and actors’ performance are amazing…(like #MortalKombatConquest)

Literally that’s only the title because it’s the 69th MK ficlet I’ve done. I have no deep meaning behind this. 

OH also it’s Conquest. Siro has feelings and doesn’t know how to deal with them. Predictable! 

Conquest timeline

“Are you sure you wanna do that?” Rayden’s eyebrow rose and his lips curled mischievously at the corners as he stared the exiled guard down from across a chessboard. Zhu Zin was known for many things, but not chess players. Siro had, in point of fact, been seeking a worthy opponent for quite some time, as his chess skills had been honed in child- and young adulthood. He had feared they were rusty and perhaps they were, but the deity certainly wasn’t playing with any strategy Siro had ever seen. Somewhere behind him, Kung Lao trained—he was always training—practicing with whatever weapons he could get his hands on and then without weapons entirely, as he had been taught. It helped calm his mind, soothe tumultuous thoughts, and re-center himself. He also did not know how to play chess and whatever the others were up to seemed… pretty dull, actually.

“You won’t trick me, Rayden; I see what you’re up to with your knight and I’m… hang on…” Siro leaned forward, eyes narrowed, lips curled into a half-grimace as he examined just what the thunder god was doing—as far as he could estimate, anyway. The man was difficult to read at the best of times, appearing on occasion flippant and casual and on others, severe and almost fatherly. Almost. Rayden leaned back in his seat and accepted a mug of some alcohol or other from Taja. He wasn’t picky and because of this, he was her favorite customer.

“How long have you two been at that? Sun’s going down!” Taja exclaimed, hands on her hips. “I gotta close up.” She jerked her thumb over one shoulder. “Mind if I borrow Siro?”

“No way, Taja,” said Siro without looking up from the board, as if mesmerized by the onyx and ivory pattern, “if I leave, he’ll cheat.”

Rayden scoffed with a snort and shook his head. “A grandmaster’s skill always looks like cheating to amateurs,” he said, standing and setting the generously-offered mug aside. “I’ll help while Siro… overheats. I trust him not to cheat…. Man of honor that he is. Right Siro?”

There was no answer. They’d lost him to the pattern of the board and the thunder god’s odd strategy.

“I’ll help too,” said Kung Lao, backing away from a training dummy and pulling his shirt off a box where he had of course folded it neatly. He wiped his face first and then began tugging it on. “Just watching him is making me dizzy.”

The three laughed and left Siro to his contemplation, descending to the main courtyard of the Reyland trading post. Taja had yet to close the gates—she had not planned on being long upstairs—and the goods were still scattered about, some still neat, some looking fairly picked-over. She clicked her tongue at the latter, noting things out of place and verbally lamenting the discourtesy of messy customers.

“Cost of doing business in Zhu Zin,” Rayden commented, arms folded in his sleeves as he watched the two mortals work. “I mean, it’s better than, say, being set upon by… ooh four or five ne’er-do-wells.”

At this, both Kung Lao and Taja looked up. The thunder god’s imagination was being a little too specific for their taste. Their eyes met Rayden’s and Rayden was pointing to the door with his usual look of wry amusement.

“Ohp, guess you get both,” said the thunder god with a shrug as the predicted ne’er-do-wells filed in, armed and looking rough.

“We’re closing up for the night,” said Taja bravely, face-to-face with one of the thugs, “but I guess if you’ve got some last-minute shopping, we’re always happy to please a customer.”

“I can think of a few ways you’d please this customer,” growled the man whom Taja thought smelled of fish and failure. She nodded, frowning as if in thought. It was not the first time in Zhu Zin she’d heard that, nor, she suspected, would it be the last. Now she was in a position where she could do something about it, however.

“That right?”

Kung Lao caught the tone of danger in her voice and moved to get between them but she held up an arm and shook her head, flame-red hair tossed this way and that, catching the dying light of the sun. The “please, Taja” died on his lips as her knee came up and ended this portion of the big, hairy, fishy thug’s career. He went down in a heap and the rest began to move all at once, one tipping a table which caused Taja to swear creatively, and at least two moving with bladed weapons to surround the unassuming, beggarly fellow with arms folded in sleeves.

Kung Lao and Taja threw themselves into the fray, splitting the remainder into two fierce, one-on-one fights. Rayden watched, relaxed, studying their movements. Kung Lao, he knew to be an excellent fighter, of course. Taja was also more than competent. What he wanted to see was how they worked together. He ignored his “captors” completely, until one of them jabbed him with something blunt. He sighed, hoping it was a club.

“I’m a… simple beggar,” he said, fabricating a story on the fly but somehow still delivering it as if he had long ago memorized it and the words meant nothing. “Surely I haven’t anything to offer.”

His eyes never left his fighters. That is, they didn’t until a hand on his upper arm sought to jerk him around to face the other two. Lighter than an average mortal, he was nevertheless a god and one did not manhandle a deity against his will. He did not budge, instead holding up a hand to signal “just a sec” in the most flippant way possible. He could feel the indignation radiating off the thugs and wondered if there was a factory somewhere in or around Zhu Zin where they pumped out these kinds of guys and how they always seemed to choose the worst targets possible. Oh, they could get bad, harmful even, but here, among these, his Earthrealm champions? Not a chance.

A yell from the balcony above soon accompanied the weight of a well-placed body landing directly on top of the thug who had grabbed him. Blood spattered the stones of the courtyard from a shattered face and the man was out, probably dead, with Siro standing triumphantly on his back. He looked pleased as punch and clapped his hands together with satisfaction.

“My hero,” said Rayden wryly. He gestured to the other thug. “Ya mind?”

Taja had knocked her target out cold and Kung Lao was finishing his with a dizzying series of well-aimed punches, topped with a spinning kick that sent his man flying right back out the doors. “Help me drag this guy,” said Taja as Siro regarded the glowering thug, the only one left on his feet and conscious.

“I’ve never seen you fight,” Siro said, crossing his arms in response to Rayden’s similar gesture.

“And you never will,” warned Rayden, his voice still holding tones of playfulness, but with an undertone of chastisement. “When gods fight…” He shook his head. “Just take him out; a stunt landing doesn’t count—both Taja and Kung Lao are one up on you.”

This, he knew, would goad the prideful former consort into action and sure enough, off Siro went, squaring up against the remaining thug while Kung Lao and Taja worked on removing the others and alerting the authorities—such that they were—of Zhu Zin. The man swung hard, but wide and Siro batted it aside, using his height and reach to his advantage. When his boot found the guy’s chest, it was over.

“They can’t have been organized, or sent by anyone who was,” Kung Lao suggested, coming to help Siro take out the trash. Rayden watched and shook his head, lips pursed in contemplation.

“For once, I think it was just a chance encounter,” he said, perhaps hoping more than knowing. It was hard to say with him. The others continued cleaning up as Rayden watched, not quite supervising, per se, but not helping. That was just his way and they had become accustomed to it.

“Rayden,” Siro said after hauling a few finely-woven rugs over to a protective canopy, “what did you mean when you said… when gods fight?”

He pitched his voice low, indicating he did not want Taja and Kung Lao to hear. Rayden’s brow rose. “Exactly what I said,” supplied the thunder god, gesturing dismissively. Siro’s eyes narrowed, indicating he was not done. He was an intelligent man, Rayden knew, and did not like mystery under his own roof—even if that roof was shared with two others who were content to simply put up with the god of thunder’s weird proclivities and supply him with the occasional mug of beer.

“Ah, speaking of,” said Rayden aloud, turning from Siro to head back upstairs. “I think we have a game to finish and I have ale to finish.”

“Dinner will be in an hour,” said Kung Lao, joining Rayden at the foot of the stairs and only separating off when they forked, one to the common area, the other to the kitchen. Kung Lao was the best cook of the trio and both Taja and Siro’s stomachs roared at his declaration.

“Oh no you don’t!” Siro came pounding up the stairs after Rayden while Taja watched, laughing behind a hand and shaking her head. She felt a certain fondness in her formerly cold heart for the people she had picked up along her strange journey through Zhu Zin. Sometimes, she wondered what her life might have been if she had not decided to attack Siro and Kung Lao on the temple road. Sure, she’d received a sound thrashing, but Taja decided, watching Siro and Rayden converse and Kung Lao disappear into the trading post’s expansive kitchen, that she would do it again in a heartbeat.

Rayden’s blue gaze—sometimes his eyes were like the sky in mid-autumn, heartbreakingly blue, and sometimes they were a stormy gale over a roiling see, and sometimes they were an almost melancholy near-gray; she could not see the color from here—caught hers around Siro’s bare shoulder and held it for a few moments. She did not know what she detected in the look, but it moved her heart to clench a little and she dropped her eyes. 

Presently, Siro and Rayden also disappeared upstairs, returning to their game. Taking up positions on either side of the board, they eyed it and then each other. “Well,” Rayden pressed, “did you make a decision?”

“I ah…” Siro stammered a moment as Rayden’s eyes met his, too. His heart skipped a few beats and he anticipated… what, he could not say. He forced himself to hold those eyes, now dark like the sky over a gale-swept sea. “I was just about to,” he continued, forcing himself forward, “when I heard the mess you three were making downstairs!”

“Excuses,” Rayden scolded, tossing his hand out. “You can do better, Siro.”

Rayden had observed, upon sitting down, that at least two pieces had in fact been moved. This would not stop him, but it would slow the noose that he had been closing around his opponent’s proverbial throat. The decision to let Siro go on with his game was a conscious one—a learning opportunity. He would allow it for his own entertainment and Siro’s edification, but mostly the former if he was being honest with himself.

“Just give me a second,” Siro grunted, leaning over the board with almost as much intensity as he had done before. Rayden could feel the difference, of course. For a being made of lightning, the electrical impulses of the human body were a roadmap to emotions, temperament, and lies. That was his favorite. The lies. They tried so hard—they always did. Only Shang Tsung was ever able to lie to him and Rayden suspected he had allowed much of it, preferring to turn a blind eye on his former chosen’s… antics. He was easier to bear that way.

“Fine, fine,” said Rayden, leaning back and picking up his ale mug. “But don’t think my finishing this before you move is going to give you any kind of advantage.”

Siro’s hand reached out and he moved a bishop, taking one of Rayden’s knights. Siro removed the white piece from the board and sat back, propping his hands behind his head as if he had done something tremendous. It was all show, Rayden knew, but he indulged anyway and took a slow drink of the ale Taja had provided. The woman herself emerged from the stairwell presently and, arms crossed over her chest, stopped to regard the two of them.

“Exciting,” she said, her tone indicating that it was the opposite. “I think I’m gunna help Kung Lao with dinner.”

“Help is a funny word for that, Taja,” said Siro, who looked like a cat who’d dined on a particularly plump canary. Taja huffed in response, but shot back no retort. She was in high spirits and clearly these two were having a good enough time staring at admittedly pretty, carved ivory and obsidian pieces. This was one of the Baron’s chess sets, she knew—not his nicest, but that one was gold- and silver-plated and Rayden had warned against metallic pieces while he was playing. They felt that made good sense, so ivory and obsidian it was.

“Keep pulling pigtails,” Rayden said, speaking the rest of his sentence into his mug as he lifted it, “she’ll catch on eventually.”

“Huh?” Siro was baffled. No one around here had pigtails that he had noticed. He decided this was a distraction tactic and gestured to the board. “You’d better focus; I have your rook on the ropes.”

“Hm?” Rayden looked down as if this was his first time observing a chessboard, much less the current game. “Oh dear.” There was absolutely nothing even resembling surprise in his tone. “So you do.”

He moved his queen to intercept something that was a few moves in the offing and sacrificed the rook. Siro’s smile was full of dark mirth. He was going to win this! He was going to beat the god of thunder at a game supposedly conceived by the gods themselves. He could feel his chest swelling with pride. All those games against Cassar would finally FINALLY pay off.

“I hope he doesn’t let Siro win,” Kung Lao said, slicing a pepper. “Humility is a good lesson… for all of us.”

“You just don’t want him to be insufferable for the next eternity,” Taja observed, looking up from shucking corn. Kung Lao nodded.

“That, too.”

The admission was met and then joined with laughter from both companions. They had grown comfortable with each other, and with Siro. They were a fairly well-oiled unit, which was a miracle given their rocky start. Each seemed to complement the others, picking up the slack where someone might be missing something—some skill or ability.

“Taja,” said Kung Lao in the gentle way that indicated he was about to ask a favor and did not want to put her out. She pulled some remaining hairs off the corn and tossed them into a basket before looking up.

“Yeah?”

“Would you mind lighting the sconces in the dining area?” He indicated that he would do it, but he was up to his wrists in diced pepper. Not only that, but the multitalented Mortal Kombat champion had something frying on cast iron, water heating for the corn, and a whole rack of spices ready to be applied to some succulent-looking meat. Taja was more than happy and she nodded, wondering whence this incredibly light feeling had come and how she could make it stay. Or bottle and sell it, she thought, grinning.

“The chandelier too?” She must have been in a good mood. Taja never offered to light that. Tall as she was, the thing was precarious to reach.

“Ask Lord Rayden if he wouldn’t mind… it feels like a chandelier kind of night, doesn’t it?” Kung Lao, too, seemed to be in high spirits, despite the violence they had dished out earlier—or maybe because of it. He did not stop to think which it might be, and focused instead on the joy of it all.

“Yeah,” she agreed. “It does.”

And with that, she disappeared into the corridor outside the kitchen, heading toward the rather elegant dining room. On the other side of that dining room was the common area or den—she wasn’t sure which—where Rayden and Siro still sat playing. She could hear their laughter. She wondered as she lit the wall sconces why wealthy people seemed to think they needed so many rooms. Even with a fully-staffed house, most of these rooms would remain empty for much of the day, collecting dust and sand from the nearby desert and the passing tramp of feet outside the trading post. She thought of that street in a bit more detail, letting her mind wander, seeing the sights in her head, the familiar ones and the strange which had soon become familiar. The trading post sign stuck out in her mind most vividly.

“We need to change that,” she said to herself. “There aren’t any more Reylands here… But…” Poor Kung Lao. The melancholy settled upon her heart as she finished her task and Taja clicked her tongue irritably as she realized she’d chased away the joy with her own gloom. She eyed the chandelier, made a face, and decided to see if she could feed off whatever Rayden and Siro were radiating to get it back. She crossed the room and pushed open the door to the sitting area.

Rayden was wiping a tear from the corner of one eye, laughing heartily as Siro’s fists balled into the front of his tunic. Siro looked like he was about to burst, his brows knitting together, jaw tight, veins standing out on his neck and forehead. Taja didn’t like him when he was this way. She had seen too many people meet bad ends when men looked like he did now. Only Rayden’s laughter kept her from backing out of the room and hoping they didn’t notice her. She wondered if it would have been worse if she’d walked in on something else! The thought made her blush and she banished it immediately.

“Hey maybe don’t throttle god, Siro?” Taja called from her place in the doorway. She observed the chessboard minutely, barely focusing on it as all her instincts told her to keep something between herself and Siro. She wasn’t scared of him—she wasn’t. But angry men were scary. She hated that quailing cowardice of hers, but as a thief, having something of a craven nature often kept one alive.

“Yeah, she’s right, better stop,” Rayden managed between gales of laughter.

“You cheated!” Siro thundered. Well, saying he thundered in the presence of the god of thunder might have been a bit of an exaggeration, but his volume was not in check.

“Inside voice!” Rayden shot back, laughter in his words. Taja sighed.

“I was just going to ask if you wouldn’t mind—”

“Lighting the chandelier? Sure. Give us a few minutes,” said Rayden, his tone darkening a little, becoming serious—almost somber. “Siro and I have something to discuss, I think.” He watched Taja leave and felt Siro’s grip loosening on the front of his tunic. “Oh, Taja? Close the door, would you?”

She nodded, baffled, but a little too unsettled by the sudden shift—like a storm breaking after a still, hazy afternoon—and did as she was asked. She liked that he asked—that he didn’t tell. Rayden would tell them facts and explain situations for their benefit, but he rarely made demands. He didn’t force them to obey him, or worse, to worship him. Taja felt her arms wrapping around herself as she considered this. What would things be like with a god like that wandering around? She had never thought to meet a god—had not thought they existed, so every single day was a learning experience. In a way, she was grateful. In a way, I’m scared senseless.

Chessboard between them, Siro and Rayden stared each other down. They were eye-to-eye, the former consort of the man who had once owned this building and the god of thunder. Siro’s jaw was still tight and his fists were balled. Even he did not know whence this anger had come. He was frustrated, embarrassed, and something else he could not identify—maybe several somethings.

“You wanted to win so badly, you were willing to toss your honor aside when my guard was down and take a cheap shot,” said Rayden, not asking, but telling. This was one of those instances in which he told. Siro knew from the tone that he was not making an educated guess. “Why?”

“But you were the one who… who…”

“Who thwarted your strategy because I’m literally as old as Earthrealm itself? Whodathunk a god could beat a mortal at a game of wits! Absolutely buck wild.”

Siro bristled at the flippancy in Rayden’s voice, but had no retort. He was foolish to think he could win.

“Mortals are amazing, really… the audacity,” Rayden went on, lightening his tone just a fraction. “You thought you’d impress Taja and Kung Lao by beating me, right? You’re not that tough to figure out… But that’s not a win. You can’t be proud of that… Can you? Did I misjudge you?”

Now, he sounded so disappointed that Siro felt his heart squeeze viciously in his chest, as if Rayden had a hand in there and was crushing down on the muscle. The names of his friends who, even now, were preparing dinner for all of them, only served to hurt him more. Why did Rayden have such influence over Siro? When had it happened? 

“Not them,” Siro grunted, eyes downcast. “I mean, a win would look good, but they don’t… care about chess… You do and I…”

“Me?” Rayden scoffed, perhaps a bit more roughly than Siro would have liked, but he was in no position to argue with his chastisement. “A few months ago, you didn’t know I existed—didn’t believe I was real. Now—”

“Now I know you are and I want…” Siro’s cheeks were bright red and he stepped away from the table, moving toward the door. “Never mind. I think I heard Kung Lao. You made your point. I cheated because I wanted to win.”

This time it was Rayden’s turn to watch with a look of slight puzzlement on his admittedly handsome face. He pursed his lips in thought for a moment before flash-stepping ahead of the mortal, standing between Siro and the door, arms folded in his sleeves in a familiar pose. He tossed his head to move his silver-white hair off one shoulder and eyed Siro with a look that could only be described as a dare.

“Finish that sentence, Siro,” he said, “or it’ll eat you alive.” It was no threat, nothing more than bare fact. Rayden was above threats. When one dealt with the god of thunder, one knew the consequences only when one suffered them. Siro was impulsive, but he was no fool. He knew there was no way he could push past Rayden if Rayden did not want to be moved. Instead, he let his gut guide him and grabbed the deity’s collar in one big hand and spoke through gritted teeth.

“I don’t know what you are—I barely know who you are—but everything in my body wants you…. So badly it aches.” He pressed forward and, for whatever reason, Rayden allowed the pressure to guide his back into the thankfully sturdy, iron-banded, wooden door. The rivets dug in through the cloth of his robes, but that was secondary to the brutal honesty he was receiving. It was what he had wanted and, more than that, what Siro needed. Suffering a mortal’s manhandling was not the worst thing he had ever endured. His brother was Shao Kahn, after all. Anyway, Siro wasn’t bad looking, just bad-tempered. “All I do know is that it’s pointless, because you’re a god… and I’m not…”

“Not with that attitude,” said Rayden, mischief sparkling in sky blue eyes. One brow rose in challenge. “Listen, Siro, I’m willing to ignore the Baron’s… treatment of you, ‘cause that wasn’t—y’know, your call. I mean, needs must when the devil drives, but you can’t explain away Takeda.” He held up a hand, indicating he was not done when Siro’s mouth shot open to retort. “I’m a god, remember? I know plenty. I also know you’re better than all of that… you’re a man of honor. You protected Jen to her last breath and would’ve protected her to yours if the opportunity had arisen. I’m glad it didn’t because you’re a great ally to Taja and Kung Lao. They need you… Focus on that and the… ache… will probably burn itself out.”

“You don’t get it do you?” Siro growled. “I’ve tried. I…”

“Well if you want me, big guy, you’re going to have to do a lot better song and dance than a chess game.” Rayden’s laughter echoed into the rafters as thunder rumbled in the distance. “I might look like a man, but if you think I’m down for a tumble in the stables WHEW, you’ve got another thing comin’.” He chuckled at his own raunchy humor and patted Siro’s cheek. “Now, are you gunna let me—”

Siro’s lips crashed into Rayden’s with force and vigor such that the thunder god was actually surprised by the movement. His natural defenses began to crackle and it was with great effort he pushed them down so as not to harm the man. Siro might deserve a walloping after this, but not death. The other two were too fond of him, for starters, and Rayden did not mind him, either.

He was beginning to mind—the audacity of mortals.

Siro’s hand dropped from Rayden’s collar and slid around his waist, the other one bracing itself upon the door next to the deity’s head. It was as if a switch had been flipped inside the big man and he was suddenly very open to the possibilities of whatever he was doing—or what it might lead to, rather. Rayden was counting down the seconds before he sent Siro flying across the room. He would start with another solid lecture, part disappointed mentor, part offended maid. I’ll have to work a little harder to affect that one, he told himself but it would be worth it. There were evidently a few lessons Siro needed to learn and it had fallen upon Rayden, god of thunder and protector of Earthrealm, to teach them.

As Siro tugged him closer, the rumble of distant thunder resounded to the west of the trading post and Kung Lao craned his neck to look out one of the kitchen’s small windows to examine this out-of-season storm. Narrowing his eyes, he leaned back and called out for Taja, who appeared swiftly in the doorway, about to open her mouth to say something when she saw where Lao’s gaze had been settled.

“You heard it too?” She could feel the hairs on the back of her neck standing up, as if there was an electrical charge in the air. Not a place known for its monsoons, Zhu Zin was sheltered by mountains and a bizarrely reasonable climate, making it the perfect crossroads for all manner of trade and shipping. The baron had been right to set himself up here. The lack of severe weather made it a very attractive location indeed, but as a result, the people of Zhu Zin were rarely prepared when the weather did take a turn for the worst.

The baron was not one of those people, however. His investments here meant much to him and every window had a set of storm shudders stored somewhere in the room, tastefully hidden behind the décor, or used as decoration themselves when they were not performing their function. Normally, the servants would have rushed around to batten down the hatches, as it were, but now, there was only Taja, Kung Lao, and Siro.

“You want me to get Siro?” Taja wasn’t sure how long Rayden planned on taking up their friend’s time and she supposed the whim of a god would have to win out over their concern for a storm. “I can—”

“I think we had better both check on them,” suggested Kung Lao, stepping away from the food he was preparing. He had not left anything on or burning, prudent as he was, but the risk of the meal cooling was a real one and Taja lamented the waste. She only worried about it a moment, however, as Kung Lao’s eyes met hers earnestly.

“What?” She asked, her sharp mind dancing over everything she had seen and heard and doen within the past hour, searching for any unlikely clue. The thunder rumbled again and it sounded closer. She swallowed. Taja had never been a fan of storms. Since meeting Rayden, she had learned not to fear them as she had on the streets when she was young, but they still triggered something deeply primal in her that demanded fear.

“Lord Rayden,” Kung Lao reminded her and then pointed upward, meaning the incoming, dark clouds, “who is the god of storms…” He waited somewhat patiently, urgent as the need was to find out what was causing this upset. Kung Lao had an inkling that Rayden’s mood could and did sometimes dictate the weather, as did his arrival. He didn’t know what could cause this kind of oncoming maelstrom, however; the clouds had looked particularly dark… almost frustrated?

The look of realization dawned on Taja’s face, bright eyes wide with recognition and realization. She recalled the conversation Rayden had shared with Siro before they left to close up shop. She also recalled the bits she had gathered upon entering the drawing room—or whatever rich people called those places—when she had meant to ask Rayden to light the chandelier in the great dining room.

“He’s pissed,” she assessed quickly. Kung Lao nodded, thinking the same thing without Taja having to say anything at all. They knew their friend Siro well and knew he did not like losing. Cheating was low, but it was just a game of chess and they knew enough about him to realize that he would assess the risk relatively low. Besides, if he beat Rayden in a game like that, it would prove… something. Siro was always trying to prove something.

“Maybe just annoyed, or… concerned; he might be friendly, Taja, but he’s still a god and my—our mentor,” Kung Lao amended, gesturing toward the door. “We could at least ask him to call off the storm.”

“I can’t run fast enough to put up all the storm shutters,” Taja admitted, turning and heading swiftly out the door. She could move quickly enough to hopefully ask a favor of their resident, divine house guest. Taja thought again of the veins standing out on Siro’s neck and forehead, how they had made her draw back. They very air about him was charged with danger. She shook this off, however, reminding herself that she was with Kung Lao and Siro was her friend—maybe he was an idiot, but he was her friend and would never willingly harm her.

They exited the kitchen and began a jogging pace across the corridor and through the dining room, chandelier still unlit. Taja laid her hand on the door of the drawing room and jumped back as an arc of blue-white electricity lanced out and caught her fingers. She had stifled a cry, but Kung Lao was close enough behind her to have seen it and he caught her as she stumbled back, strong hands on her shoulders. Their eyes met.

“All right,” Kung Lao said in a voice that suggested grudging admission, “maybe Rayden is pissed.”

Taja sucked her fingers ineffectually and then shook them around to try and rid herself of the numbness. This was one of the rare social rooms that only had one exit and, therefore, one entrance. There was a window or two, true enough, but neither of them were keen on practicing their building-scaling skills with a storm on the way. A storm we could prevent if we could get in there, Taja thought, the frustration making her cheeks as red as her hair. Stubbornly, she lifted a fist.

Kung Lao caught her arm before she could swing it and shook his head. “I think he knows we’re here,” said the monk quietly, “and he’s warning us to stay away.” He swallowed. “I think we should do our best to put the shutters up on as many rooms as we can…”

“What if he just stops? Leaves! The storm’ll go away and we’ll look like fools!” Ever the pragmatist, Taja was against doing work that didn’t need to be done if it could be prevented. She had a solid head on her shoulders for that, but they were dealing with divinity and the rules always seemed to be a little different where celestial beings were involved.

“Then we look like fools,” said Kung Lao passively, palms skyward as another rumble—it was more of an angry crack—resounded overhead. “But fools with a few dry rugs and less water damage than we might have if we do nothing.”

With one last look at each other and the door, the two split quickly to begin covering as many rooms as they could, aiming for necessary ones first, but hitting others as the opportunity arose. Within the drawing room, the windows were wide and the gale was coming in, full force, careless of what it knocked around or rustled.

Siro seemed to notice this only when a jolt of electricity forced him to stagger away from the god and release his hold. Rayden’s eyes were alight with the stuff and his mouth was drawn into a thin line. “Have you had your fun?”

“My f…fun?” Siro hated the tremor in his voice, but even eye-to-eye with Rayden, the deity felt suddenly much larger, bigger than the room could hold, as if it was by his grace alone that he was here on this plane, affecting a humanoid shape. Siro swallowed and the reality of what he’d done crashed down upon him like the rain which threatened. The sky would soon let go and Zhu Zin would receive a good soak, whether or not they were prepared.

“That… trick,” Rayden said, moving away from the door and toward Siro, “might work on cute tavern girls who don’t know they deserve better,” he continued speaking as he approached and backed Siro toward one of the open windows, “but I am no tavern girl and I know what I could have—what I have had.” His face went swiftly from severe to sardonically condescending in an instant, the sparks still flying from his eyes. “Siro, you’re going to have to try a different song and dance… didn’t I already say that?”

All hope of that aching dissipating was gone, of course. The moment Siro had tasted Rayden, the moment he realized the god was so very … sweet, desirable, so many words for which Siro had no mind or breath, it was all over. Rayden could see it in his eyes and lamented the man’s mistake. The heart wants what it wants, he reminded himself, recalling his first pupil, before Kung Lao, but the heart is a traitorous thing.

He reached out and laid a palm flat on Siro’s chest, feeling the hammering of his heart. He was scared. Good. That would serve him right, wouldn’t it? Shock and awe, Rayden thought humorously. He had the shock part down—he usually did—but Siro wasn’t quite awed enough.

“You have to reconcile what’s in here,” Rayden informed him, “with what is in here.” His hand slid up Siro’s chest, to his neck, then to his head. Lightning quick, before Siro could make any move to stop him, the other hand joined it. “There’s so much in here,” Rayden continued, “and it dwells on the worst and darkest parts of your life… it hurts your heart and makes you act… poorly.” He was being generous, but it was his nature to respond with flippancy, even if he held a man’s life in his hands.

“And then maybe you can deal with what’s… down here.” One hand remained near Siro’s head, on the back of his neck, holding firmly, but not too tightly to harm, as the other one slid down his body and grasped between the man’s thighs. The squeeze was quick, but served as a warning, a way of saying “do I make myself clear?” without speaking the words. Actions usually spoke louder, in Rayden’s experience, especially with men like Siro.

“I…” Siro’s mouth opened to form words, to speak, to defend himself, perhaps. But his eyes were darting all around, like a trapped animal. He was sufficiently awed, Rayden decided, and stepped back, releasing both neck and… elsewhere. He tilted his gaze around one of Siro’s broad shoulders and observed the monsoon his perceived irritation had created.

“Oops,” he intoned, without meaning it, breathing in deeply through his nose and then exhaling as a genial smile settled itself on his face. The storm abated almost instantaneously and elsewhere in the trading post, despite thick stone and stucco walls and solid wooden floors, they could both hear Taja’s creative curses as the early evening sky revealed its splendor to the hapless people of Zhu Zin.

The door opened a few moments later, slowly and gentle; clearly it was Kung Lao. Taja would have stormed the place and indeed, they could almost hear her footsteps pelting back up the stairs to give a certain deity a piece of her mind. He was gone, however, disappearing in his way in a rumble of thunder and what might have been a chuckle. The chandelier crackled with electricity for a moment, the bolts materializing from nowhere and disappearing just as quickly, leaving dancing flames in their wake. Taja rounded a corner in time to see this and rolled her eyes.

“Well at least he lit ‘em before he left,” she said. “I’m assuming he left.”

Kung Lao nodded from the doorway of the drawing room where he was surveying a very flustered-looking Siro and the mess the wind had created. The big man swallowed hard and had the decency to flush before stooping to begin picking everything up. It was his mess, after all. Taja moved to walk past Kung Lao and help, but the monk held up a hand, shaking his head.

“Do you have this, Siro? Taja and I will go finish dinner, if you do.”

Siro grunted and nodded, not looking up. Taja gave Kung Lao a questioning look, but made no move to push past him. Closing the door behind them, he ushered her across the dining room and back toward the kitchen, putting some distance between the humbled warrior and themselves.

“What gives?” Taja’s question came out in a hissing whisper.

“Siro is a proud man, Taja,” Kung Lao reminded her, laying a hand on her shoulder, “and he’s been humbled. We don’t need to make it a humiliation too.”

All that over a chess game? She thought as they returned to their work. I don’t think so. They had not known each other long, but they lived close, worked closely together, and shared much in their daily lives. There were still mysteries about each person, things they elected to keep close, but one’s character was much harder to hide and Siro would have been awful at it anyway, had he even attempted. Guile was not in him and Taja liked that about her friend. He was blunt, forthright, sometimes a little foolish—okay MOST of the time, he was foolish, but he had a good heart and strong moral character. Something else was underpinning the entire thing and she was determined to find out what.

“After dinner, we can take down the shutters we put up,” Kung Lao suggested in a way that told her he was not making a suggestion at all, “and if we split up, we can do it faster.” He was onto her. He knew that, if given the chance, Taja would corner Siro and force a confession from him. A regular inquisitor, she was. Kung Lao was determined to give the man as long as he could to mull over whatever had happened. If he shared, it would be in his own time. He had to admit, sometimes Taja’s pushy inquisitiveness came in handy, but right now, Siro’s ego was severely bruised and he was working through it on his own which, in Kung Lao’s humble opinion, was a vast improvement over the man they had befriended.

“Sure,” she grunted, frowning over the rice dish she was stirring.

“Taja,” Kung Lao said suddenly, his tone a warning one.

“Whaaat?” She felt chastised, but did not have the shame to blush. She turned, spoon in hand, arms crossed.

“I know you’re curious about what happened between them, but Siro needs time—he’s processing this on his own… isn’t that progress?” Now, Kung Lao’s voice was chiding, that of an older brother who was making a damn good point, and doing it in a way that somehow managed not to alienate his younger siblings. Better from him than a parent, in the long run. He had a knack for that, something about the pitch of his voice and his inflections. Taja didn’t think it was conscious, just something about him he couldn’t change. She wondered if Rayden had chosen him, at least in part, for his charisma. Certainly he was a hell of a fighter, but there was so much more to Kung Lao than just strikes and blocks and Mortal Kombat.

“Yeah, well, he should process faster ‘cause that,” she said, gesturing upward, indicating the storm that had been until just recently barreling in upon them, “was not over cheating at chess.”

“No, it most likely wasn’t,” Kung Lao agreed, “but it isn’t our business right now. Is it?”

Taja sighed, hating how right he was. Her lips puckered and her brows knitted. “No,” she admitted, “I guess it isn’t.”

“Think how you might feel,” suggested the monk passively, turning back to the dish he was garnishing.

“Okay, okay, fine, you win,” she conceded, hands up, spoon still clutched in one. “Still,” Taja added after a moment, contemplatively tapping the utensil against her lower lip, “it’s too bad Rayden left. I just finished brewing some more ale, really strong stuff, just how he likes it.” She shrugged. “His loss.”

Kung Lao suspected Taja was attempting to lure the thunder god back—he had a habit of appearing when mentioned, if rarely when summoned—with the promise of good booze. He was half expecting it to work. It did not and they both sighed, he with relief and she with disappointment. They both turned back to their work and began the finishing touches on what was about to be a feast for three, assuming Siro didn’t put himself to bed with no supper like a chastened child.

And chastened he had certainly been. Rayden was, as ever, slightly cryptic in his delivery, preferring to allow them to figure things out on their own. Siro wished he would have been more direct, though he could still feel that hand, buzzing with power, gripping him where a squeeze would have brought him down and for some reason, the rage in his belly refused to rise. Something else was rising, however and he swallowed hard, gritting his teeth, cheeks ablaze, forcing himself to focus on the task at hand, putting the room back the way it had been.

He reached the table where they’d been playing chess presently and realized that the wind had knocked some of the pieces around, if the jarring impact of his standing quickly to assist them in the trading post courtyard had not done that. He stooped and began picking each one up, the black and the white, finely-carved, and extremely expensive. He took time to examine them, too, the ornate scrollwork on the queen piece, the fierceness of the knight’s eyes—these were set with blue stones on the white pieces and red on the black. Siro found himself focusing on the blue stones which he had never before noticed. They were beautiful, framed in ivory. Like his eyes. He shook this thought off and squeezed the piece, hard.

Siro was beginning to ken what Rayden had meant by all that he had said, reconciling himself with his true feelings, but what were they? His memories of the baron were ugly ones, unkind ones, though he would have kept working for the man until he was dismissed—this seemed to happen a lot with young consorts; the baron would tire of them, or they would leave mysteriously, of their own accord—to keep Jen safe. His heart ached when he thought of her. The poor girl had deserved so much better than a father like that. Siro wondered how her mother had been able to stand him long enough to make her. Kung Lao had not been the only one to lose everything that day.

“Reconcile what’s in here,” he repeated, tapping his chest, “with what’s in here.” He tapped his head, then, and realized that Rayden had meant the memories—of course he had. All those memories of the baron, of Takeda, of Jen. He had adored her, but he had not been in love with her. The baron had entrusted him with her safety because he had known something about Siro that even Siro had not known. His life with Hanna would never have worked, because, beautiful as she was and perfect for her as Siro might have been, there was a reason she had turned to Cassar.

How many times had he met Takeda in a shadowy corner of the trading post, or his quarters, or even the dungeons when they were unoccupied? What he had once explained as two very busy men blowing off steam was beginning to look much like something entirely else, something Siro never could have acknowledged at the time. The prejudices of his home and people were still too strong in him. Even in Zhu Zin, a much wilder and freer place, he had not been able to escape it. To keep up appearances, he had absolutely pursued pretty girls in the taverns. He had been good at it, too, and they hadn’t walked away ungrateful. Pleasure was easy to give if it was your goal.

But something was always missing. No matter how many times he found the most beautiful young women of Zhu Zin, his mind had always darted back to Takeda, circumnavigating the baron as best he could, though those were difficult memories to purge. He wondered why he had not seen it earlier, but then his life at the trading post under Baron Reyland had been something of an encapsulated thing, his whole world encompassed by those walls and the occasional trip to the bazaar or the temple to escort or collect Jen.

“I’m an idiot,” he groaned, sitting heavily on the floor next to the table, all the pieces back in their proper places, the room tidied back up. Now, only he was a shambles. He drew his knees up and rested his elbows on them, linking his hands between them and hanging his head, shaking it. “I am such an idiot.”

“Don’t beat yourself up too bad,” came a familiar baritone from one window. Siro’s head snapped up, cheeks bright red again as his eyes fell upon Rayden, lounging on the sill, such that it was, one leg hanging into the room. “We’ve all got some skeletons in our closets… At least you can deal with this one.”

“Skeletons in our…. What?” Siro’s brows knitted and he shook his head. Rayden said the weirdest things sometimes, though from context, the mortal assumed it had something to do with the secret he had been sitting on his whole life, so very well-hidden even HE did not see it.

“You protected yourself,” Rayden continued, “as a child and a young man, and now as an adult.” The thunder god shrugged, gesturing flippantly. “It makes sense. You wouldn’t have made it far in your family like that… But now you’re here, in Zhu Zin, where nobody cares and you have friends you can trust. I’m not saying it’s going to be easy to let go, but you have to do it… for your own sake, and theirs. You have to let yourself grow, Siro.”

Siro pushed himself to his feet, then, and licked his lips, nodding. “Yeah,” he said, “I… kinda figured that out.”

“Took you long enough,” said Rayden with a grin. “When’s dinner?”

“I think Kung Lao and Taja are just finishing up,” Siro responded, “judging by the smell.”

“Excellent. I heard something about fresh ale.” Rayden was full of piss and vinegar this evening, evidently, his eyes sparkling with mirth. Clearly, his upset with Siro had been temporary.

“Rayden?”

“Yes?”

Siro had moved a little bit closer. He looked like a child who wanted to be anywhere else, debating—no, warring—internally with his next steps. Rayden would not have been remotely surprised if Siro had grabbed the hem of his shirt, twisting it this way and that to ease his nerves.

“You were pretty mad earlier… that was a… big storm,” Siro ventured, “and I—”

“You want to apologize for upsetting me,” Rayden interrupted, “well, don’t bother. I wasn’t upset, not really. Disappointed, maybe, but not upset.”

“But they started rolling in when I… erh…” Siro hesitated to name the action that had begun the rumblings, embarrassed by his own forwardness. His heart slammed in his chest and he felt as if he was on very thin ice indeed. It was thrilling, somehow, in its precariousness.

“When you kissed me, yes,” Rayden filled in. One dark brow had risen and he was watching the mortal very closely, taking the measure of him. “You’re not going to try that again, are you?”

“N-no… that is, not… without asking first,” Siro responded, swallowing hard and throwing caution to the wind. “So… I was sort of wondering…”

Rayden’s laughter was summer thunder, gentle and building, distant and promising a show of beautiful lightning and the lush greenery which would come inevitably after. He shook with it, leaning his head against the jamb of the window, marveling for the second time that evening, at the audacity of mortals. To be utterly humbled and abashed only to pick himself up mere minutes later? Kung Lao had made the right choice. Now, it was Rayden’s turn to choose.

“Yes,” he said simply, “I think that would be fine, since you asked so nicely.”

He turned fully into the room, then, robed arms outstretched and Siro approached, perhaps more quickly than dignity would have allowed, but what was dignity after all that? His ego was utterly deflated and he was asking permission to kiss another man! Or… did Rayden count as a man? Siro only wondered that for a moment as their mouths met once more, this time in a gentler pattern, still with force, but nothing so violent as earlier, or so needy. And this time, Rayden leaned back into it, arms finding their way about the man’s shoulders, legs parting to accommodate his hips. Siro’s hands found Rayden’s thighs and felt the buzz of electricity just under the fabric, squeezing and marveling at their solidity. In the distance, thunder rumbled. Taja swore creatively from somewhere on the other side of the door and Siro broke away, looking up with alarm.

“Relax,” Rayden said chuckling. “Like I said, Siro, I wasn’t upset earlier.”