Mortal Kombat: Reawaken the Dragon

[Midnight Darkride]

Johnny Cage staggered out of the bar, unable to fully see straight as he stumbled into the glowing neon light of a video rental store. Frankly, it was odd to see such places still in existence in the day and age of streaming. Stepping through the glass doors brought him a bittersweet wave of nostalgia. At one time, he was king of the martial arts movie world. He was bigger than Van Damme, bigger than Steven Seagal. Hell, in his prime, he was in the exact same tier as Chuck Norris and Bruce Lee.

The worst part was knowing that physically, for the most part, he still had it. Sure, he was not in the exact same shape he was in during his prime. He was in his fifties for crying out loud, but he was still in far better condition than most people half his age, including the actors currently trying to fill his shoes. But time plays no favorites and humbles the exalted. The Hollywood lights only saw numbers. The nineties were thirty years behind him, and the studio executives did not give a rat's rear if a man was still in great physical shape. Silver streaks and slight laugh lines only spoke of a time when there was a pool of younger sharks looking for blood in the water.

What was worse, the Hollywood demons tended to swallow you whole. How did Nickelback put it?

'Cause we all just wanna be big rockstars
And live in hilltop houses driving fifteen cars

The girls come easy and the drugs come cheap

We'll all stay skinny 'cause we just won't eat

And we'll hang out in the coolest bars

In the VIP with the movie stars

Every good gold digger's gonna wind up there

Every Playboy Bunny with her bleach blonde hair

And we'll hide out in the private rooms

With the latest dictionary of today's who's who

They'll get you anything with that evil smile

Everybody's got a drug dealer on speed dial

Minus the staying skinny part, that was Cage's life in a nutshell at his career peak. And all it cost him at that time was everything in his home life. The divorce papers came first. Then, shortly after that, came the call from the hospital. Sideswiped by a drunk driver. She died instantly. She died alone.

The grief had hollowed him out, leaving a shell of a man too numb to read the endless stack of contracts his management kept sliding across his desk. That was when the real bleeding started. A weaponized power of attorney, signed in a drunken haze, gave the vultures the keys to the kingdom. The managers, the lawyers, the accountants—the very "dictionary of today's who's who" the song warned about—stripped him to the studs through calculated royalty theft. By the time he sobered up enough to realize what was happening, his fortune was gone, and his A-list status was quietly revoked. He was exiled to direct-to-streaming and DVD purgatory, forced to churn out soulless, low-budget sequels destined for supermarket bargain bins just to keep the lights on.

He swallowed the heavy lump in his throat and wandered further into the store. He watched as two cashiers, clearly influencer wannabes, goofed off behind the front desk. He went straight to the martial arts section. Then he saw it. The cardboard cutout for Ninja Mime 9.Oh, he hated that movie. He hated making it, and he especially hated watching it.

He doubled back and retreated to the counter, grabbing some gummy worms and cookie dough bites. He had to tap on the glass desk a few times just to get their attention.

"Excuse me. Excuse me!"

The girl of the duo finally looked up and lazily removed her Bluetooth earbuds.

"Yeah, sorry," she muttered.

Johnny grumbled, offering a tired, pathetic apology. "Yeah, my bad. Just ring these up, would you?"

The duo started ringing up the candy before the boy's eyes suddenly widened. "Hey! You're the guy from the Ninja Mime posters."

Johnny winced, though a bitter reflex forced a tired smirk. "The one and only. Accept no stunt doubles."

"Dude, dude, can we like, make a video with you or something if it's not too much trouble?"

It was a trap. Johnny knew it was a trap. Every veteran fiber of his being screamed that this was a mistake. But a desperate, lonely heart swallowed all of that intuition into a void of ignorance, and Cage's eyebrows lifted in almost a hopeful plea.

"A video with you guys? I mean... sure. I've got time. Just get my good side."

Muscle memory kicked in. Cage shifted his weight, wiped the drunken slack from his jaw, and flashed the trademark grin that used to command eight-figure paychecks. He struck a casual, half-cocked fighting stance, waiting for the recording light.

The boy did not raise the camera. He kept his head bowed, thumb scrolling rapidly until a tinny, compressed slide-whistle echoed from the phone's speaker. He had pulled up a streaming app.

"Okay, look," the boy said, shoving the screen inches from Johnny's face.

It was a ripped clip from Ninja Mime 9. Specifically, the scene where Cage slipped in a puddle of synthetic oil and took a prop pie to the face.

"We're doing this cringe-react trend," the girl said. She already had her own phone raised, the camera flash glaring directly into Johnny's bloodshot eyes. "Do the stupid cross-eyed face you make right at the end. Like, look really pathetic."

Johnny's grin died. His arms dropped to his sides. He stared at the glowing screen, then at the two kids. They were not looking at him with awe. They were looking at him the way people look at a dancing bear at a roadside circus.

"Come on, man, just do the monkey face," the boy urged, not bothering to hide a smirk. "It's hilarious. You're like, ironically famous on here right now."

The girl let out a sharp, nasal laugh, her eyes raking up and down Johnny's frame, taking in the silver streaks, the rumpled jacket, and the sad handful of gummy worms and cookie dough bites. "Literally just be the meme, dude."

Ironically famous. Be the meme.

The alcohol buzzing in his veins suddenly turned to ice water. The desperate, lonely delusion shattered in an instant, leaving only the crushing weight of exactly what he was to the rest of the world.

"I..." Johnny's tongue felt thick. He dropped a crumpled twenty on the glass counter. "Cut. We're done here. Keep the change."

"Wait, are you seriously just walking off?"

Johnny turned too fast. His boot caught the edge of a wire discount bin, sending plastic DVD cases clattering across the linoleum. He stumbled hard, shoulder-checking a cardboard standee before slamming heavily into the glass front door. He fumbled with the handle for three agonizing seconds, his coordination totally shot. Behind him, the teenagers did not even try to stifle it anymore. They just openly laughed.

Shoving his weight against the frame, the door finally gave way. Cage spilled out onto the concrete pavement, the electronic chime above the door ringing him out into the night.

It was raining now, and ironically the cold water sobered him up. Was this what life really was now? Was this the final cost of fame? He looked down at his feet and saw a busted plastic case for another one of his movies lying in a puddle: Whom the Bell Tolls: Debt Comes Due. He stared at the broken case. He picked it up, bared his teeth, and with a feral, almost vengeful scream he chucked it as hard as he could before slumping heavily against a brick wall. Water flowed down his cheeks, and at this point he was not sure if it was rain or tears.

Fate is a funny mistress, though, and sometimes she gives second chances where you least expect them.

"Let go of me! Leave me alone!" a voice cried out from the darkness of a nearby alley.

Johnny leaped to his feet and into action. Was what he was about to do stupid? Definitely. But what did he have to live for at this point? He rushed into the alleyway and saw two men cornering a young woman wearing a hoodie and, oddly enough, a purple face mask. Maybe she thought Covid was still a thing.

"Oh come on now sweetcakes... we won't bite much," one of the thugs sneered.

"Stop, please! I don't want this!" the woman pleaded, her voice panicked but strained.

Johnny could tell by the strain in her voice that she was gritting her teeth, like she was holding back something. She honestly gave off intense 'Don't make me angry' vibes, but such analytical questions gave way to the old-fashioned manly values his father had taught him long before his Hollywood fame.

"Hey!" Johnny shouted.

The two thugs turned around just as Johnny pulled a pair of dark shades from his pocket, slipping them onto his face in his once-iconic fashion.

"You heard the lady. Cut it! before I do it for you."

They thought he was just a washed-up old man in a decent jacket. That was their first mistake.

When the first thug lunged, throwing a wild, untrained haymaker, Johnny did not even have to think. The muscle memory took over. He slipped inside the kid's guard, planted his feet, and delivered a devastating liver shot. The wet thud of the impact echoed off the brick walls as the punk instantly folded, gasping for air that simply would not come.

The second one hesitated, completely thrown off by the blinding speed of the counter, before charging in blindly. Johnny's knees protested with a sharp spike of his self-diagnosed arthritis as he pivoted, but he ignored the pain. He caught the attacker's wrist, twisted it sharply, and drove a rigid elbow straight into the man's jaw. Bone cracked. The thug went down hard, spitting blood and teeth onto the wet asphalt.

For a fleeting, exhilarating second, Johnny felt a spark of his old self. He was breathing heavily, his chest heaving under his wet jacket, but he was winning. He still had it.

Then came the sharp, metallic snick of a switchblade cutting through the heavy air.

The first punk had managed to scramble back to his feet. He was holding a six-inch blade, his hands shaking with humiliated rage. Johnny froze. He lowered his stance, his heart hammering violently against his ribs. He could win a street brawl against amateurs, but a knife changed the math completely. A blade meant a lucky swipe could end it all right here in the trash-strewn dark.

The thug took a step forward, raising the knife. "You're dead, old man," the punk spat, taking one more step.

Then the kid stopped dead in his tracks.

His gaze had drifted just an inch over Johnny's right shoulder. The color instantly drained from the punk's face, leaving him a sickening, chalky white. His eyes widened so far they looked like they were going to roll out of his skull. The hand holding the knife began to tremble uncontrollably. Whatever he was looking at, it shattered every ounce of bravado he had left.

A high, thin whimper escaped the thug's throat. He dropped the knife, the blade clattering uselessly against the pavement. Without another word, the kid spun around, grabbed his bleeding friend by the collar, and bolted. The two of them scrambled over each other, sprinting out of the alley and into the streetlights, screaming at the top of their lungs like they had just looked directly into the mouth of hell.

Johnny stood there in the sudden, eerie silence. His fists were still raised. A cold sweat beaded on the back of his neck. He took a slow, deep breath, lowered his guard, and turned around.

Standing in the deepest shadow of the alley, perfectly motionless, was the woman. Her mask was firmly in place, hiding everything from the bridge of her nose down, but her eyes were locked onto him. They caught the faint, amber glow of the distant streetlights, burning with an intense, predatory calm. She had not raised a hand. She had not made a sound.

Johnny stared at her for a long second, his brain processing the sheer, lethal stillness radiating off of her. Then, his legendary ego kicked in. It was a survival instinct all its own, and it jumped right back into the driver's seat.

He puffed out his chest, turned back toward the mouth of the alley, and cupped his hands over his mouth, shouting into the night. "Yeah, that's right! And stay out of my zip code!"

He lowered his hands, rolled his shoulders, and casually dusted off the lapels of his jacket before rushing over to make sure the young woman was safe. "You in one piece, kid? Need me to call security?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," she breathed out, her eyes wide. "Thank you. You were literally so brave just now."

Just as she was about to take his offered hand, her bag slipped, spilling its contents onto the wet ground. The young woman yelped in absolute panic. "Oh no! My DVDs!"

Johnny crouched down to help grab them, only to lift an eyebrow. They were all Johnny Cage DVDs. Just as he stacked them and handed them back to her, she cocked her head to the side. Her eyes widened, and she let out an excited gasp.

"Oh my gosh. Y-You're Johnny Cage!"

Johnny let out a tired sigh, offering a weary smirk. "In the flesh. Or what's left of it, anyway."

Cage watched as the woman's muscles visibly twitched. Tiny whimpers escaped her throat as if she was doing everything in her physical power to hold back a squee. She looked like she was ready to tackle-hug him, only managing to hold herself back through sheer force of will.

"I-I'm Mileena. I know you probably get this a lot but... by the Elder Gods, I'm like, your absolute biggest fan!"

Johnny couldn't help but chuckle. The bizarre cosplay slang actually softened the moment. "Believe it or not, the box office hasn't really reflected that lately."

"But why? You're literally one of the greatest martial artists to ever live! Your technique is flawless!"

Johnny couldn't explain why, but something about the absolute purity of her sincerity struck him. Maybe it was because he had spent so much time with the bottle lately, but he was truly moved, to the point his voice cracked a little.

"Thanks. That actually... means a lot right now."

He rubbed the bridge of his nose to hide the fact that he was wiping away tears.

"Hey, not to toot my own horn, but... want an autograph?"

Mileena gasped, her hands flying to her cheeks. "You mean it?!? Oh my gosh, I don't even have any paper money on me... how much is it?"

"Nah, kid. Comped. This one is on the house."

He literally signed everything that a pen could mark. Every DVD, hand-signed. Her backpack? Signed. She even pulled out an old promotional photo of him from the set of Dragon Fist. He was genuinely shocked. They had only given out three hundred of these. After thirty years, for all Johnny knew, it might have been the last of its kind. He grinned, scribbling the message To my greatest fan - Johnny Cage, and strangely enough, he meant it.

"You may want to see how much that'd go for on eBay, kid. You could fetch a nice bounty for it."

Mileena looked at the photo and gave him a pleading look. "Mr. Cage, I don't mean to be a bother. But I'd really appreciate it if you'd put my name on it. Please."

Johnny's eyes widened. "Are you sure? If I personalize the signature, it absolutely tanks the resale value. You'd be taking a hit."

"I don't care about eBay," she said softly, holding the picture close. "Object-wise, this is one of my most prized possessions. It's more valuable than any tribute... I mean, any gold. Trust me, I know."

Now Johnny really did break, not giving a care if she saw him cry or not.

"Alright, kid. One VIP autograph coming up." Fortunately, his muscle memory was flawless. He had left just enough open space to slip 'Mileena' into the ink, making it look as if it had been there from the start.

Mileena hugged the photo to her chest, letting out a deep, contented sigh.

"Thank you."

"No, no. Thank you," Johnny sighed, finally feeling like he could breathe again. "Believe it or not, I really needed a good review tonight. Hey, if you ever want anything from me, anything at all, just have your people call my people. Seriously, name it."

"Anything?!?"

Johnny immediately flinched. He recognized the hyper-eager lift in her voice and the intense look in her eyes, or at least he thought he did, from back in the day. He was going to nip it in the bud right here and now.

"Except that," he said firmly, taking a step back. "I don't do the whole Hollywood groupie thing anymore. I'm not that kind of man."

"What... Oh! No, no, no, no, I didn't mean that!" she frantically corrected, waving her hands in front of her face, before quietly muttering, "Not yet, anyway." She cleared her throat, awkwardly tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "No, it's something else. If it's not too much trouble... I'd be so honored."

"Okay... shoot."

Mileena looked up at him, her eyes shining with pure, absolute reverence.

"Will you fight me?"

Johnny let out a violently confused cough. "EXCUSE ME?!?"

"Just a couple of rounds of Kombat? Please? It's something I've dreamed about ever since I first watched you."
Johnny couldn't help but notice how she put a slightly harder, more guttural emphasis on the word combat. It sounded as if she were spelling it with a K instead of a C. The average Joe most likely wouldn't have noticed, technically speaking, a hard C and a hard K were phonetically identical, but thirty years of reading lines and faking accents gave him a hyper-awareness of how people's mouths and tongues moved. He could pick up on those unconscious physical shifts, the way she struck the consonant just a little too sharply in the back of her throat. One thing he knew for sure: her accent was not one he recognized. Either way, his answer was the same.

"Sorry to disappoint but no. I have a strict no-hitting-a-woman policy. Even at my worst, I never went there."

He went to walk away, only for her to accidentally grab him with a surprising grip.

"Wait, wait, please! I promise you, if you're afraid of hurting me, don't be. I can take it. Even if you did hurt me, then I'd consider it a badge of honor to be beaten by the great Johnny Cage."

Is this lady for real? Johnny thought to himself.

He hated the position he had put himself in. He had told her that if she wanted anything, he'd deliver no questions asked; he already put one stipulation on her. She accepted that. She already assured him she was willing to take a punch or two, so she seemed to reject his no-hitting policy. If, even after all that, he still gave a hard no, he'd just make himself out to be a liar. He sighed.

"Alright… alright. I can do a couple of softer routines, but the MOMENT it becomes too much you say something so I can pull the plug. You got me?"

She gasped. "Really?!? Thank you! I'm in your debt."

"Uh, sure."

He got into a stance and was surprised to see her meet him with a masterful stance of her own.

"Hey, not bad. So the first thing you got to…"

POW!!!

"ARGH!!!"

Johnny felt his neck twist as his body spun, and he fell to the asphalt with a thud. The world spun as he got up and shook his head.

"Ahhhh… ahhh… ahh…"

Mileena let out a sharp gasp. "I'm sorry, did I…?"

"No, no, I'm good. I just didn't expect you to hit me like…"

"…a man?"

Johnny nodded when a thought hit him. "Are you a man or a woman?"

"Woman," Mileena assured him. "Woman by birth, woman by choice."

"Kay…" Cage mumbled to himself, rubbing his jaw. "Well, either way, if you can hit me that hard, how about we take it up a notch?"

He rolled his shoulders, feeling the familiar, intoxicating heat of adrenaline finally burning away the alcohol in his blood. He shifted into a wider, more aggressive stance. Decades of Hollywood stunt conditioning and his own stubborn chivalry still held him back from throwing a full-force, skull-crushing haymaker. Still, he turned the dial up to a solid forty percent, adding enough speed and snap to genuinely test her guard.

Johnny stepped inside her space, moving with the fluid grace that made him a global icon. He threw a lightning-fast left jab to gauge her reaction, followed immediately by a sweeping right hook, and pivoted on his heel for his signature spinning back-kick. It was a beautiful, textbook combination.

She slipped through the narrow pockets of space between his strikes like smoke. She batted the jab away with a flick of her wrist, ducked completely under the hook, and sidestepped his spinning kick so effortlessly that Johnny felt a terrifying rush of empty air.

Before his foot even touched the wet asphalt, she retaliated.

Johnny's brain simply could not process the frames of her movement. She was a blistering blur of motion. Pop-pop-crack! A palm strike hammered into his sternum, knocking the wind out of his lungs. Before he could gasp, a sweeping kick caught his calf, violently dropping his center of gravity. As he pitched forward, a rigid knee slammed into his ribs with the force of a swinging baseball bat.

He was completely exposed, gasping for air, bent forward at the waist.

Mileena dropped her weight, coiled her legs like a spring, and unleashed a devastating, picture-perfect uppercut directly under his chin.

The raw, kinetic force of the impact defied all human physics. It literally lifted Johnny's two-hundred-pound frame off the ground. For a horrifying, weightless second, he was entirely airborne, his boots leaving the pavement as he flew backward through the rain-slicked alley.

CLANG!

Johnny slammed back-first into a rusted green commercial dumpster with enough force to dent the heavy steel. The lids violently flipped open from the impact, and a tidal wave of soaked cardboard, half-eaten takeout, and black garbage bags erupted outward as he collapsed into the heap.

He slid down the side of the dented metal, coming to rest on the wet pavement amidst the scattered trash. His ears were ringing like a cathedral bell. He tasted copper. He blinked up through the rain, utterly bewildered, staring at the young woman who had just launched him through the air like a ragdoll.

Then something happened. He grinned. Clawing himself out of the dumpster, he let out a groan as he popped his shoulder, breathing heavily. But the grin never left his face. For the first time in over fifteen years, Johnny Cage felt alive again.

"Alright… The tutorial's over."

"My tutorial?" Mileena asked.

Johnny shook his head. "No… mine."

In a swift, lightning-fast motion, he flung his shirt into the dumpster. The sight of him caused Mileena to beam. She marveled at his physical form, broad shoulders, defined arms, an abdomen that had clear hidden muscle under a layer of surface fat. No overly chiseled abs or overly ripped aesthetic musculature brought about by steroids, gear, or whatever people called it. This was a true warrior, a warrior of Earthrealm.

"Well…" Mileena said with a laugh. "Since you are shedding your timid disguise, I guess it's only fair."

With the same lightning-fast motion as Johnny, Mileena's hoodie went flying to the wet asphalt. It took everything Johnny had for his jaw not to drop. She wore a purple and black leotard with matching thigh-high boots and gloves that went halfway up her arm, all of which surprisingly fit exactly with her mask. It then hit him what the nature of said mask truly was. It wasn't a COVID mask… it was a ninja mask. Body-wise, he could only describe her as goddess-like. Apparently she had been slouching, because standing at full height her stature was exactly the same as Johnny's 6'2". Her shoulders were broad with clearly defined arm muscles like Johnny's; she had about as perfect of a volleyball player figure as one could ask for, with hair that was tied in a ponytail that went down her back. Truly, she looked like the end result of a heavy metal magazine and a superhero comic having a baby, and it actually awakened stirrings in his loins he had not felt since youth.

"Whoa," he muttered to himself.

"Judging by your primal stirring in your loins, I assume I'm pleasing to thine eyes?"

"Uhhhh… uh huh…"

"Hahaha! Good. Now we spar for real this time, right? No holding back because of a no-hitting-women rule?"

"Consider it waived."

"Then allow me to set the mood, so to speak, before we start."

On the side of her waist, she activated the play button of what seemed to be a Walkman. Suddenly, the alley filled with the sound of an all too familiar beat. He threw back his head and cackled.

"No… No way. Techno Syndrome? From Dragon Fist???"

"I told you, Mr. Cage, I'm your biggest fan."

"Well… then allow me to give you the MVP VIP experience."

And as if on cue, the voiceover on the soundtrack shouted:

"FIGHT!!!"

Johnny launched himself forward just as Mileena lunged to meet him, their fists blurring through the rain.

MIDNIGHT DARKRIDE PRESENTS: MORTAL KOMBAT: REAWAKEN THE DRAGON