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Origins of the Spanish Ninja:Tastes Like Red Wine	By : lilwitch Category: +S through Z > Street Fighter Views: 3420 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: WARNING: Graphic violence and abuse depicted in this story. Read at your own discretion! I do not own Street Fighter, nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 12
- 13
- 14
Author's Disclaimer: This story contains content of a highly disturbing psychological nature that may be offensive to some readers: including but not limited to abuse, rape, and torture/violence. Please DO NOT read if you are likely to be offended! STREET FIGHTER and characters such as Vega are owned by CAPCOM. I make no profit in this work of fiction. For entertainment only.
Later that night, after the girls had passed out in my bed, I put on my underwear and crept out of my room.
Marc Antoní's gift was delicious—if he was trying to earn my trust, it was a start—he knew I was a pure hedonist, and appealing to these lusts was essential in gaining it. What teenage boy could resist! I cared only for my own pleasure, and I am sure that Marc Antoní paid the girls so well that they did not need to care.
I opened the door to Mother's room. It was dark and quiet, nothing but the moon showing through her window. I could hear her breathing softly.
My head was so heavy with thoughts, and yet I did not climb into bed next to her. Instead, I crouched down against it while mother lay just above me. Seeing her sleeping there reminded me of a game she used to play with me when I was a toddler.
Bella Dorment—Sleeping Beauty—it was something I liked to play at nap-time; I would sneak out of my room that was supposedly guarded by the watchful eye of my governess, and run to my mother's room, where she often took her afternoon nap at the same time I did. Seeing her lying there in all her perfect beauty reminded me of my favorite fairy tale, Sleeping Beauty.
I would creep up and kiss her, just like in the story, and then suddenly, her eyes would pop open, she would grab me, swing me around, and cuddle me against her. We would break into giggles and sometimes she would tickle me until we couldn't laugh anymore. Then we'd fall back asleep, with me snuggled tight in her arms.
“I can't trust him, Mother. I just can't.” I whispered.
I felt fingers running through my hair.
“Vega? You're too old to play Sleeping Beauty now.” said Mother.
I turned to her.
“You still remember that, Mama?”
“Well of course I do!” she chuckled, “It was your very favorite story and we used to play it so often. I'll tell you a secret—I was never really asleep!”
I laughed.
“You weren't?”
“Well...maybe the first time. Ay, you were so sweet...” she sighed, “I can still see your bright little face when you kissed me. How happy you were to see me wake up! Now, why aren't you in bed? What's wrong, darling?”
I laid my head down on the bed and she stroked my hair.
“Come to bed, Vega. Lay beside me and tell me what's wrong.”
I climbed into bed and wrapped my arms around her tight. I could not shake my doubts, nor my suspicions, even though I laid next to the one person I cared for more than anything.
I buried my nose into her hair and sighed.
“Mama, is he your lover?”
She turned and I could see her eyes gleaming in the darkness.
“What? How could you ask me something like that?”
I crushed her against me, staring into her eyes.
“Is he?”
“Vega, you're holding me too tight!”
“Is he? Is he...my father?”
“What? No! He's dead!” she cried, her voice choked with tears. “He's dead.”
I loosened my grip on her.
“I'm sorry, Mama. You would tell me if you were in love with him, wouldn't you?”
“Nobody has my heart but you...but yes, I would tell you. Can we not talk about this anymore, Vega? I am very tired.” Mother nuzzled against me and closed her eyes.
“Okay, Mama.” I said, and I brushed a kiss against her lips. “Goodnight.”

The next day, Marc Antoní summoned me to the garden. I found him waiting there, beside the fountain, and a tall pale boy stood next to him. It was the brilliant shock of turquoise of his long hair that caught my eye. He was a tall, thin boy, a few inches shorter than I, and his long, loose turquoise hair parted down the side hung lazily over his eyes, making him appear very mysterious to me. His face was long and angular. The boy wore a black leather jacket zipped all the way up with a high collar, hiding his chest from view; rather tight-fitting red jeans that flared at the bottom, and brown boots. He looked like he was into the punk scene, with his hair such an unusual color; it was hard to tell. He stood there, his shoulders hunched over, which did not suit his fine frame at all.
I watched him talk to Señor Gauldera.
“Vega,” said Señor Gauldera, his warm loud voice tearing me from my thoughts as the two approached me.
“This is Remy.” he said and I waited for a last name but none came. Remy stood there next to him, his head down, hair covering his eyes.
“Remy, this is Vega de Cerna.”
I bowed politely.
“Encantado de conocerte.” I replied.
He said nothing; I watched him fidget with the zipper on his jacket sleeves. I cleared my throat and said in French,
“Enchanté.” and at this, he looked up at me, and he brushed the hair out of his eyes momentarily. I could see now his eyes were a brilliant light blue, almost the exact color of his hair. Remy merely grunted in response.
“Remy here is a master at Savate.” replied Señor Gauldera, putting a familiar hand on his shoulder. “He is to be your partner,”
“Partner?” I mumbled under my breath. Surely Señor Gauldera was enough of a sparring partner.
Still, I could not help my attraction to this boy. He was so very mysterious and so very beautiful, just like me.
“Well, I will let you two get acquainted,” said Señor Gauldera taking his leave back to the house. Remy put his hands in his pockets, his head down, and began to walk ahead as we wandered through the lavish garden.
“So,” I began, quickening my pace to match his lanky stride. “You are from France?” Remy scoffed at me with another quick smirk in my direction.
“Yes, of course.”
“Ah, where at?” I asked and he continued staring as his feet as we walked. He did not answer, only shrugged.
“Well, I am from Barcelona, Spain.” I said, trying to get some sort of response.
“Good for you.” he murmured. I sighed heavily, annoyed by his belligerent replies, but I did not let that deter me. I held my breath and did my best not to swear at him in my native tongue. My fluent French was going to be tested, I could tell.
“Did Señor Gauldera ask you to be my partner? You know, I don't really need one...” I replied, trying to change the subject. Remy suddenly stopped and turned to me. His leather jacket stretched and creaked as he moved, and I could see one eye gazing at me, unobstructed by his turquoise tresses. I met his gaze and shifted my eyes downward again quickly. I could feel my cheeks burning and my chest tightening.
“Do you think that you are too good for a partner?” he said with a smirk. I met his eyes again fiercely.
“I'm doing fine alone!” I announced boldly. He suddenly stood straight and rigid before me, no longer hunched over. I beheld his thin, beautiful body and we stood eye to eye. I steeled myself to not take a step away and to not look away from him.
“How on earth did a pretty boy like you learn to fight?” he asked.
Look who's talking, Frenchie... I thought.
“Gauldera, he taught me!”
“As I thought. Don't you realize that the path you are taking will lead you nowhere?” he said, brushing the hair from his face.
“What?”
“This, fighting.” he replied simply.
“Nowhere?” I gasped, though he continued to study me as coolly as a tiger stalking its prey, with his hand to his chin. “It is everything, and I will have the power I deserve!” I said, my nostrils flaring as I saw flashes of all the pain I had endured, and the suffering of my beloved mother.
“Then you are truly shallow. Victory, glory, honor, power... those ideals don't excite me a bit.”
Shallow? He's calling me shallow? He doesn't even know me...what is he talking about?
“Don't you care about anything?” I cried.
I barely had time to react as his fist came towards my face. Unsuccessfully, I tried to block it with my forearm as it hit the side of my jaw. I rubbed it as he took a few steps back, preparing for my attack.
“He told me you had a temper...” he said, his fists clench and ready to fight though he was still so calm. What? Now Señor Gauldera was talking about me to him!
“True rage burns from within and it consumes you until there is nothing left.” Remy said, with an iciness I could not deny. In his blue eyes I could see the fire smoldering there and I was slightly unnerved but all the more intrigued.
Still, what did he know of rage? What pain has he suffered to make him want to hurt the ones he worshiped? I've known rage—pain, anger—behind that façade of nobility, it was the mask of agony I was forced to wear for my own self-preservation. Now this blue-haired Frenchman was insulting me in every way possible. It made me even more determined to beat him.
Once more I assumed the stance, this time throwing a punch directly at his face and finally connected with it. With sweep of my leg, he fell to the ground on his back, pausing only long enough to wipe the blood from his bleeding lip and then rising to his feet. I smirked, entirely satisfied with myself, pleased that I could make him bleed.
“You are very sure of yourself,” he said and I smirked at him. “It disgusts me.”
“And you're very arrogant.” I said, “Just how old are you?”
He ran his hand through his hair.
“I am nineteen, and you?”
“Sixteen,” I replied.
“I thought you looked young. I can see why Monsieur Gauldera wanted me to train you.”
“Train me? I don't need you to train me.”
Remy pushed the hair from his eyes and smirked at me. I was beginning to see that his repetitive gestures were like his own language. He seemed to be someone of few words but many actions.
Half expecting him to hit me, I was surprised as he turned and walked away. This was unacceptable to me, so I ran after him and grabbed his arm.
He whirled around and punched me square in the face, and I staggered backwards from the blow. Before I could recover, he kicked me in the stomach and knocked me down. Remy stood over me now, his foot pinning me to the ground. I gasped and choked, disoriented from the blow, the blood running down my throat. I struggled to pull his foot off my chest.
“Doesn't seem that way to me. Stay down! Or do you want me to hurt you again?”

“Get off me, you bastard!” I yelled. “Get off, damn you!”
“Shut up!” he roared back, “I don't want to fight you.”
“That's-that's not what I see in your eyes. Why would you threaten to hurt me and then say you don't want to fight?”
He removed his foot from my chest and helped me up. I could see his eyes gleaming, a roaring passionate fire.
“You're the same as me. You hunger to fight and I can see it in your eyes.”
“Non, we are not the same. Why do you fight? What's the point?” he asked, taking out a handkerchief and handing it to me. I held it over my nose for a few moments. I finally removed it as the bleeding subsided.
“My mother.” I replied, and he looked at me, though his face showed no emotion. “I fight to protect her; she is so kind and beautiful, perfect. My father was an ugly, cruel, evil man who beat my mother everyday. He never touched me, but I still lived in fear of him. One day, he hurt her so badly she nearly died and I was too young to help her. From then on, I vowed to take care of her.”
“I find your cause interesting, but I could never relate to it.” he murmured.
“Then why do you fight?”
He looked off into the distance, the soft Spring breeze blowing through his hair.
“I...don't know.”
I peered into his expressionless face, mystified by his apathy.
“There must be something. Some reason.”
Remy pulled out a cigarette from his leather jacket and lit it. I watched him take a drag, the smoke drifting off in the breeze. He offered it to me and I shook my head; with a shrug, he took another drag. We stood there in an awkward silence for a moment, and then I decided to go back into the house.
My first meeting with the enigmatic Remy went less than expected. It wasn't that I expected to have a partner anyway. I was so immediately taken by him, though. He stirred in me a burning curiosity I had not yet known. I was hopeful that the more I was with him, the more he would reveal.

I came back inside and as I went to go upstairs, I turned to see Mother sleeping on a sofa in the parlor. I smiled at such a serene sight and I could not help but to watch her sleep a moment. I stood over her, and then her eyes fluttered open and she sat up.
“Oh my Narcís! Have you been in the garden—what happened to your shirt?”
“Oh, that. I had a bloody nose, that's all. I was going upstairs to change.”
“I see. Get your tux out when you go upstairs. We're going to the opera tonight and we'll be having an early supper in a couple of hours.”
I tried to suppress my annoyance; all I needed was yet another dull opera experience with my mother—and Marc Antoní in tow.
So, later that night I dressed in my tux and went to Mother's room to check on her. She sat at her vanity as usual, putting on some diamond earrings. She wore a tight, off-the-shoulder black dress, her hair was in a chignon, and her lips a fiery red.
“Well?” she asked, smiling. I leaned against the door way, with my tux coat over my shoulder; I was hesitant to say anything. Due to the tightness of the dress, my eyes were drawn towards every curve of her body; that dress was just not appropriate. It was was cut so short, and unlike anything I had seen her wear in my life. My heart pounded, and I felt the urge to drape my coat over her shoulders.
She stood and twirled, modeling her dress and giving me a full view.
Mother frowned, seeing my face.
“Don't you like it?”
“I...it's lovely, Mother.”
She straightened my bow-tie and smiled, though it seemed uneasy.
“Well, it is the latest in evening wear! Why do I not feel convinced?”
I saw Marc Antoni in the mirror, standing in the doorway and I looked back at her. I touched her face and resisted an urge to smear her perfect red lipstick with my finger; she smiled at me, her blue-green eyes watching me for an answer.
“Truly, you are perfect! But I do not like your...accessories.” I replied, glaring in the mirror.
“That's enough, Vega!” she scoffed, seeing my face. “I do not understand why you are behaving like this suddenly! If you don't want to go with us, you can just stay home!”
“Promises, promises...” I muttered. Ordinarily, I would have, but I just could not bear letting him be alone with her.
“Are we ready to go?” asked Marc Antoní.
“Yes,” she replied, carrying her head high and walking deliberately ahead of me out the door.
“Marc Antoni,” I said, leaning in close. “Will Remy be joining us?”
“I'm afraid not, Vega. Remy likes to keep to himself. He is in his room. It is best that you don't bother him.”
I sighed. What a night this would be!
TO BE CONTINUED...
- 12
- 13
- 14
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Origins of the Spanish Ninja:Tastes Like Red Wine