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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
- 13
- 14
- 15
We entered the theatre, the finely dressed people greeting Marc Antoní, passing on the way to our seats. We sat in a balcony seat, in an old theatre decorated in gold brocade. I looked around as it began to fill. Old women in their black sequin gowns and pearls, they fanned themselves with their lace and feather fans; their husbands sitting stately next to them in tuxes and smoking cigars.

I leaned against my mother to take in her rose smell, a welcome scent against the odorous smell of aged perfume. She seemed like an excited child now; her eyes sparkled like her jewelry. I did not care about the opera; I had no real love for it at all but seeing her so happy lifted my spirits.
She sat between us, her opera glasses in hand, anxiously waiting for the opera to start. I watched Marc Antoni closely and he leaned in, whispering to her; she giggled and I crossed my legs and folded my arms. I wanted to pull her away from him—but no, that would not have done in the theatre. I wondered why Marc Antoní made me a party to their relentless flirting. It seemed like some vain attempt for us to bond, but he still had much farther to go.
"Isn't this wonderful?" she whispered, her voice had so much excitement in it. "This is the first time I've been unafraid to go out in such a long time. Oh Vega, I am so happy!" I nodded.
"You're so quiet tonight. I know you enjoy this as much as I do. Is anything wrong?"
"No, Mama. Enjoy the opera tonight, okay?" she smiled at me.
Marc Antoní leaned over, his beaming smile as always.
"I've seen the production 5 times now! It's really spectacular." I nodded vaguely and slouched down into my seat.
"What are we seeing?" asked Mother.
"Carmen."
I knew the opera well; about the gypsy girl in an ill-fated loved triangle. I decided that Marc Antoní couldn't have chosen a better play; but of course, the fact that it was set in Sevilla and featured a bullfighter made me even more homesick.
"Vega, I thought you might appreciate this one." he said to me with friendly nod. I gave him a wry smile, my mother all the while oblivious.
I sat there, shifting uncomfortably during the opera. I watched black tears fall down my mother's cheeks and then Marc Antoní deftly take out his handkerchief and hand it to her. She dabbed at her cheeks and I rolled my eyes with a sigh. I shifted in my seat again, contemplating leaving when she grabbed my hand; she held it tight and I looked at her. Mother stared straight ahead as if it were nothing.
"Mother," I whispered to her, but she did not respond. I stroked her cheek and wiped a black smudge away. I saw Marc Antoní from the corner of my eye glance at us and I smiled to myself. I had won this round.
We arrived home much later that night and after I had said my reluctant goodnight to Mother, there was one other matter which I knew would not allow me to sleep.
Down the hall from me lay the beautiful Frenchman and his secrets. Marc Antoní forbade me to disturb him but I had yet to listen to him; the temptation of discovering who Remy was tore at me.
Despite my tall height, my light and lean frame allowed me to move quietly about the house—a skill I learned as a child to hide from my father, now further perfected in the smooth agility of my fighting skills.
I crept down the hall to a door, the last door in the row across from mine. It was shut but I found it was unlocked; I opened it a crack. It was dark and not a sound from the room. I slipped into his room now and as my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I found his leather jacket hanging from the back of a chair. I picked it up and began to dig through the pockets, eager to learn anything about him. I found his wallet inside a pocket and pulled it out. Inside I did not find much except a few Francs, not even an identification of some sort; but then as I rifled through the bills, I found a very small picture. It was the picture of a young girl, seemingly close to my age, with blonde hair and blue eyes. She was beautiful! I was entranced by her, so much so that I did not realize that Remy woke up. Before I could blink, he flew from the bed and slammed me against the wall.
"What are you doing in here?" the lanky Frenchman hissed, pinning me by the throat.
I was completely caught off guard struggled to pull away from him.
"I-I..."
Remy released his grip and I caught my breath.
"I just wanted to know who you are."
"Why does it matter who I am? I am no one!"
He swung at me and I ducked, laying a kick to his stomach; he flew back but quickly regained his balance.
"I was curious!" I blurted out. It did not seem to be the best thing I could have said at the moment.
"So you break into my room, into my things?"
He walked towards me, and I tried to get away from him, get to the door. I saw the picture on the floor and picked it up.
"Who is she?" I asked, flashing it in his face. He tore it from my hands.
"Fuck off!"
"Who is she?" I screamed and he shoved me away.
"She is nothing...she is...no one." he murmured, almost so faintly that I didn't hear him. He dropped down on the bed, his face in his hands; he seemed to have no objection when I moved beside him.
"Who is she?" Remy just sat there, silent and I waited for him to speak.
"My sister."
I looked at the photo and blinked.
"She is beautiful."
"She was..." he murmured. "She's dead."
"I'm sorry. What happened?"
Slumping forward, his hair hung over his eyes and with a heavy sigh, he shook his head.
"My sister was the only one I had, the only one who understood me. I tried to take care of her after our father left—and I failed!" he cried, clutching the picture hard enough to crumple it. "It is his fault she is dead. Do you want to know why I fight eh, pretty boy?" he said, his voice rising. Remy glared at me, his eyes flashing. I watched him swallow a lump in his throat and then he spoke. "To destroy men like him." I could not deny a certain chill come over me as I looked at him. I knew that hatred, that anger, that passion. It was clear we had a similar fate, though at least I had already killed my father.
I nodded.
"I understand. I would die to protect my mother. She is the dearest person in the world to me."
He looked at me, and he seemed puzzled though I did not see why.
"Then you must not let her fall." he said. "You must not fail as I have or it will consume you."
"Oh I will not fail. I am too good to fail. God has made me His warrior and I will do what I must."
"You sound so sure of yourself for somebody so young." I rolled my eyes; it wasn't as if he was that much older than me.
"My age? I'm not a child. I can take care of myself! And you? What makes you so confident?"
He gave me a wry smile from beneath his turquoise locks.
"Experience."
I scoffed and folded my arms.
"Just how much experience have you had in 3 more years of living than I?"
"More than you, rich boy." Remy laughed.
It was a soft laugh, a quiet laugh, much like himself; but it was lovely. In fact, I was surprised he laughed at all. Something about his mouth drew me in; something so unexplainable that I found myself leaning forward, desperate to feel his lips against mine.
Before I knew it, he punched me so hard I landed head over heels onto the floor. He stood, his fists clenched.
"What the fuck are you doing?" he roared. "Get out!"
I scrambled to my feet, backing against the door and struggling to open it. My heart pounding, my cheeks burning, I got out of there as quickly as my feet would allow.
I ran into my room, and went to my dresser, staring into the mirror. My lip bled and I wiped it away. A cool, white heat rushed through me, I knocked the lamp from the table and it shattered on the ground. He was the most beautiful boy I had ever seen. No—the most beautiful person I had ever seen—and he denied me.
Still burning, I decided to go downstairs and vent some steam.
I entered the cage and took off my shirt. A punching bag hung there and I began punching and kicking it. My face burned and my heart pounded with each blow I made, imagining it was Remy's face.
"Haven't you had enough?"
I heard the voice of Remy and I looked to see him slinking into the room. I kicked the punching bag in his direction, catching it in my hands once it swung back.
"Haven't you?"
He entered the cage and I removed the bag from the hook. Remy zipped the sleeves of his jacket and brushed the hair from his face.
"En garde,"
I held my stance and Remy came barreling at me, fists flying. I blocked him and laid a kick to his stomach, sending him back.
"Do you really think this is going to stop me, fag?" he snickered.
"I'm not gay!" I hissed. "I can have any girl I want!"
"Then you are confused! Do I look like a girl to you?"
"I am not confused! I know what I want—and I take it!" I cried, lunging at him.
I pummeled him, laying a few more kicks in quick succession. There was a blinding blue light and I landed on my back.
"Cold blue kick!"
My vision cleared and I saw Remy standing over me, fists clenched.
"Not today, pretty boy."
I could feel the blood running down my lip. Again, he defeated me and again I lay on the ground. I could not bear this humiliation much longer.
"Wha-what happened?" I stammered, in spite of myself.
Remy chuckled and I sat up.
"I kicked your spoiled rich ass! You don't think I've known people like you, eh? The filthy nobility who think that just because they are rich, they can have whatever—and whoever they want." he smirked at me and I could see a wicked gleam in his eye behind those turquoise tresses. "You know, during the Revolution, we used to cut the heads off of people like you," Remy spat at me and I clutched at the dirt and threw it in his face. I jumped up and pinned him face-first against the cage, twisting his arm behind his back.
"'...And the streets ran red with blood...'" I snickered. "I think that's my favorite part."
He squirmed from my grasp and pushed me back.
"Light of virtue!" he exclaimed, flashes of blue light flying from his hands. I jumped back out of the way, narrowly missing being hit by the balls of blue light. I could feel the heat as one flew passed my face. I rubbed my cheek.
"What was that?"
"Power; it is what you lack. Your kicks are weak, just like your punches." And then, the thin beautiful boy put his hands together as if they were cradling a ball, and blue light began to form. Remy snickered,
"The Chinese call it Qi, the Japanese call it Ki. It is energy, light, matter. Our very essences that come from inside of us."
I found myself mesmerized by the light, and the gentle waves flowing through his hair, making it appear to be even more blue, and his pale skin even more pale.
"Can I learn to do that?"
"I do not think so. Someone as shallow as you possesses not the strength for such a thing."
"You can't call me shallow if you do not know me!" I retorted.
"I do not need to know you to know that," he said, "even now I see you, not one hair out of place; you gasp at the sight of your own blood. You value that which is only on the outside because you have nothing on the inside." When he said this, it was with a coolness that was characteristic of him. He didn't seem to have much emotion. I had plenty of emotion, though, and I felt my blood boil.
"You mock me!" I exclaimed, "I am a warrior of God and so I am perfection, I am flawless."
"God? What God, eh? Why does it matter? God does not matter to me."
"You deny God? Then no doubt He denies you. Only someone as godless as you could possess a power like that."
"Ah, there you are, boys. Late night sparring?" I turned to see Marc Antoní. He surveyed us with his usual confident gleam and grimaced at me when he saw my bleeding lip.
"I told you to leave him alone, but you refused to listen. Perhaps now you will." I scoffed at the man and left the cage.
"He is right though, Vega. You don't have that kind of power, but what you do have is something all your own..."
I folded my arms and cocked my head.
"And what powers do I possess that he does not?"
"Vega, the truth will come in blood."
TO BE CONTINUED...
- 13
- 14
- 15
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Origins of the Spanish Ninja:Tastes Like Red Wine