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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
- 18
- 19
- 20
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 & Remy are owned by CAPCOM. I own all original characters. I make no profit in this work of fiction. For entertainment only.
"Vega, I think you're ready." he announced.
It had been a week since my fight with my mother and the tension did not resolve itself. I stayed in a separate wing of the house, as far from her as I could get. Marc Antoni found considerable advantage in this, as it was a lot easier to sneak down stairs to train every night. This night was no different as I stood before him.
"Ready for what?"
"To fight in the tournament. You didn't think I was training you for no reason, did you? Ah, yes, that's right...to save your poor mother?" he snickered.
"Don't talk about her!" I snapped.
He sighed with a smirk.
"Your petty little feud has gone far enough. I thought by now you two would be on your honeymoon!" I growled; I hated his insinuations, no matter how true they might actually be...
"It's not petty! She destroyed me. I won't go back to her so easily."
"You desperately want to punish her, I know. The greatest punishment would be the thing she hates most..."
I read his eyes and the permanent smirk that curved across his lips.
"No! No, I won't tell her that I'm fighting."
"I can still see it in your eyes—the lust, the anger. You want to destroy her so do it. It's your right."
"Never." I hissed. "She has taken away everything; I won't let her take away this too. It is my sanctuary, my refuge. I won't have anything left if she sees it."
He folded his arms and paced around me.
"All right, fine. Regardless, you're ready to fight, I think. In a few weeks is the World Warrior's Tournament. Fighters from around the world will be there, and the winner will earn a place in the Shadowlaw syndicate."
"I have no desire to join your stupid syndicate!"
"It is not my syndicate. I am only a servant to Master Bison, its overlord. It was my duty to see that we have more recruits for his army and you would make a fine assassin."
"I do not really care! Or have you forgotten? Spain was already conquered by one overlord and hasn't even been dead that long...I don't want another."
He rolled his eyes.
"You may not, but it is the perfect chance to show off your skills and to vent your blood-lust on someone other than me."
It was my turn to roll my eyes and fold my arms.
"Vega, I know. You feel angry, betrayed...she hurt you. You feel vulnerable...and you don't ever want to feel that way again. Time to stand up, be a man."
In truth, I just wanted to bash his face in for even speaking, but now that he mentioned her... So, I glared at him, echoes of my father's words in my head as Marc Antoní spoke.
"I hit a nerve, didn't I boy? You don't like being told what to do. I understand. I can help you; I will take care of you now."
There was a lot of truth that shone back at me in his ominous eyes. I felt a chill down my spine, realizing more than ever he was right.
"If you want blood, then take it. I won't stop you. If you want sex, take it. Everything is yours now. You won't be told what to do ever again. Listen to what I say, and the world is yours."
My heart was overwhelmed; the bitterness and anger welling up in my mouth again. I wanted to make her suffer for this great betrayal, make her feel every inch of the pain I had. I could see my hand squeezing her delicate throat, the light dying in her eyes—and yet, it was not enough. My hunger was great and I needed more.
I drew close to his face, the feeling of his hot breath against me.
"I want it."
He grinned and clapped his hands together in finality, stepping back from me.
"Vale! But first, we must do something about that handsome face of yours..."
Sitting on his stool was a mask and he picked it up. The mask was made of some form of silver metal, concave face shape with only holes for the eyes and leather straps in the back to hold it on. He handed it to me.
"No doubt you remember how the ancient Roman gladiators often used masks in battle to protect themselves. You are no different. Can you feel your ancestor's blood in you? Like Emperor Trajan himself!"
I scoffed at him. "I prefer to think of Tomás de Torquemada."
"The chief torturer of the Inquisition? Your cleverness never fails to amaze me!"
"He made many sinners suffer for my country. He knew every weakness of the human heart, every last excruciating detail to cause the most suffering. To think of all those people suffering by his hand is...exciting."
"I'm familiar with him, as I too, am a Spaniard." he chuckled, "Indeed! It is exciting, isn't it? To hear such cries of agony and pain."
I could imagine my own mother now, suffering on some medieval rack, her body writhing in such exquisite agony.
"Vega," he said with a smile and I startled. "You must really enjoy those thoughts!" I swallowed.
"It's alright. I won't judge you." his eyes narrowed and suddenly his tone grew somber.
"If your treatment of my girl the other night was any indication of your true self..."
I folded my arms, undeterred.
"And why does that matter?"
"It matters because she is mine." he said sharply. "Something I know you understand."
I glared at him.
"You gave her to me!"
He stepped forward, his face close enough that I felt the spit as he talked.
"I did no such thing! Do you have any idea what you've done?" he spat. "Do you know what that word was she yelled before I came in?" I wiped my face with a scowl.
"That, Vega, is called a 'safe-word' and it is used in such practices, no matter the violence. Never in all my years have I had to use it...until now. It was your cue to stop."
"What fun is that?" I snickered. "She's a whore. Nothing else."
Suddenly, he grabbed me by the throat and slammed me against the wall. My eyes widened despite myself and I began to choke.
"If you ever do that again, I will make you regret the day you were born!" and at that, he released his grasp, his demeanor suddenly cool again and I caught my breath again.
"Although...I suppose I have only myself to blame for this, hm? After all, I didn't teach you the rules, now did I? But I know what you want and it's already apparent to me that the other night wasn't enough."
I laughed.
"Fine. Then get me more! If you know what I want so much. You said you would."
"Oh but it doesn't work that way, Vega."
"It doesn't?" I said, bemused.
"You aren't capable of even having what you want right now!"
"What?" I exclaimed.
"What you need right now more than anything is to fight. Fight through your anger, your pain, your lust. You crave flesh but I will give you blood. One lust for another. Then and only then can you have any...flesh."
"All right, old man. What must I do?"
"You remember the tournament I told you about?"
"The World Warrior's?"
"Yes."
"You want me to fight in that?"
"Not yet. You're not good enough."
"How can you say that after how well I've done so far?"
"You're fine against Remy and you're even getting as good as me but you're not ready. The men in the World Warrior's Tournament are the world's best fighters. They've honed their skills over many years—verses your many months."
I scoffed.
"So what?"
"So, there's another tournament coming up in a week. You'll fight in that first. Get a taste for it."
I smirked at him.
"Vale, Señor Gauldera."
I arrived at the tournament. It was in a large warehouse, or what was once a warehouse. A faint smell of hops and wooden barrels lining the place hinted that must have been a brewery.
I wore a loose while silk shirt, gathered at the cuffs with ruffles lining the cuffs and the collar, black knee-length trousers with white stockings, brown leather loafers, and for some extra flair, I wore a red sash at my waist. I kept my hair coiffed in my usual loose braid that ran down my back. I carried my mask in my hand and my claw in a velvet lined case in the other.
I looked at Marc Antoní at my side who beamed with pride, surveying the scene. People of every size and nationality were there; I was drawn to a ring in the center of the room. I walked towards it to see a familiar face. Sagat, the Muy Thai fighter, fought against a man at least half his size; he looked East Asian, perhaps Chinese. The Asian man was shirtless and wore black loose-fitting pants and loafers. Sagat wore boxer shorts and his bare hands and feet were wrapped in tape. His large muscular chest had a gash across it that I had not noticed before.
His smaller opponent whooped and screamed, flying into the air in a flurry of kicks. Sagat flew back, only momentarily dazed. The opponent stood, fist clenched, legs spread apart, ready for another strike. I could see his body shaking but it was not from fear. His energy pulsed through him, his body glistening with sweat. I swore I could almost see his body surrounded by flame.
With another high-pitched whooping scream, he flew towards Sagat, his body like a tornado of flames, and Sagat barreled towards him.
"Tiger knee!" Sagat exclaimed. The fire obscured my vision and I was not sure who won the clash. I watched as the smaller figure flew back, and Sagat landed squarely on his feet. No longer bathed in fire, the Asian man lay on the ground before him, knocked unconscious.
The referee came out and grabbed Sagat's wrist, lifting his arm high.
"The winner: Sagat! Sagat has won 2 rounds this fight. Fei-long is up for elimination in the losers bracket." I cheered for Sagat and as I beheld Fei-long being drug out of the arena, it occurred to me that he too looked for familiar.
"Bruce Lee?" I wondered aloud to myself with a laugh.
Sagat exited the ring and we walked up to him. I stood tall and rigid, unafraid. He wiped the sweat from his body with a towel and then smiled.
"Gauldera," he said gruffly with a nod then he looked straight at me. "Are you ready to be broken, little fighter?"
"I'm hardly little."
He scoffed.
"That matters not to me. To me, you are all small!" and he laughed a big roaring laugh.
I glared at him and Marc Antoní stepped in.
"Is Master Bison here?"
Sagat's expression sobered and he folded his arms.
"No, I am here, regrettably, with Balrog. We are scouting for new recruits."
"Bison still has you running his errands with that lughead?"
The taller man shrugged.
"He isn't intelligent but Bison likes his ruthlessness."
"Ah, Bison is quite ruthless himself! It's not surprising. Vega," he turned sharply towards me. "Are you ready to fight?"
I smirked and put on my mask and claw.
"Always,"
He led me to the cage and spoke to the MC.
I entered, awaiting my announcement.
"From Spain, our newest challenger, the Scarlet Terror." I held my clawed hand up and bowed. The audience gave a rather muffled cheer.
"And from France, our native son...Remy."
My eyes widened. I could see Remy smirking at me as he entered the cage, raising his arms.
"'Allo, you crazy Spanish asshole! I promise not to hurt you...too much."
"R-Remy..." I swallowed. I took a breath and composed myself.
"And I shall try not to maim you—too much! You are too beautiful to kill!"
Remy scoffed and rolled his eyes.
"Yeah, yeah...en Garde, you bastard!" he spat and I scanned him momentarily, sizing him up; this time he held a new distraction wearing his leather jacket open, baring his finely muscled chest. I swallowed and turned my attention back to his stance, carefully watching his body language, looking for my opening.
In the dark seclusion of my mask, I saw nothing but the small beam of light poking through from its eye-holes. I felt my breath hot and moist against my skin, its concave shape creating a barrier of white noise with each exhale, roaring like an ocean in my ears. My blood pulsed through my body, coursing through me like my adrenaline.
I saw nothing but my opponent, and he stood there, calmly as ever, folding one arm across his body and the other on his chin in thought. The light glistened on his sweaty body and I glared at him, licking my lips. Remy looked bored peaking out at me from behind those blue tresses of his.
I wasted no time in attacking, leaping through the air at him, laying a kick to his chest and knocking him back. He would find no mercy from me tonight, no quarter for I would take my final victory over him and hopefully, his blood.
Remy regained his stance, moving towards me and he punched me in the stomach. I felt the pain and my breath momentarily caught in my lungs but it exhilarated me. I laughed, lunging forward with my claw and swiping towards his throat. He easily evaded me, dodging and blocking. Remy reached forward, hitting my jaw from beneath with the palm of his slender hand, and I flew back.
I was not about to let it stop me and I decided to try using my position to my advantage; I rolled forward, barreling towards him in a series of forward rolls, my claw eagerly outstretched and waiting to taste his flesh. As I expected, the move caught him off guard just enough to lay a few swipes. I saw the deep gashes across his chest, and the gouging claw marks across his beloved leather jacket.
I saw his body become rigid with anger now, his fists glowing blue. I smiled with satisfaction, knowing that soon I could taste his blood on my blades and I knew I would have much more to savor.
"Fuck you, asshole! That's my favorite jacket!" he growled.
"I'd enjoy that!"
"Freak!" Remy hissed.
"You want me, admit it!"
"Your ass, passed out on the ground is all I want!"
"Never! I'm too good for you."
"Motherfucker!"
"Mm...yes! She'd enjoy it!" I grinned from behind my mask. I watched his face contorting in absolute furious disgust. The angrier he was, the more he would fight me, this I knew. I was far too clever to fall for his attempts to bait me using my mother—and besides, my rage at her was far too deep to take it all out on him—he would have to do better than that.
He growled, barreling forward at me again. I blocked a high kick, and he swung his fists. I back-flipped out of range, running at the cage and bounding off of it, kicking him in the chest, knocking him to the ground.
"You're going to have to do better, Remy!" I said, leering over him.
Remy rose and before I knew what was happening, he back-flipped in the air, knocking me back. I staggered to my feet with a laugh.
"Like that, pretty boy? Come at me!" and he motioned me and his silver rings caught the light. I was thankful I wore my mask.
"You are so beautiful when you bleed! Let me make you even more beautiful!"
"Freak!" he hissed. "I'm putting you down like the mad dog you are!"
The sweat poured out of my body, soaking my silk shirt like a rag. I tore it off and threw it to the ground, the once stuffy air feeling at once refreshing against my skin. Remy smirked and holding his stance, motioned me again.
I swiped towards him again, he blocked my punches and tried to throw his own. Blow for blow, we blocked each other, a never-ending battle of wits and limbs until finally, my claw caught on the edge of his face, cutting him across the cheek to the edge of his lip. The blood pour from the cut, and I was so close I could feel his breath and the sweat of his body and the faint smell of the blood. I wanted to rip off my mask right then and there and kiss him hard, taking the blood into my mouth but I did not dare.
He was incensed and kicked my shins. I nearly buckled again but I resisted. Remy began to kick wildly at me, flying through the air, his foot aimed again at my head. I blocked, jumping up and hitting him in the jaw. It did not deter him, however.
Each hit I took only made me want him more, but I did not falter. I was determined to defeat him.
I ran to the cage and began to climb it.
"Coward!" he called.
I chuckled.
"Remy, can't you climb?" I teased. "Come and get me!" I whooped and hollered and the crowd cheered. I felt their energy surging through me, as addicting as the taste of blood and thrill of the fight. It had been a long time since I felt it; when I fought bulls, I enjoyed the screams of the crowd, cheering me to victory and I knew this would be better than killing any bull.
"I shall be your fallen angel, Remy. God have mercy on your soul.."
I saw his eyes widen as I fell from the cage, my arms outstretched, ready to take him down. It was enough to catch him off guard as I tackled him to the ground, my claw pinned against his beautiful throat. My body heaved against him, catching my breath and grinning wide beneath my mask.
"I still want you, Remy." I said, watching his face grow fearful and still angry. I saw the sinew of his neck twitching beneath my claw and I swore I could feel his heart pounding beneath mine. "Dead or alive, I want you and I will have you..." I punched him, knocking him cold. I admired the deep bloody gash I created on his cheek and carefully pushed back his blue hair.
"Adios...your time spent with beauty is over." I whispered.
I stood and raised my clawed fist in victory over him. The crowd cheered and I back flipped with another cry and I laughed. The energy flowed through me, a giddiness overtaking me. I heard the announcer announcing my victory and in the shadows I saw Marc Antoní standing there, his arms folded, calmly watching me with his ever-present smirk. The loud creaking of the gate interrupted my revelry and I exited the ring, watching people pull Remy out. I hoped they would tend to his wounds. I knew he would probably never forgive me but nor did I care. I would be just as happy if he swore at me and punched me in the face. Drastic, I know, but in the folly of youth, I was in bliss. If he wished for punishment in blood, I would take it from him.
TO BE CONTINUED...
- 18
- 19
- 20
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Origins of the Spanish Ninja:Tastes Like Red Wine