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Miranda_ (Offline)
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Default 03-29-2010, 09:35 AM

(D@mn you, character limit)


A hospital ward in the middle of the day. The sun shone thru the windows, showing that everything was spotlessly clean. A few nurses could be seen, attending to patients. Curtains were pulled around some of the beds to give a modicum of privacy for the occupants. A woman with long blonde hair lay listlessly in one of these beds. She stared helplessly at the curtain in front of her, as she desperately cudgeled her brain, trying to remember her life before she had awoken in the hospital. But there was nothing, only slight confused elements which slipped away even as she grasped at them; elements which might be memories, but could just as easily be half remembered dreams. With a muffled cry of frustration, the woman turned and rested her hot cheek against the cool pillow. The only thing she could remember with any clarity was her own name; Cammy. Everything else was lost, perhaps forever. With a hand, she touched the cheek that was exposed to the air. She traced a scar that ran accross the cheek, half way to her eye. Surely she'd be able to remember getting such a wound? But nothing came, not even the half remembered fragments she'd futilely grasped at before. There was nothing there, not even a whisper of her life before. Tears slipped down Cammy's cheeks, soaking into the pillow. There was no use in trying to remember; the only thing she could do now was to try and make the most of the life she had now...


Cammy leaned casually against a wall as she held her mobile to her ear. "What did you just say?" she said into it. "This is a really terrible line... guess network coverage is really bad for this area." She laughed, idly playing with the end of one of her long blonde plaits with her free hand. "Yeah... guess I can't have everything. Back in England, there'd be excellent coverage but terrible weather. Anyway, you're saying that Interpol are getting on the case, too? Perhaps I should arrange a meeting. After all, this kind of business is the kind that at times gets a little to hot to handle and you kind of need all the help that you can get." Cammy listened to what her collegue was saying. Occasionally she winced as a squeal of feedback hit her ear, or grimaced as part of the message was lost in static.

"Yeah, I gotcha. I know what's at stake here; I'm hardly going to allow some Interpol agent to throw their weight around and jeopardise the mission. But, never underestimate the power of a legal representative. I'll be careful, yeah; I plan to just test the waters and see if any of them are amenable. Don't worry; I will definitely treat them on a need to know basis. Relax; you know me. I know what I'm doing." Cammy finished the call, then slipped the phone into its pouch on her belt. She was wearing a red beret and a green leotard, along with thick army boots. Cammy worked well in that kind of attire; she couldn't stand the thought of being bogged down in combat trousers. They didn't suit her, in any case. She had her utility belt, with its holster for her gun and pouches for her wallet and phone; she didn't need anything else. Especially not to go after scum like M Bison and Shadowlaw.



The oldest jealousy in the world; that of a son for a stepfather, an usurper coming between him and his mother. The young man took an instant dislike to his mother's new husband. In his opinion, his mother was breathtakingly beautiful, and deserved nothing but the best. His stepfather however was coarse and ugly, and was very bad mannered. His only redeeming feature was his vast wealth. This however was soon proven to be a hollow gift. The vast mansion soon echoed with the sounds of raised voices, as husband verbally attacked wife. The man, despite his advantages, was insecure; he also felt that a woman's place was below a man and that a wife should obey her husband in all matters. He also didn't take very kindly to his stepson interfering in what he considered to be a private discussion between man and wife. The young man, Vega, only began to hate and resent his stepfather all the more. Why should someone as radiant as his mother be with such a hideous creature as his stepfather, ugly both inside and out? The verbal wrangles continued, getting worse and worse. It was only a matter of time before it came to a head...

The ugly man struck out at his beautiful wife, but this time, not with words. He had a knife in his hand, and he stabbed her thru the heart. Vega had tried his hardest to save his mother, but to no avail. In a few minutes, she died, her blood soaking into her son's clothes. Vega felt something snap in his mind at that moment, as it seemed as tho he had finally seen things as they really were. "Beauty is the only truth in this world..." He kicked his stepfather's hand, knocking the knife from it and in the same instant, he picked it up and stabbed his stepfather thru the throat. The man fell with a strangled gasp of pain. Vega watched him die with no emotion at all, before wiping the knife and putting it in his stepfather's hand, to make it look as tho he had killed his wife, then stabbed himself. Vega's mind was irrevocably warped by what he had seen that day, and things would never be the same again...


Vega crept silently along the hotel corridor. It was the work of a moment for him to slip inside hotel room number thirteen. Unlucky for some... and certainly, for number thirteen's unfortunate occupant. This was an American orator who had so far enjoyed a career based on loudly and publically proclaiming his disgust for terrorist organisations. However, he had failed to realise just how dangerous a game he was playing; especially when he'd chosen Shadowlaw as his preferred target. M Bison would not allow such disrespect to go unpunished... and it had to be done in the usual way, by sending his most skillful assassin to do the honours. Vega wore bullfighter's gear, and moved like a shadow. He wore a mask over his face; not to hide his identity, but to protect his face from damage. He also wore a claw on one of his hands; a metal claw with cruel, sharp edges that cut flesh like so many knives.

He soon dispatched the unfortunate man who'd fallen afoul of Bison, without even a cry emerging from him before his throat was torn open, the blood spouting like a fountain. Vega was unmoved as he watched his victim's death throes. The man was ugly, after all. This meant that his death was well deserved. Vega felt that only beauty should ever be allowed to live; anyone who didn't fit the standards he held would be mercilessly cut down. However, as of late, he was getting weary with the assignments that Bison sent him on. Sometimes he longed to return to Spain where he had fought in both the bullfighting ring and the cage matches. The money he received from Bison meant nothing to him; and the missions were getting less and less interesting to him. Vega soon left the hotel room silently; only the trademark claw slash in the outside of the door evidence that he'd ever been there... that and of course, the devastation within.

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