I'd like to thank those of you who have spent a minute and sent 
comments. I appreciate it, I really do. Anyway, here's another two
chapter instalment. I'm always happy to hear from you.

Chapter 9

They left the beach straight away after the match and returned to the
_dojo_ to discuss Rose's mysterious words. They had retired to the
living room. The exotic woman had changed out of her outlandish costume,
though she still wore the yellow shawl about her shoulders, and was
dressed in a more sedate pair of jeans and a woollen sweater. Her hair
was damp--she'd taken a quick bath--and it hung loosely across her left
shoulder. Ken had gone off to his bath and Ryu had gone to the kitchen
to get refreshments.

Ryu returned from the kitchen with a tray laden with teacups and a
kettle filled with a steaming, aromatic brew. He set a cup down for the
Italian woman and one for both Chun and Sakura. Eliza took a cup for
herself.

"You are very gracious," said Rose, in heavily accented Japanese.

Ryu nodded, letting the compliment wash over him. "How is the tea?" he
asked, glancing about the room.

"It's a little strong," answered Chun Li, "but it is good." The others
murmured replies to the same effect. The Chinese woman sipped delicately
at her tea and then she abruptly placed the cup down and turned towards
Rose. "Well?" she asked. "What exactly did you mean back there? When you
said that Ryu didn't seem alive."

Rose put down her own cup with considerably greater care. "Everyone has
an aura about herself. People have given this aura many names. The
Chinese would call it _chi_, others the soul. There are many names for
it. Your companion here," she said, indicating Ryu with a tanned finger,
"seems empty inside and I feel nothing from him. The rest of you exude
power to a certain degree--some of you exert more and some of you less."

"You were saying something before that about needing allies--warriors in
some battle against a great enemy," said Ryu, who was not at all
comfortable speaking about the absence of his soul. "Who is this enemy
that you are speaking of? And what do you have to do with all of this?
What is your involvement in this tournament?"

Rose's dusky complexion took on a speculative cast and she replied,
"That is a great number of questions, Ryu, and I will endeavour to
answer them all, but the answer is long and complex, and it involves a
great many people who have lived and died before our times. It is an
evil tale, filled with a great many people who harboured great darkness
in their hearts."

"Cool!" said Sakura, leaning in closer to listen to the story. The
teenager's eyes were bright with excitement.

Rose took one more swallow from her cup and set it down again before
speaking. "Long ago, long before the dawn of religion, before
Christianity, Judaism or Bhuddism were even thoughts in the hearts of
their creators, there existed a group of men and women who were apart
from the rest of the race of man because they were different. You see,
these early men and women had learned to harness the power residing in
their bodies.

"At first they used their newfound powers and abilities for the good.
Many became healers, and some used their powers to safeguard less
fortunate people and their fame spread. Others preferred to live by
themselves and they became more famous still as wizards and witches."

"I sense a serious 'but' coming up," said Eliza as she idly stirred her
tea.

Rose smiled wryly. "The seed of ambition is present in many
people--these especially gifted ones as well--and for most it is a
healthy emotion that spurs one on to achieve success and for some a
certain degree of greatness. That is enough for most of us." The Italian
woman's smile became bitter. "But some of us will not be satisfied until
we control everything, until we own everything that we can see and even
more besides. There lived such a one a long time ago. Such was her
ambition that she would do anything to gain power--anything. She
committed atrocious crimes. There are only a few men and women in our
history who have done worse things than she. Few of us can imagine the
horror that she inflicted on her victims.

Rose stopped for a moment, as if remembering. "She gained a great deal
of power and soon she was herself as powerful as many, for she began to
devour power and take it for her own. She had become a vampire and
sucked the life and strength from everything that she touched. The
others with power were horrified and angered by what she had done. But
they were afraid, too, for she had killed many, many people during her
rise."

"But they did stop her?" asked Sakura, who was wholly engrossed in the
tale.

Rose nodded and she stopped again. "Afterwards, those men and women with
power decided that the greatest techniques--the ones which lead to great
power--could never again be used for fear that another would arise with
that same dangerous ambition and use her power for ill. They burned the
books that held the secrets and only a few of their children were taught
the great knowledge in order to ensure that no one person would ever
hold so much power again."

"What became of these people?" asked Eliza.

"They remain today. They are the fortunetellers, the diviners, the
readers of palms and tea leaves. They are the ones who see the future
and can communicate with spirits."

"You're kidding, right?" asked the blonde, incredulous.

Rose merely smiled. She snapped her fingers together and a blue flame
formed on her fingertip. "I am not, Eliza. There are many people who
have the power today. Indeed, it is latent in nearly everyone. You,
surely, have had dreams that foretold some future event with some
accuracy. Perhaps there were times when you changed your mind on some
matter at the last moment merely because you had a feeling that all
would not be right."

"Well, a few times, I guess..."

"Then you have the power, too, albeit only a small portion. Ken has some
of the power, and I suspect so too did his master. Indeed, I sense power
within you, Chun, and in you too, Sakura."

"Really?" asked Sakura, her eyes gleaming. The young woman suddenly
closed her eyes and concentrated. She was silent for a moment and then
she let out a loud sigh, opening her eyes again. "Nothing," Sakura said
in a glum tone. "I wasn't able to make even a little spark."

"It is different with most people," said Rose in a gentle tone. "Not
everyone can generate flame. Few, if any, people can create any physical
manifestation of their power. With marriage and the passage of time the
power is much more dilute now than it has ever been. Still, the
concentration of power in this room is remarkable."

"But I can make fireballs!" said Sakura, suddenly jubilant, her mood as
sunny as it had been dark. The young martial artist concentrated again
and a glowing sphere of fire appeared, cupped lovingly in her palms. She
launched the ball into the air with glee, watching with some pride as it
dissipated before hitting the ceiling.

Rose watched, eyes agape and following the path of the fireball as it
faded into nothingness. "How... How did you do that?" stuttered the
Italian woman, who was clearly impressed by the amazing feat. She tried
to speak again. "You are so young! Who taught you this? Where is your
master?"

"He doesn't like being called master," replied Sakura, her mood changing
again. She hadn't expected such a reaction and was feeling very
self-conscious.

"Irrelevant," said Rose in reply, her tone sharp and businesslike.
"Anyone who could teach you this...! He must be found immediately."

Sakura pointed in answer.

If anything Rose looked even more surprised than she had before. She was
shocked into silence. "I... I seem to have done ill to you," she managed
finally, her face white with worry. "I hope that it will not unduly
influence you against me."

Sakura's teacher shook his head, a little amused by the entire
situation. "Don't worry about it. Sakura's giving me too much credit."

"Explain."

"She watched what I was doing and she copied me."

"You can create fireballs, _too_?"

Ryu sighed. It would be a very, very long night if everything Rose said
continued in the same vein. Fortunately, Chun Li came to his rescue with
a question of her own. "Rose," she asked, "How is it that you know so
much about this woman, this one who abused her powers?"

Rose's expression became sad and it seemed suddenly that the shawl about
her shoulders became many times heavier, turning into a burden about her
thin shoulders. "That woman was my ancestor," said the Italian woman
finally. "And it has ever been the onus of my family to ensure that no
one would ever again wreak the havoc that our ancient ancestor wrought
upon the world."

"Another 'but' coming?" interjected Eliza.

Rose answered grimly. "I am the last with any specific knowledge of the
power..."

"And...?" the blonde prompted.

"And I do not have the strength to defeat the new evil on my own."

"This gets more and more complicated by the minute," said Chun Li.

* * * * * * * * * *

Ken had been finished with his bath for quite a while but he'd decided
not to join the others. He was in the training room and was seated on
the middle of the thick _tatami_. The blond warrior had been
unsuccessfully trying to meditate for some time. Hours had passed and he
found himself unable to ascend to that higher plane of thought necessary
for true understanding of his situation and emotions. His mind was
filled with a jumbled mass of questions without answers that had become
intertwined with angry, confused emotions.

Rose had not been searching for him.

Rose had been searching for Ryu.

Ken had power, but Ryu had more. Apparently much more.

Ryu who had always been a good training and sparring partner; Ken freely
admitted that, but he had never defeated him in any sort of combat. Ryu
who'd never once been able to lay a solid, jarring blow on his person at
any point, who'd always seemed like a moving punching and kicking bag.
The same Ryu who was slow, methodical, and even a little predictable.
The same Ryu who had managed--only God knew how--to defeat Sagat, the
one eyed giant who'd killed men merely because they had looked at him
the wrong way.

"_Sensei_ always said that I was the better fighter," thought Ken, his
eyes concentrating on a wall scroll. The wall scroll was very old; it
had been old when Ken had first visited the _dojo_. The message written
upon it read, 'The way will shape you and you will shape the way.' It
had always confused him, but Ryu had understood it at once. "Why would
Rose be searching for Ryu? It must be a mistake. It must be."

Ken stood up, rising to his feet with a rapidness of motion that left
him lightheaded. He moved into a fighting stance and began the first of
the seven _katra--_dance-like movements that _sensei_ declared would
refine his forms and calm him in times of trouble. At the moment,
though, they did nothing to help his mood, and the blond fighter soon
turned to more active practice.

He walked up to the practice dummy and began raining blows down upon its
wooden limbs. His fists and feet fell like rain across the dummy,
inundating it in what would be a world of pain if it were alive. He was
savage and brutal. From a distant corner of his brain, he remembered
that _sensei_ would not approve of his current state of mind and action.
Ken found he didn't care.

"Your form has improved," said a voice.

Ken whirled around and found Ryu watching him from the sliding door. The
Japanese fighter was leaning up against the doorframe, watching with a
speculative and appreciative eye.

"Thank you," said Ken in response. His reply was a little forced and
sounded very stiff even to his own ears.

Ryu walked up to another dummy and began a series of slow forms. Ken
watched for a moment, trying to see the hint of something special in his
friend. Ryu struck the dummy with a mechanical efficiency and a steady
rhythm was soon apparent. One two, one two, one two landed the blows.
Ryu never wavered from that rhythm, never slowing nor speeding up.

"How about a little sparring?" suggested the blond.

Ryu stopped and stepped away from the dummy a little reluctantly. He
replied, "Why not?"

Ken nodded and moved to the centre of the training mat, followed by Ryu.
Both men shifted into stances, Ken taking an attack stance, as was usual
for him, and Ryu took a more defensive and laid-back approach. Ken
attacked first, lunging in with his fists. His opponent dodged the blows
easily, as expected, and counter attacked by grabbing an outstretched
fist and tugging on it. Ryu sent Ken flying through the air and watched
as the blond fighter righted himself in mid-air and landed on his feet,
none the worse for wear.

Ken continued his attack. Ryu always got in at least a couple of throws
and hits--but never more than a few. The blond considered his friend to
have already reached his quota of landed hits and he shifted his attack
accordingly, his fists becoming a blur. The blond proceeded to land many
small blows on the smaller man's frame, each attack managing to find a
way through a plodding defence.

Finally, Ryu rolled back and held up his hand to signal the end.
"Enough," he said.

Ken stopped, breathing hard at his exertions. "I win," he said,
relaxing. Though he had just exerted a great deal of energy Ken felt
renewed and rejuvenated by his victory over his friend. It had been just
the thing to lift him from his black mood. "That was good, Ryu. You're
improving, too."

"I try," said Ryu, smiling a bit. "Well, it's late and everyone else has
gone to bed. I told Sakura that I would give her another lesson early in
the morning and it wouldn't do for me to sleep in and set a bad example.
I'll see you in the morning, Ken. Good night." He stood up straight and
bowed before he left.

Ken stared at the door for a moment and smiled. Rose was wrong. He only
had to prove it to her.

* * * * * * * * * *

Charlie rubbed his eyes tiredly. Finding Chun Li and her intrepid band
of followers had proved impossible and he'd given up on trying to find
them. Thus, he'd had to resort to the package he'd been given. The
papers listed Thailand as one of the possible places where he could
infiltrate Shadowlaw, so there he was. It had been a very long flight
from the base to Thailand and he hadn't yet had the chance to sleep off
the effects. Thailand was hot and extraordinarily humid. And wet.
Thailand was in the midst of its rainy season and the streets and ground
were covered with pools of water. It had rained on three separate
occasions already, even though he'd only been in the country for a day.

Sighing, he pushed back his wet hair and stepped into the doorway. It
was very dim inside and the air was full of mingling smoke from
cigarettes, cigars, and other drugs. It was a pungent smell and
dizzying, and it caused him to feel a bit lightheaded as he wandered
through a gloom lit only by a single naked bulb. The pilot moved towards
the centre of the building, towards the shouts and where the smoke was
thickest.

A crowd was gathered there. They were an interesting and motley
collection of businessmen, who were obviously rich and lived with
affluence, and the poor, who probably had better things to spend their
hard-earned money on.

They had all of them gathered around a small ring constructed of bales
of rice stalks. Two men were busy in that ring, each struggling mightily
to incapacitate the other. One of the men was fairly large and bulky;
his arms and legs were thick and built like tree trunks. He moved slowly
but Charlie saw immediately that if the man landed any blows that the
match would soon be over, ended in an instant by the force behind those
massive limbs.

The trouble was the other man moved quickly, catlike, and evaded those
heavy blows with surprising ease. He was very thin but he had a good
physique. His hair had been dyed bright red and he wore some kind of
circlet on his brow. He moved around his bigger and slower moving
opponent with a sort of mocking grace. Charlie saw at once what the
man's strategy was. He would move in just close enough to let the bigger
man think of attacking and then he would dart back again and jump in and
attack from above. The strategy was already having a devastating effect
on the big man, who was bleeding from several cuts on his shoulders, his
head and upper arms.

The big man was already slowing and the match did not look as if it
would go much longer. Then, suddenly, like a stick of dynamite
exploding, the complexion of the match changed completely. The smaller
man rushed towards his opponent and hammered away with his forearms and
elbows, knocking the big man to the ground in a sodden heap of blood,
battered flesh and broken bones.

Several shrieks of disappointment filled the air as the big man fell.
He'd obviously been a popular choice to win the fight and the small,
redheaded man had dashed those hopes with a careful and very calculated
attack.

That small man, whom Charlie's papers named Adon, would be his ticket
into the web of murderers and drug dealers that was Shadowlaw. Adon had
close ties with a mountain of towering flesh named Sagat who was known
to be an active member of Shadowlaw. What those ties were, Charlie
didn't care, so long as it brought him into contact with Sagat, who
would bring him to the ultimate prize: Bison.

Chapter 10

Adon was signing autographs when Charlie decided to approach him. Many
adoring fans surrounded the wiry fighter, each clamouring to get him to
sign his signature on slips of paper, hats, and other articles of
clothing. Charlie had to wait a long time before the crowds had thinned
noticeably. Adon took notice of him then, and bid the tall American to
come closer.

"You're not a fan," he said, his voice a little thin and higher than
what Charlie had expected. "You a challenger or something?"

Charlie shook his head. "No, Adon, I'm not. Actually, I have a few
questions that I'd like you to answer."

"You're a cop?"

"In a sense..."

Adon reacted to the words with surprising speed, lashing out with a
punch that caught the American in the side of his jaw. A lesser man,
without any martial experience, would have been caught flatfooted and
would have been knocked unconscious by the blow. Charlie saw the attack
coming too late to avoid it, but he did manage to roll with the punch
and suffered what would probably amount to a purplish bruise along the
side of his jaw the next morning.

The pilot rubbed his jaw gingerly and his eyes narrowed with annoyance.
"You have some thing against cops?"

Adon nodded slowly. "Yeah, I've got something against cops. I don't like
them prying into my business."

"Well, we'll get along famously then. I'm not a cop. But I do have
questions."

"The only thing I hate more than cops," sniffed Adon, "is people who
have questions."

"Well, listen to the questions first and answer the one's you like. I
won't bother you too much after that." Charlie narrowed his eyes and
prepared himself for the answer. He didn't relish being punched a second
time and he always prided himself on being prepared. His body relaxed
and he was calm.

"You're a fighter, too," said Adon, looking him over carefully. The Thai
kick boxer looked a little surprised and even a little impressed. His
gaze became coolly calculating and he looked the American pilot up and
down, as if gauging his ability. Adon moved very quickly and nodded with
satisfaction when Charlie caught the punch just inches before it would
have contacted his chest. "And a good fighter. I'm impressed that
they're making cops like you."

"I'm not a cop actually," replied the blond, pushing his glasses higher
up on his nose. "But I do have questions that I want to ask you. You
ever heard of a 'Street Fighter' tournament?"

Adon laughed and replied, "Of course! Who hasn't?"

Charlie ignored the subtle barb and continued on. "I was wondering if
you were taking part in it."

Adon nodded warily. "I'm taking part in the tournament, all right. If
you were around earlier you'd have seen me take out my second opponent."
Here Adon's smile became feral and a little cruel. It cast his face into
an entirely different kind of light. "I hope you didn't bet on the big
guy."

"You were expecting to win?"

"Of course," replied the smaller man. "That's the way the tournament
always works. It wouldn't be very fun if you had the best fighters
facing each other right at the beginning. That's why they put us in
against the weak people. Then again, every so often a young stripling
shows up and manages to get into the third round."

"You sound like you've seen this happen before."

Adon nodded and his expression grew a little irritated. The kick boxer
seemed to go away for a moment, his eyes losing their focus. He was
obviously thinking and remembering something that had happened some time
ago. Then his expression tightened and his eyes refocused. "It happened
at the last tournament. A young stripling came in and actually got to
the finals. He became champion."

Charlie could sense that something wasn't being said, but one look at
Adon told the pilot that it was perhaps not in his best interests to ask
any more questions along those lines at that time. "You know anything
about who's running the tournament this year? How about getting into the
tournament? That possible still?"

Adon snorted. "You really don't know much about this, do you?"

Charlie shrugged.

"Americans!" exclaimed the Thai fighter, with feeling. "Nobody ever
knows who the tournament sponsor is. We only know that he has a lot of
money and gets off on watching fighters beat the hell out of each other.
As for joining the tournament... Yeah, sure, you can still join the
tournament--at least until the end of the third round. So if you want to
join, you've got to go and sign up."

"It's that easy?" Charlie asked.

Adon laughed again, clearly enjoying himself at Charlie's expense.
"'Course not. You've got to find yourself a tournament sponsor first or
have fought enough battles to be endorsed."

"Meaning...?"

"Go and beat up a few guys and get noticed."

Charlie was growing impatient. Adon seemed to take a great deal of
perverse pleasure out of baiting him and acting obtuse. At this point,
if all it took to enter the tournament was beating up another man
Charlie would gladly fulfil that part of the entry process, starting
with Adon. "And if I want to get in fast?"

"Ask."

* * * * * * * * * *

Dan was getting beaten. Badly. His opponent was faster, stronger, more
agile, and obviously smarter than he was. It was, in short, no contest,
and the onlookers who had eagerly come to watch the proceedings, hoping
for an exciting match to get their blood pumping, were very
disappointed--to say the least. But Dan had managed to make the last few
moments of the match interesting. It was incredible how many fewer hits
he took when he stopped trying to taunt his opponent after getting in a
blow. Still, he knew defeat was inevitable and when it came, after a
series of rapid-fire blows to his chest and abdomen, he accepted it
gracefully, managing to fall flat onto his face at his opponent's feet.

He was a long time regaining consciousness. He lay on the floor
motionless, being treated by medics for his injuries. After cursory
inspections, many of the medics walked away from Dan's fallen body
disgusted, each mentioning some version of the words 'low pain
threshold.' When at last he regained consciousness, Dan found himself
alone, still lying on the ground, his body a little worse for wear. He
found that he was bleeding: a slow trickle of blood ran from his lips
down his jaw-line. It was a small trickle, quite pathetic really, and
one that should have closed up by itself.

Dan rose to his feet unsteadily, dejected. He had fought only one battle
in the entire Street Fighter tournament and he had lost. Lost! How was
he going to get his revenge now? What would his father, Go, say about
his failure? Dan could imagine the encounter with his father vividly. Go
would pace in silence for half an hour. By the end of it Dan would be
begging his father to say something and he would. "Try harder next
time," he'd say and, "You'll do better next time." That would be all. Go
would return to his other students and all would be as it was before. Go
had no expectations at all.

Dan hated that. He'd rather his father had told him to shape up and how.
But of course, that could and never would be. Go was dead and any chance
of chastisement was gone. And now, after his loss in the tournament,
there would be no chance at revenge, either. Cursing beneath his breath,
Dan picked up his things and made to leave the arena. To his surprise,
Dan found a man waiting for him by the exit.

The man was moderately tall and heavily built. He was wearing a uniform
of some sort, though it didn't look like he was a cop, and he was
holding a long rod in his hand, like a baton. But his uniform appeared
to be of some military issue. He was dressed in khaki trousers, belted
by a wide black belt with many small pouches, and in a khaki jacket. The
only spot of colour was his red beret, perched atop his high forehead. A
scar arced its way down the side of his face.

"You are Dan Hibiki," said the man. His voice was very soft, almost too
soft to be heard. He had an accent, too. His words were very precise,
clipped, as if he were being almost too careful to speak the words
correctly. Still, he made some odd errors that made it very obvious that
English was not his first language. The pauses between words were a
little off and he emphasised the wrong syllables.

Dan just thought he sounded funny.

"Yeah, I'm Dan. So, you looking for me or something?"

"Something, yes. I understand that you are taking part in the
tournament?"

Dan sighed. Obviously this guy hadn't just seen his pathetic defeat. "I
was. I just lost."

"You... Lost?"

"Yeah, I lost," Dan affirmed. He was feeling even worse now having to
say that he'd lost. It made the defeat seem all the more real, all the
more poignant. He sighed. When he got home that night maybe he'd just
jump into bed and hope that when he woke up everything would be
different or, at the very least, that he'd get a second chance.

"I did not expect that," said the uniformed man. He looked troubled and
began to pace the arena floor. His boots were metal shod and clicked on
the hard cement floor. His steps were regimented and he assumed a
marching beat unconsciously. The expression on his face betrayed the
fact that his plans weren't working out as he'd thought they would. Dan
watched on, becoming a little nervous. "Who," he wondered, "is this
guy?"

"Ah, I have it," said the uniformed man at last, turning around and
standing at attention. His right foot came down hard, startling Dan,
who'd grown used to the steady beating. "We will re-enter you into the
tournament."

"You can do that?" Dan asked, a little surprised.

"If you have the resources, yes."

"Why are you doing this for me?" He was too surprised to be grateful.

Here the uniformed man looked astonished, as if he couldn't believe Dan
would ask such a thing. Anger warred with incredulity for a moment
before he mastered himself and cleared his face of all emotion. He
walked forward stiffly, his back ramrod straight, and came close enough
for Dan to smell the pungent odour of old nicotine on his breath. "Never
question my motives, Hibiki."

"Yes sir," Dan said quickly, who suddenly felt as if he were in the
presence of a cop. Or something worse.

"Return to your home tonight," said the man in uniform, moving away from
Dan abruptly. "Sleep and be awake at dawn. You will go to the airport
and take the 7 o'clock flight to Bombay. The plane ticket will be under
your name."

Dan gulped and nodded, wondering where in the world Bombay was.

The uniformed man's eyes narrowed and he reached into one of the pouches
on his belt. He pulled out a small spherical object, which Dan realised
too late was some sort of grenade. It landed on the ground in front of
Dan, bounced up, and exploded into bright, painful all-concealing light.
He rubbed his stinging eyes and thanked God when his eyesight began to
slowly return, but he noticed that the uniformed man had vanished. Dan
realised only then that he had hadn't bothered to ask for his name.

* * * * * * * * * *

"Ha!" she exclaimed, as she landed a punch to his chest. It was the
first time that she'd been able to touch her teacher while sparring and
she relished the moment, savouring the slight stinging in her knuckles
and the feel of the rough cotton against her fingers and knuckles. She
pressed forward, determined to land more blows, when he caught her
outstretched arm and pulled her forward, sending her careening into the
hard expanse of his shoulder. The blow, if it could be called that,
knocked the wind out of her lungs and if he hadn't been holding her she
would have collapsed onto the practice mat.

"I... Thought I... Had you," she panted, steadying herself.

"No," Ryu replied, letting her go. She was a little wobbly but she did
not fall. "That was a deliberate opening and I was waiting to see if you
would take it or not. I'm a little disappointed that you did. You were
too eager, Sakura. I guess you need to learn more about reading your
opponent's strategy."

"But if she had hit you with greater force," came a voice from the
sliding door, "would you be in any position to criticise her tactics. I
wonder..."

Ryu nodded, bemused, and bid their visitor enter. Rose stepped inside
the threshold, leaving her shoes outside on the porch before stepping
onto the _tatami_ mat. The Italian woman was dressed in a long purple
tracksuit--she seemed to have a penchant for that wonderfully rare
colour--and, as always, her yellow shawl was draped across her
shoulders. She'd tied up her hair and it hung in a long ponytail.

"You're right," he replied, turning to his student. "If you're going to
attack, Sakura, make sure that you use enough force and that you follow
up any strikes. Don't give your opponent time to recover and mount a
defence. But make sure that it isn't a trap," he said, smiling.

"What...? But how do you know whether it's a trap or whether you should
attack?" asked the young, aspiring martial artist. "I didn't see
anything different about you there, when I punched you, I mean."

"It's something you'll know," her teacher replied.

Sakura snorted disdainfully. "That's something my mother would say."

"She's a wise woman," Ryu replied, laughing. Sakura sniffed for a
moment, her pride warring with her humour. Then, giving up, she joined
him and giggled. Ryu, still smiling, turned to Rose and asked why she'd
come to see them.

She replied, "There are still a few things about which we must speak and
I have some... Reservations."

Ryu nodded, sobering, and prompted her to continue.

"I have spent some time considering the situation that we find ourselves
in, and a great deal of time, too. I was awake most of the night
consulting my oracles, trying to determine whether or not I had strayed
from the path that was set out for me long before my birth. I came to
some startling conclusions and there are still some questions that have
not been answered--important questions, too, I'm afraid."

"And?"

"I know that I am moving towards my ultimate destiny, and that that
destiny will involve a confrontation that will change me in some
fundamental way."

"Do you mean," said Sakura, "that you looked at your cards?"

"Yes, that is correct."

"So, that tarot stuff really works?" The question was tentative, and
very shy and very unlike the typically exuberant teenager, who realised
that her question might be a little offensive to someone who was a
fortune-teller.

"It does," said Rose. "And it varies greatly in its accuracy at times.
Much of the accuracy depends on the person. Those who live limited lives
will very likely continue to live limited lives, and that is very east
for the cards to chart. For others, the cards can give only a guide, a
rough path that may, or may not, be followed."

Sakura nodded, engrossed.

"My _sensei_ always said that we determine our own paths," said Ryu.

"Perhaps, but what of the things that one cannot control? The weather,
perhaps, or the actions of others. These things all impact on one's life
and, for the most part, one has no control over these things. One would
have as much success trying to control these variables as one would in
commanding the tides to be still. But I digress. Tempting as a debate of
fate versus self-determination may be, I have other matters that I must
attend to.

"Ryu is fated to be at the very crux of this conflict. It is Ryu's
intervention that will decide the course that our lives will take in the
upcoming weeks and, indeed, in the future. Forgive me the cliche, but
the fate of the world is in Ryu's hands. It is my task to guide Ryu to
that fate, to that confrontation."

"And the problem is...?"

"I am not certain, as I said yesterday during tea, that you are the Ryu
that I seek. When I said that I could sense nothing from you--no
emanations of power or signs that you had a soul--I was perhaps
understating my observations. That explanation was ambiguous and I must
clarify it. It is not merely that I sense nothing from you, which could
mean that your presence was somehow shielded, but that your person is a
great vacuum. Normally, there is an ebb and flow of power around us all
that links us to one another and to all things."

"Like the Force..." whispered Sakura, her eyes beaming like small moons,
"except with rocks and stuff, too."

"Err, yes," said Rose, a little flustered and understandably so.
Recovering, she continued. "You are like a vacuum, Ryu. There is
nothing, absolutely nothing that can be perceived of you. As used to
relying upon my extra senses as I am, you make me question those senses
that are common to all people, such as my sight, my sense of smell, and
my hearing. You are a white speck in a sea of black."

"Like a star..." said Sakura, a dreamy look in her eyes.

"Yes, but not nearly so romantic," Rose said sharply, somewhat
irritated. "You, Ryu, are an unknown."

Ryu nodded, understanding the quandary that the fortune-teller was in.
He rose to his feet and moved into a defensive stance. Rose looked at
him with surprise etched in her olive features. The surprise melted
away, then, and she rose to her feet and prepared herself. Sakura
scrambled back and out of their way.

Rose attacked first, sliding in on feet that scarcely touched the
_tatami_ with a flurry of strikes. Ryu fended the blows off easily,
bobbing his head back and forth and redirecting the other attacks to his
sides. Rose, undaunted, continued her assault, redoubling it in
ferocity. Her arms and legs became a blur. This, then, was her true self
and the person who had fought against Ken on the beach the other day was
but a poor shadow, strutting and fretting its life on the warm sand.

Yet Ryu remained calm in the storm. He appeared very different to
Sakura. He only faintly resembled the man who was her teacher, or even
the man who had fought against Guy. This was a different Ryu altogether.
He appeared almost icy and there was a certain detachment about the way
in which he dodged, deflected, or blocked the attacks.

Rose stepped back from the fighter, flipping backwards to land a few
feet away. Sweat had beaded on her brow and her body was soaked with her
exertions. It was an exhilarating feeling, though. She knew now, beyond
a shadow of a doubt, that this was the Ryu she had been searching for
and it was glorious. Concentrating, she pooled her strength and sent a
ball of energy hurtling towards him.

For a moment, it appeared as if he would brush even that attack aside,
but he crossed his arms and was forced backwards and to his knees. At
that moment Ken, Eliza, and Chun arrived. They looked at the two
combatants for a moment, taking in the scene. Their eyes travelled from
one end of the _dojo_ to the other, from the standing Rose to the
kneeling Ryu. Ken spoke first.

"She beat you, huh? Ah well, don't take it too hard, Ryu. They say
there's always someone better than you are and in a big world you have
to believe that there'll be a lot of people who can get the best of you.
Me on the other hand..." he said, allowing his voice to trail off. He
turned to Rose. "If you're in the mood I'd like a rematch."

Regards,

DucThe Truong
DWC @ <http://welcome.to/dwc>
Thinkin' different.