Disclaimer: Tekken and Tekken characters are the property of Namco Limited. This is nonprofit fan fiction.

Timeline: Some time after Tekken 5 (2008).

Nevermore

by Salysha

"I was born in Jordan, 1973. The birth certificate says Syracuse, New York. And that's not exactly the year, either. Figures..."

Raven pushed the controls, and the shuffling noise of the recorder stopped. He looked around the room, bare and empty except for his bags. He breathed in and resumed recording.

"The lies started early on.

"The start had promise of something else: diplomacy. Makings of a cosmopolite. Rootlessness. The ubiquitous, fated feeling of not belonging. The privileges of that life left behind a cacophony of languages and an ambassador's son at large.

"Somewhere down the line, the privileges of that life became an encumbrance. The mixed cultures, a recalcitrant dissonance. There was no direction, no grand design, until at the age of eleven, we landed in Japan. My fate was sealed that day. We didn't stay long, but once I returned at fifteen, my path was laid out for me. You should know I was never happier.

"Being the outsider gives you a certain outlook. It is a state of mind that never leaves you. I was the de facto outsider wherever I went; thus, mingling with a culture that never took me in didn't alienate me. No language skill could ever bring me closer to the new country; my studies were for my benefit alone, not for pleasing anyone else. The fulcrum that shaped my design was practicing in one of the three remaining schools of ninjutsu, well hidden out of the public eye; no one in the west would ever had even heard of those.

"No one has been admitted before or since, and even my scholarship remains a carefully forgotten secret. I was the shadow outside all records. I saw my parents last at seventeen, and I've never seen them since.

"The ritual was a contrast to my otherwise unremarkable life. Two heated blades, cut diagonally across the face. Though an excruciating and unnecessary act of cruelty, I still chose to undertake it of my own free will, and I still withstood it. The sign of my secretive training, and the most blatant proof of it. The blatantly private symbol of a training that never leaves you, never lets you forget what you committed to. Privately, I feel it stands for the same as my service in the agency."

Raven ran his fingers along the scars. They had stopped aching years after the burning and healed to smooth edges, but the fierce burning was itself a scar committed to memory.

"My shift to espionage was arranged as inconspicuously as with the other agents. I was approached with what I perceived as premeditation. I was not the only American on Nihon soil, but I was the best candidate. Someone with my abilities, lack of connections, and familiarity with cultures made me a prime candidate for serving my country, and I fell for it. We did ill deeds for the greater good and the protection of our allies. It only made sense.

"I am now thirty-six. I believe a man should have a conscience by then. I never questioned that what we were doing was right. Never, until..."

Raven's train of thought wavered. He released the pause button and tried again.

"I don't know why it bothers me—"

Raven paused and paced. The irritation gnawed at him somewhere deep and unreachable. Unyielding, persistent. The repentance always pursued the same cycle: the irritation dwindled, became unreachable, and left behind insurmountable regret.

"Of course I know why it bothers me! I had no problem doing what we did, as long as I believed it was right. There was a job to do—someone had to do it. But that last job was…not like that. We had no business being there, moral or juristic. You should have honor.

"You have to understand: I believed we were doing things right. I genuinely believed that." Pain shook Raven. He quelled the slight tremor in his voice. He rasped.

"I should have known better, but for all my education and knowledge, I couldn't see. Through my actions, I participated in making bad things worse. I should have stepped up, but I didn't. Self-criticism took long to develop, but it is done now. I have lately found traces of selfishness I wasn't aware of, but it will be to little avail. This is a life you never leave behind.

"Kill many, and you're a conqueror. Spy once, and you're a marked man. There is no retirement—you go with your cement boots on. Nothing so transparent, of course. You pay a price that, at first glance, isn't much at all, and at a later glance, is everything. I have no name, no family. No life of my own.

"I participated in a King of Iron Fist Tournament once, through a mission. It was almost a vacation. I met another assassin there—Nina. She won't last. She enjoys it too much—I've seen it. You can never enjoy it. I stopped even tolerating it, and now I'm through.

"No more."

Raven threw the recorder on top of his bags and turned to inspect the apartment one last time.

"I always knew you'd slip," a sly voice came from behind Raven.

Raven turned, though he didn't need to see the newcomer to recognize him. "Johnny," he said with a voice of black velvet.

Holding a handgun aimed at Raven, Johnny Walker stood at the door, accompanied by field operatives. The agents held little regard for the operatives, likening them to cannon fodder, but the guns they were holding were just as real as the one in Johnny's hand, and just as surely aimed at Raven.

"Did you really think you could escape? That there was no surveillance off hours, at home?"

"I must've been mistaken."

"Mistaken," Johnny imitated. "Doesn't matter. A shame to lose you like this, Raven. Would've been more glorious to go out on a mission."

"I remain confident that you are devastated, Johnny," Raven said dryly.

"Can't say I was. With the boss' pet gone, there's an opening for the top dog." Johnny sneered. "I can't believe you'd actually fall over something so kindergarten. You used to be the best. Now, a bit of pressure, and—BAM!—you pour your heart out to a couple of mics."

"I must be going soft," Raven said quietly. He knew Johnny thrived on this. Years of being the second best in his shadow, Johnny must have jumped at the chance to fix the problem with the rogue agent. Eliminating the competition and an object of personal dislike was catnip to someone with Johnny's psychological makeup. He had kept Johnny's sadistic urges reined in through the chain of command.

Still, there was something Raven actually wanted to know. "Starsky's here; where's Hutch?"

"God, have you even watched television in decades?" Johnny sounded disgusted. "Least you could do was make some halfwit crack about The X-Men..." The questioning glance infuriated him further. "Remy's here. Don't you worry about him. He's making sure you aren't escaping through some funky ninja shit of yours."

Johnny's sycophantic sidekick, Remy Martin, was nearby. The world hadn't come to an end . . . yet.

"You shouldn't speak with so little regard about an art that is centuries old."

"Like I give a shit," Johnny spat. "You are prolonging this. Should've known you'd turn yellow."

"There is no need for insults."

Raven's calm was starting to grate on Johnny. "Let's get this over with. Any last words, Raven?"

Raven looked at guns aimed at him, at the men holding the guns, and felt no fear. He had known it would come to this. Unarmed at the face of firepower that could destroy a small community, he felt a wave of calm wash over him. His time had come. He closed his eyes.

Johnny cocked his gun.

Raven opened his eyes. "I wish to finish my dictation."

"What?"

"I was dictating a letter. I wish to finish it."

"No one's gonna listen to your lousy— What the hell. Go for it." Johnny was bug-eyed, but he had never had an eye for the finer things in life, no finesse. He had always lacked eye for detail.

"I will reach for the recorder now," Raven said and, keeping his hands in plain sight, bent down slowly to pick up the recorder from on top of the bag. Eyes firmly on Johnny, Raven raised the recorder to his mouth. "Nevermore," he confirmed to himself quietly, basking in the incredulous looks he got. Johnny's, especially, made a sad smile surface on his face. Then, he pushed a button down.

Johnny hadn't made it to his position without merit. Raven felt the heartbeat when Johnny's eyes widened and realization hit. None of the others had a clue when Johnny had already found the trigger, but even he was too late: the recorder thudded the floor, and Raven morphed into a dazzling image before breaking through the window. Even as Raven surged through the air, the detonations triggered one after the other. The shockwave caught hold of him and pushed him flying headfirst.

By the time Raven had picked himself up and put distance between him and the building, smoke was breaking through the window in thick, black clouds. Behind, the building transferred into a sea of flames. Raven watched as everything he had been came crumbling down. In all the ill, he had done one good deed and made sure his place wouldn't go to Johnny.

The fire was bound to attract attention, and Raven was already moving out of the scene. He looked over his shoulder one last time.

"Quoth the raven, nevermore."

THE END

Concluding Notes:

Quoth the raven, "Nevermore," along with its paraphrases, is a repeated line from Edgar Allan Poe's poem, The Raven.

The aliases of the operatives play on Johnnie Walker and Rémy Martin, brands of whisky and cognac, respectively.

At the time of writing this, all personal data of Raven, including his age and nationality, remain hidden. The only known thing about him, the story on how he got that prominent X-shaped scar on his face, is undisclosed as well.

This has been a work in progress for me since 2008. It was finally time to see the story to the finish.

Thanks for reading! Please review.

Thanks so much to Gypsie (Gypsie Rose) for the proofreading!

Published August 13, 2013.