Setting: King of Fighters tournament, Japan, 1996.

King didn't look up from buffing the shoes when the door to the suite opened, and the new entrant limped in, gracefully but with noticeable pain. She was more or less King's height, but appeared much taller as a result of her indigo-tinted hair being tied up into a wild and abundant topknot. She sat down on the room's other bed and matter-of-factly took off her combat boots. Then, from a canvas bag at the foot of that bed, she removed a round metal tin – King knew it was metal from the noise it made when the lid was unfastened – and began applying a heady herbal gel onto her injured calf muscle.

For three minutes and twenty-two seconds the two went about their tasks, as though inhabiting different dimensions (although only one of the two had the impression that this was indeed the case). On the twenty-third second, King's head was raised, champagne-blonde curtains bouncing lightly from pale eyes.

"Quite a fight today. I'm glad I wasn't the other chap."

The Amazon was yet preoccupied and gave no response.

"Oh that's right. You don't speak. You're the strong and the silent… You know people talk about you like a Lovecraft novel around here? It's a brilliant way to psyche out the opponent, have them believe you prowl the nights, searching for easy blood."

The other's head turned an inch towards King, flashed a look that seemed pained for an instant, then dismissive, then once more in some other plane of existence.

"Well," King said with a good-spirited chuckle, "I'm not afraid of you."

The icy eyes focussed on her then, and a crisp, low voice, almost a whisper, followed. "You should be." It wasn't a threat; it was an apology.

For the first time, King noticed the fighting gloves that had been so carefully placed on the boots when they had been removed. The fingers were stained, old colouring in some areas, new in others. Layers of carnage. But the woman's hands were clean.

"Why are you here?" King was genuinely curious; most of the people she'd met in the King of Fighters matches couldn't wait to tell her about their skills in the ring, or regale her with tales of their great victories, and even the quieter ones gave her menacing stares across the room, I'm-gonna-git-you-sucka type stares. Not this one. If the woman wasn't such a careful study in tabula rasa, King might think she was miserable.

"My father sent me."

Was that, thought King, an edge of distaste in her use of the paternal moniker?

"Your father?"

No reply. So, the well must have run ––

"Heidern."

King grimaced, as a stinging memory or two arrived unbidden. But this blue-haired warrior didn't look much like the spawn of Mr Military's loins. Still, that would explain her hanging around with those two official brutalities, Ralf and Clark. She had seen the three of them together at a table, the men reminiscing and barking with laughter, the woman with her head bowed, staring into a drink, or the wood of the table, or perhaps her past.

"Heidern's your dad? My condolences. You know…" King got up, walked over to the other bed and, despite the woman's body language and the vibes she was sending off telling King to go drown herself, sat down beside her. "There's reason to talk beyond senseless chatter, if that's why you're so mum all the time. Talking is the most advanced information transference device we've yet developed as a species. Your outfit says that might make sense to you." She was in short khaki fatigues, the collar on her high-buttoned shirt turned up.

"Your outfit says you're either a gigolo or a waiter," came the murmur.

King gave a peel of laughter. "It's alive!" From a purple silk boutonnière, King withdrew a red rose, put it in the woman's lap. "Lady Lovecraft, a gift for you. Thorny, but quite appealing." Rising, King strolled towards the door, dress-shoes gleaming. At the door, she paused. "See you later, Leona Heidern."