Short chapter, but hope you like it.

2: Lost Cause

Dr. Wolf

"It's hopeless; she's never going to remember anything that might help us. Just let someone else handle her."

Sighing, I rub my weary eyes and turn to face her.

"You know as well as I do that nobody else can handle her," I say.

"Including you, Doctor," she grumbles as she removes her bag lunch from the fridge.

Julia Chang sips her bottle of water, eyebrows furrowed. "Look at you. You haven't had a good night's sleep in days, you're always exhausted, and you've lost too much weight. Is she worth all that?"

Sighing heavily, I turn to face her, running a hand through my hair.

"Look, I'm the one who chose to work with her, and I'm not going to just give up like everyone else has. If I do, then that poor woman has no one else."

"And that's as it should be. She hasn't progressed at all," retorts the female doctor, "believe me, I don't give up easily either. I want to help as well, but I can't—we—can't keep wasting time on a lost cause. There are several other patients that need us too."

Frustrated, I reply, "No, you don't understand. To every mind there is a key that will unlock it, and I will find it. I don't care how long it takes. We can't just ignore her."

"Then you might as well throw away your life," Julia grumbles, "that woman is seriously screwed up. I never thought I'd say this but…it's hopeless. There's no helping her."

Julia would never understand; to me, Nina Williams is much more than just any ordinary patient.

The Native American woman sips her drink again. "I know, I know, these things 'take time.' But with Williams, there has been no progress in the five months that she's been here, none whatsoever. When I had her before you, all she'd do was sit there and talk about nonsense."

"It wasn't nonsense, Julia; you just weren't listening."

"No, no, no. You don't understand. Tell me, how does one listen to the brutal, grotesque details of assassinations? All she talked about was how she killed her victims and how good she was at doing it. After listening to that for months on end, I think you'd want to give up too. The only conclusion I came up with was that she's a fucked up, murderous psychopath with only half a mind left, if any."

Julia glares over at me, crossing her arms, waiting for me to reply. Sighing, I have no answer to that one, and instead close my eyes for a moment.

Gently, she places her hand on my forearm, a tight squeeze, warm—meaningless. "I worry for you. Remember that time she tried to kill you?"

"She killed for a living, what do you expect? Besides, she wasn't herself."

"Then tell me: who is she, hm? She doesn't even know. 'Herself' or not, Nina Williams is still, first and foremost, a killer. It's one of the few things about herself she actually remembers, and that alone should tell you something."

Julia allows for her words to sink in, then releases her grasp.

It's easy. I can tell her right now who Nina is exactly. Standing here beneath this purple haze of artificial light, the lines on Julia's face are ones of resignation and pity; she cares too much for me sometimes. But I understand, for we're nearly the same after all. Both about twenty-four, both new to this game and to this job, both fresh out of college and doing everything possible to survive in the real world, constantly striving to prove ourselves worthy. And once you meet someone like Nina, at first you're not quite sure what to do.

Julia takes a bite of her tuna sandwich and chews in silence, brown eyes unreadable, yet I know she's trying to guess what I'm thinking. She's always been analytical, calm, intuitive. If I wanted, I could answer her questions, add some color to those gray lenses she seemed to be looking out of. She's brilliant, one of the smartest women I know, but I keep my silence, for I know that she won't understand. The truth will be spoken, but now isn't the time.

"I'll see you at lunch then," I sigh, walking away from the Native American woman.

"St—"

"Don't worry, I'll be there. I'm just going to the office for something," I reply, but that still doesn't ease the suspicion on Julia's face.

In the office, I sit at my desk, which is illuminated by a single desk lamp. It casts a dingy glow onto the mountains of papers, but even if it had been completely dark, I would have still found it. Beneath one stack, I remove the single letter Nina wrote, a long, long time ago to her son, Steve Fox.

Sighing, I read the letter again and again, like I had done countless times before.

Why doesn't she remember?

Fair-haired Siren

"Trust me sir, she is the best of the best."

Marco took a lethargic drag from his cigar, letting the smoke envelop his nostrils as he closed his eyes and listened to the report. Leonardo began to babble, and he lifted up a finger to silence him. All of these lies were giving him a headache.

"It is taking me three months—three fucking months—to get rid of this rat Mariano. I have gone through all of the best, Leonardo. Face it: nobody can kill him," he growled, crushing the end of the cigar onto an ashtray, "and now you expect me to believe that some woman can do the job better than all of my men? Bah!"

Leonardo, eyes cast downward, did not know how to reply. His boss was clearly displeased, and silence was often one of the safer means of avoiding death.

Marco smiled slowly to himself as he gazed at Leonardo; he liked the smell of fear, especially when it benefited himself, and Leonardo reeked of it. And anyway, the man was not a bad worker; in fact, Leonardo had been one of Marco's first recruits, and had proven himself the most loyal of all his subjects. Death would not come for him too soon.

But this was his last chance to prove himself, and if he blew it, Leonardo would be at Marco's mercy. The man knew this well and kept his silence before his boss.

Marco reclined onto the scarlet leather chair and folded his hands over his chest, eyes narrowed, as if inspecting a particularly loathsome insect.

Finally, he said softly, "You do know what it means if you fail, Leon."

"Yes. But you must trust me, Sir; this woman is unlike any other. I have seen her work," replied Leonardo shakily.

Gesturing reluctantly with one hand, Marco rumbled, "Show her to me then. Let us hope that you are right."

Exhaling softly in relief, Leonardo hastily made for the door and ushered the woman in. She entered silently, her expression a mask of cold stone, azure eyes steely and penetrating as she stared boldly into Marco's face. Long blonde hair, pulled back into a taut ponytail, cascaded down her back, a few stray bangs falling to caress a pale cheek. And although she was about average height, she walked proudly, fearlessly, as if a queen, elegant and confident. Her physique, slender, muscled, a great cat, revealed her strength; to Marco, who watched in wordless fascination, she was flawless, marble's cold perfection. Beautiful—perhaps too beautiful—and for a fleeting moment Marco thought it a shame that such loveliness should be wasted on such a ruthless, bloody profession. However, this only made her more appealing.

But the thought passed quickly as a new idea entered his mind: perhaps this woman could be much more. Perhaps that loveliness could be put to good use. Marco chuckled slightly at the notion, but Leonardo, knowing very well of his master's tainted thoughts, hastily shook his head, hoping Marco would heed the warning. For though attractive, this woman was anything but a tool for the carnal desires. She was fierce, a predator, bloodthirsty, merciless, the fair-haired siren, treacherous beauty laced with death's caresses as her angelic song lured men to their doom. And though he'd tried, Leonardo had failed to conceal his fear for her.

A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth, but quickly vanished.

"Well, well, well. Leon neglected to tell me how lovely of a woman he had found," Marco rumbled, rising from his seat.

Silence from the woman, but her icy gaze remained. Eyes narrowing, she stood motionless as the burly Italian man approached, his foul breath reaching her nose. Unable to control himself, Marco reached out and ran a long finger along the length of her jaw.

"Please do not touch me," the blonde woman stated coolly, teeth clenching in an effort to keep the rage in check.

Marco laughed heartily yet kept his hands to himself this time as he continued to examine her.

"Why are you here?" he asked after a moment.

"To finish the job your men failed to accomplish," she replied calmly, her eyes never leaving his.

"And why should I hire you?" Marco whispered with a smile, leaning in close.

"I am the best sir," she stated, and it was fact, not arrogance, that made her answer in this way. For she was, indeed, the best.

Marco contemplated this for a moment, then said, "All right; prove it. Kill him."

And the boss pointed a meaty finger at Leonardo.

They watched, Marco and the rest of his men, as before Leonardo could run or protest, Nina was behind him. In a single moment his head was within her grasp, and he emitted a slight gurgle, a choked sigh, as the life was twisted from him. Neck broken, Leonardo collapsed to the ground; so much for being the most loyal.

"Satisfied? Or do you prefer bullets," the woman stated emotionlessly.

Marco laughed. "Clean and concise! But that was easy. Any of my men could have done that."

"Yes. But can they kill the elusive Mariano Vega? You want him dead."

"Indeed."

To make a long story short, three hours later Mariano Vega was found dead in an alley, his stomach ripped open, his blood in the headlines of the front page of the newspaper the next morning.

Marco smiled at the woman before him, who still smelled faintly of Vega's blood.

"You're hired, Ms. Williams."

An Old Acquaintance

The same slop every Wednesday: mashed potatoes and gravy, some dry turkey sandwich, a paper cup of bruised grapes, and a carton of milk.

I take my tray and go to the usual spot, the table at the end of the cafeteria that sits beneath a small skylight. Bryan sits stooped over his plate of shit in the corner, away from the light; he hates sunlight. No wonder he's so goddamn pale. He only agreed to sit in this spot because I'd insisted on it, and as it turns out, we are the only two that sit at the table anyway. I guess all the others are too afraid.

"You're here early," I say, taking the seat across from him.

He grunts in response and shovels mashed potatoes into his mouth.

I begin to eat, not because the food's actually good, but because if I don't, the damn nurses won't get off my back. Back in my assassin days, I ate a lot more because my job required it; I needed a substantial amount of energy in order to hunt and kill people after all. But here, where the most exercise you get is pacing your little room over and over again, food isn't so big of a deal.

Taking a grape, round and plump and purple, I squeeze it between my two fingers, the sticky juice running down my hand. I imagine it would taste sweet. I contemplate whether I should eat it; I think about pomegranate seeds and how the crimson juices would stain my fingertips…

Wiping the juice off my hand with a napkin, I place the grapes onto Bryan's plate. He eats them without question, doesn't even look up from his tray. Persephone might have a chance at the light come spring, but Bryan's already lost in the dark, so why should one more grape matter?

Sipping my milk, I stare at the assortment of tattoos and scars etched into my companion's pale skin. He notices me looking and smiles that twisted smile of his, face contorted and eyes expressionless; his face isn't built for smiles. Flexing his biceps, he flashes me a new scar he'd earned fighting with one of his nurses—again. I raise my eyebrows in acknowledgement and pretend to be preoccupied with my food, forcing down a gulp of milk so that'd he stop with those creepy grins.

Bryan Fury is a real character. Aside from the fact that he's sadistic, has major anger problems, can't seem to ever die (I'm not joking when I say this. I saw a bullet fly into his brain and he was still walking upright) and is just plain scary to look at, he has the worst taste in women—for years he's been infatuated with Anna, and maybe still is. Also,we've both killed our fill of people, but he and I couldn't be more different.

"These grapes are good. You sure you don't want 'em?" he growls, and his gray eyes meet mine.

"I'm sure," I reply as I finish my turkey sandwich. "So…anything new happen?"

"Aside from the scar? Nope."

"Well, what'd he do this time? Try to touch you without rubber gloves?"

"No," he says, a grape disappearing into his mouth. "He looked at me funny. Had one of those lazy eye twitches or whatever. It bugged me."

"So you punched him."

"Yup."

"Oh."

There's Bryan for you. And people think I'm crazy.

We sit in silence for awhile, listening to the hum of conversations at the nearby tables, and watching as gray clouds crawl in to stifle the streaks of sun, darkening the skylight. The dark always finds a way in somehow. I am so sick of this hellhole.

"Hey, Nina," says Bryan.

"What."

"That kid over there keeps staring at you. And it doesn't look like he wants an autograph."

Sighing, I turn halfheartedly to where Bryan points, and notice a young Asian man about three tables away hunched over, eyes narrowed and filled with utter hatred; hm, another one to add to my steadily growing fan club. His hair is spiky, shoulders broad…

"He looks familiar," I murmur to myself.

"He's new," says Bryan, "was put into the cell next to mine a couple days ago. I heard he went nutso after his little girlfriend was slashed or whatever. The poor bastard never says a word."

Something in my mind clicks, whirs. Flashes of images, lights, of calliope music, and a long white dress stained with red…the silver tears on his face as he held her in his arms. The pieces are there, but I can't make out the entire picture. It hurts a little, and I wince as Bryan continues to talk mindlessly.

"…Heihachi's grandson, you know, the guy who kidnapped you and…"

There. The final piece. And the memory bursts forth. I remember him now, and I begin to laugh softly as Jin Kazama rises from his seat and makes his way towards my table.

"Well Bryan, something interesting is going to happen after all," I say to my friend, and stand up from my chair.