This one is about Nina. I think I've decided that "Journeys of the Lonely" will be a series of one-shots dedicated to exploring the various ways that the Tekken characters experience and cope with loneliness.

Although I'm wary of our society's tendency to romanticize certain kinds of villainy, I do think that Nina is interesting. I would intensely dislike her as a person, but as a character, she has a lot of intrigue to offer. What I find most compelling is the fact that she acts so far beyond her age, which is the focus of this one-shot.

By the way, this takes place in England between the first and second tournaments.

I own nothing, of course. That's why I'm writing fan fiction instead of drafting the next Tekken script.

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The moment our lips met, I knew that I had already killed far more people than you had ever kissed. You were so woefully inexperienced that I thanked whatever god may exist that my mission didn't require sleeping with you; it would be hard to pretend that I was turned on by the way you ineptly and shyly tried to slip your tongue between my lips. Instead, I simply giggled and pulled back. "Henry, somebody will see!" I exclaimed.

"I don't care. I'm so happy that I would endure all the embarrassment in the world for you," you responded, leaning in for another slobbery exchange.

But I am not willing to endure the embarrassment, so that's that, I thought to myself. Besides, the fewer witnesses, the better. Searching for a way to discourage you, I said, "Well, anyway, we don't want to be late for dinner. I've heard your father isn't very tolerant of tardiness." Or jewelry thieves. Or the IRA. Or showing his face to anyone with whom he doesn't do business, which is why I need you to take me to your heavily guarded and secured house, Henry.

"Oh, all right," you gave in reluctantly, then waggled your unkempt eyebrows at me. "But promise me that we'll resume this as soon as possible."

I forced a coy blush to color my cheeks. "Of course. I promise."

Taking my hand, you led me across the Oxford University campus so that we could find your car. As we passed the college students milling about, studying, talking, laughing, and nibbling on pastries, it occurred to me yet again how difficult it was for me to imagine living as they did. We were roughly the same age - early twenties - and these people were my generational peers. I was expected to act as silly as the other women there, focused first on finding a man to marry and second on studying for one of the few careers that were socially acceptable for women to pursue. I looked the part, dressed in a modest button-up blouse tucked into a sensible skirt and my bangs pinned to the back of my head with a plain hair clip. I also acted the part, batting my eyelashes at all the right moments and speaking with simple language so as not to give away my real intelligence and personality. Blending in was second nature to me by now. But I couldn't have possibly felt more apart from these people if I'd tried. Most of them had probably never even considered slicing another person's throat, whereas my own body count already numbered in the dozens.

As we stepped off the campus, you turned to beam at me, thrilled about the upcoming dinner. I smiled sweetly, marveling at how quick and easy it was to make you fall in love with my pretty face. You'd never brought a girl home before and had no capacity to even suspect that you were making a grave mistake by taking me with you. I almost laughed as you opened the passenger door of your car and gallantly bowed to let me inside. What must it be like to live without feeling the need to discern the ulterior motives and potential danger posed by everyone around you? What must it be like for your primary concern to be marriage, university graduation, and picking the perfect little cottage in which to raise a hoard of ankle-biters?

Did I envy the lives of the innocent? I considered that for a moment. No, not really. Perhaps it was just because this was the only lifestyle I had ever known, or maybe I was genuinely disinterested and bored by the idea of an ordinary life, but I felt content with being an assassin. It was absurd to consider anything else. Besides, the pay was better than what most of these fools could fathom.

Within minutes, we arrived at the huge iron gates leading to the long driveway of your father's mansion. The guards, of course, recognized you immediately and swung the gates open so that you could drive through. They tipped their hats with amused smirks toward me as we passed. I smiled when I realized that my heart wasn't pounding; I was like a seasoned performer who had grown so accustomed to the routine that stage fright was no longer an issue. You thought that I was smiling at you, and I grinned wider so that you would think you were right.

I watched in fascination as the guards disabled various security equipment to let us into the mansion. Once I was finished there, I would study all that new technology so that I could understand how to infiltrate a place like that in the future. After all, it would be much faster and far less disgusting than winning someone over so that I could get inside, like I had to do this time.

The display of wealth was incredible. Black and white checkered floors, polished marble columns, ornately carved staircases, painted ceiling and walls, gold-lacquered doorknobs and trim - I couldn't help but compare it to the slums back home in Ireland, where the IRA gathered support from the disillusioned poor to rebel against English rule. My father had been one of them, and the path he chose determined mine. You, Henry, son of a prominent and distinguished parliament representative, had been too privileged to wonder what it must have been like for the IRA's members to be desperate enough for funding to try and steal your father's jewelry and then be executed dishonorably in front of their families for it. You'd been too privileged to consider that someone might be willing to pay a very handsome sum to get revenge. You'd been too privileged to think that the hand you were holding as you led me toward your lavishly decorated dining room was the very hand that would take away everything you'd known and loved.

Your parents welcomed me warmly, your mother even kissing me on each cheek as she gushed about how I was the first girl you'd ever brought home. I responded with appropriate humility, complimenting the decor and briefly describing how much I appreciated your gentlemanly ways.

Once we finally sat down and began the first course, I mentally noted the guards positioned at every corner of the dining hall and on both sides of the doorway. Then I gently but deftly took control of the conversation.

"Mr. Brookfield," I said with an air of excited interest, "isn't it right that you've been working in the Parliament for more than twenty years now?"

"Why, yes, it is!" your father affirmed, all too eager to boast of his accomplishments. "Are you interested in politics, my dear?"

"Very." That was the first true statement I'd made all day.

"Tell me what your leanings are," your father said, making enthusiastic beckoning gestures. "No need to worry if your opinions differ from mine. I love a lively debate."

"Oh, no politics at the table, my love," your mother broke in with a playful frown. "The food would get cold by the time you're finished."

"And you, Mrs. Brookfield," I turned my attention to her. "Is it true that you've been supportive of all your husband's ideas, and that you even initiated some of them yourself?"

She grinned brightly. "That's right. How well informed you are."

I laced my fingers together and rested my chin in my hands as I looked at her. "I do so admire powerful women. We still don't get the appreciation we deserve in this society."

"I absolutely agree," your mother nodded. "In fact, I - "

"So does that also mean that you encouraged your husband's execution of the IRA jewel thieves?" I queried, blinking demurely.

Right away, the sound of forks moving against plates stopped.

"Who told you about that, my dear?" your father asked.

"Please, Mrs. Brookfield," I kept my gaze trained on your mother. "I want to know."

Silence.

You cleared your throat. "They were merely thieves, darling," you say with an anxious chuckle. "Hardly anything to cry over."

"I don't cry, Henry," I responded with a mirthless smile.

I think that was when the atmosphere in the room really changed. The guards were starting to look aware of what was happening, so I had to move quickly.

Turning back to your mother, I asked again, "Mrs. Brookfield, were you involved in that execution? Please tell me."

Flustered, she started several different sentences before finally blurting, "W-Well, Henry was right. We don't tolerate IRA scum or thieves in our home, let alone both at once. Of course I supported the executions. Now how do you - "

With a disappointed sigh, I whipped out the gun that I had kept hidden under my skirt. First, I took out each of the guards in rapid succession - too easy; the fools' uniforms were more for decoration than defense - before any of you had time to scream. Just as your father stood up from the table and turned to run, I shot him in the neck. When he fell, gurgling, I pointed my weapon at your mother. She threw her hands up, trembling.

"Like I said, I do so admire powerful women," I remarked. "But my orders were to kill you as well if you were involved. Regards to you from the IRA scum, Mrs. Brookfield."

With that, I ended her life with a bullet in her brain.

As she slumped in her seat, I glanced toward the door. More guards were bursting inside. After only a couple of well-aimed shots, I ran out of bullets and had no time to load more. I charged toward the rest of them, employing my Aikido to quickly and painlessly kill them, one by one. Child's play. They were untrained.

Then I turned to you, hesitating. My client hadn't told me to kill you. Despite my dislike toward you - and your sloppy kisses - I had no inclination to end your life unless it was absolutely necessary. I watched as you slowly slid a carving knife from the dining table and held it incompetently in your hand, your reddened face stained with tears, your pants soaked with urine, and your body shaking almost violently.

"Put it down, Henry," I commanded you calmly. "You have no hope of beating me with that, and I'd rather leave you alive."

"You killed my family," you whispered tremulously, taking one unsteady step toward me.

"They were murderers content to live lavishly on the backs of those below them," I responded. "But you can be different. You can come with me."

You took three more steps toward me, then two at once because you stumbled.

"You killed my family!" you gasped, crying out in agony as you lifted the knife above my head.

I nodded. "Very well, Henry. I'll help you."

All it took was a quick headlock to snap your neck and put you out of your misery.

For a while, I scrutinized your body on the floor. We were the same age. In another life, we might have been preparing for graduation at the same time. Perhaps we would have been friends.

But looking at your mangled body, stinking of urine while the stench of blood rose around me, I couldn't envy your innocent life.

After I spent some time taking notes on the security system, I found your keys and drove your car away from the scene so that I could burn it. I parked it in a secluded area, then walked to a nearby petrol station to grab some fuel with which to douse it. While I searched for it on the shelves, a group of Oxford students entered, laughing about something that was probably inane. When they spotted me, they called out to me.

"You're Henry's girlfriend, right?" one of them asked.

Pasting a friendly smile on my lips, I answered, "Yes, that's right."

"Where is he? Is he with you?"

I shook my head. "He went home for the night. He was tired."

"Well, his loss, then," another of them said. "Would you like to come sing some karaoke with us?"

I paused. Actually, I had always liked karaoke. Perhaps in another life, I might have hoped to become a singer. Perhaps in another life, I would joined them.

But this was my life. It had been my life since I was a child. By the time other girls in my peer group at school had discovered blood in their underwear, I had already shed the blood of four people thrice my age. When we graduated high school, they were wondering whether or not they would get jobs, go to college, or simply marry their sweethearts and have children, while I was already winning prestigious contracts from wealthy clients. They debated about morality in their quaint little book clubs while I accepted employment with little discretion and practically no sleep lost. That night, I had just murdered a whole family and their guards, and I was about to destroy your car. Their only concern was putting enough petrol in their car to get to the bar. Even if I had the time, I probably wouldn't have gone with them.

With another smile, I shook my head again. "No, thanks. Got lots to do tonight."

They shrugged and paid for their items. I waited for them to leave the store before buying a container of fuel with cash, careful to keep my face turned away from the cameras. As I watched them drive away, so carefree, something like loneliness suddenly pricked my chest. But it soon subsided.

I think of you sometimes, Henry - mostly on the anniversary of the day I ruined your life and then took it from you. I don't know why. Perhaps it had simply hit me that night how different I was, and it struck me as... strange to consider.

Still, I wouldn't change it.

I could not envy your innocent life, Henry. But I sometimes wish you could have lived it in peace.