Will and Fate
By Jeremy

Prologue

June 1981

Jonathan Storm was dying. He knew it, his brother knew it and his sister-in-law knew it. It had taken all of his remaining strength to crawl and stagger to his brother's house. It was a wonder he made it at all: his ribs were pretty much caved in, his head was blue, bloody, and deformed by horrid bruises, and one could only guess how many fractures and contusions were wound about his arms and legs. As it was, he had collapsed on the front porch, the thudding of his body hitting the floor alerting the occupants of the house. And now, as the evening deepened into night, he was feeling his strength giving way to what lay beyond, on the other side. Yet his right eye, the one still whole, still burned with vitality but also with something else....eagerness.

"I'm...cough....sorry, Matt." he told his older brother, who was sitting, grieving and angry, at his brother's side. "I wish it...hack...cough...it could have gone otherwise."

Mattew half-growled, his grief apparent. "You stupid moron! Why didn't you let me help you? We could have taken them! Hell, I could have taken them! Why, dammit, WHY!?" The rebuke didn't have much strength, as the elder of the Storm brothers choked repeatedly. His wife, seated nearby, didn't say a word, just wept silently. Jonathan started to shake his head, but the pain forced him to lie still.

Instead he said. "You know why. If you hadn't, you never would've let me take my shot at those monsters. I....cough, cough...I had to do it...for...hack...f-for her." His good eye started to glaze. "M-M-Matt!"

"Yeah?"

"My k-k-kid...cough...you'll t-take care o-of...him, huh?" His voice was failing, his vision started to dim. Mattew's tears, which he had been desperately trying to hold, were now loose. He didn't notice them, just started to clutch at his brother's forearm, afraid to let him go.

"You know that. We'll take him with us, won't we love?." he choked. He asked the last statement to his wife, but didn't notice her nod, keeping his gaze on the dying man before him.

Jonathan smiled. "Knew that...train him good, you know...he's not like me....h-he's got Amelia's....cough....s-s-skill...inside...t-t-tell him...." And then the whisper that was Jonathan's voice died, his body shook one last time.

And then...he was gone.

"Oh, no." wept Samantha, Mattew's wife. Her husband only looked at his brother's still face, still clutching the rapidly cooling forearm.

"I will, you damned softie." he sobbed. Then his tear-streaked face took on a most determined mien. "That and more." he vowed.

* * * * *
Two Hours later...

This can't be happening. Its a nightmare, its got to be! shrieked Samantha mentally as the last police car rolled out of the alley. She couldn't take it. Ever since she had come to know the proud but good-intentioned Mattew Storm, she'd also known the shy and kind Jonathan. The younger man had welcomed her with open arms, as had his wife. When she'd first met the other couple, she'd been surprised that such an impressive and aggressive woman like Amelia Wang had come to fall in love with such a timid and reserved - althought undeniably good-looking - man. Watching them together was like watching fire and ice coexist. But, as she became part of the family, she came to understand the situation better. Unlike Mattew, who followed the family tradition of training and street fighting in earnest, Jonathan was less skilled and reluctant in battle. But behind this reluctance was a young man who was sure of himself and his limits, as well as an undying optimism that he could use to lift up the spirits of all near him. After seeing these qualities, Samantha understood that Amelia loved her husband because of this honest way he saw himself. Just like she came to love Mattew for his dry sense of humor and his hidden - but ever-present - gentleness.

But the happiness they all enjoyed - including the birth of a boy to each couple - came crashing down two years before. Returning from some evening shopping, Amelia was attacked by a small gang of four hoodlums. Having given birth only one month beforehand, she was too weak to defend herself as she knew how, and was mugged, severely beaten and raped consecutively. Her weakened body was unable to take the strain of the punishment, and she died one week later at the hospital.

And just a few hours ago, her husband had suffered the same final fate after giving in to the burning desire of revenge.

And now...

Samantha felt as if she'd been struck by lightning, as she remembered the look on Mattew's face when his brother died. She had been seeing it on Jonathan's for the past two years. Forgetting to close the door, she ran up the stairs and to the door of the bedroom she and Mattew shared. He was there all right. He was now wearing black sport pants and a black t-shirt, and had put black fighting gloves. It was an outfit he hadn't worn for four years, ever since he had officially put street fights behind when he married her. She immediately knew what was up.

"No." she said. Mattew turned to face her, flexing his hands, warming up to what he was about to do. His face was hard and unreadable.

"I can't fully grieve for him while those guys are still around." was all he said. He moved to the door. Samantha blocked it defiantly. His tall, muscular frame loomed over her, but she certainly wasn't going to let details like greater height, bulk, and strength change her mind. Mattew saw this and sighed. "Just let me pass, love. You know that you can't stop me. You can force me to stay tonight, but not always."

She crossed her arms over her chest, her grieving face scowling. "No. You're not getting beat up for him. I don't want and you know he wouldn't either."

"Yeah. I do know that. I also know John never went down before giving a pretty good account of himself. Those fiends are probably pretty beat up, no match for me. I probably won't break a sweat." His voice became colder. "Now let me pass." she didn't budge. "Fine, then." His arm suddenly came up and struck her in the solar plexus. It was a very restrained shot: just enought to make her step back, not hurting her at all. He moved toward the stairs, determined and harsh. Samantha shivered. She never in all their time together seen him so cold, even in a fight.

"What about your parents? And Tommy and Jeremy?" she asked, desperate.

Mattew stopped at the middle of the stairs and half-turned. "They're all at father's house, right? Talk to father and tell him the news. Tell him I'm finishing John's business. He'll understand." He resumed to ward the front door. Samantha knew then that she had no argument that could make him stop, so she shouted "Don't you dare come here bruised, or you'll be sleeping on the couch for the next three years!"

He stopped. Turned. Looked up at her. And smiled grimly, his face still cold.

"Deal." he said.

Then he was gone.

* * * * *

One hour later...

Never let anger cloud your judgement. Let your mind be clear. Focus on the task and not on the reason for the task. Let your mind be clear. See behind the hate and the violence. Let your mind be clear.

This little prayer/speech, given by Robert Storm to his two sons years ago, kept his oldest from charging in when, slinking about near what he knew was on of the gang's hideout, he heard voices and groans that belonged to - he had few doubts - the guys he was looking for. His fists clenched in anticipation. He could do nothing about the pain he felt, couldn't bring his brother - or Amelia - back, but he could do this. Something at the back of his head told him that this felt good, to be back on the street, looking for a fight, just like when he was younger. He pushed it away. He was looking for a fight, true, but not for fun or to better himself. He came because, simply, he wanted to hurt those guys. Badly.

The voices came from inside a warehouse, he opened the door and saw four guys, rather built up - and rather bruised - talking. Waiting, he listened to them for a moment.

"Told ya that guy was trouble!"

"Yeah, but we fix'him good. Won't be coming back, I be sure."

"Little punk, barging in like that. What'd we do da him?"

"Gee, dunno. Maybe we messed up someone he knew. He sure messed us up."

"Won't be messing with anyone 'gain, I be sure."

Hoarse laughter eachoed throught the warehouse. It stopped as the four noticed that an uninvited guest had made an appearance on them. Mattew was standing less than five meters from the group, his fists clenched, his face a study of cold and contained fury. One of the ruffians sized him up. That particular bandit was large, larger than Mattew, and was less beaten up than the others. He stepped toward the black-clothed man.

"Wa, look here. Another punk, I be sure!" he said. "What ya want, punk?"

No answer.

"Maybe the guy's deaf!" laughed one of the four. The biggest looked at Mattew. "That right punk?"

No answer. Just cold, furious silence.

The bandits were getting worried, and more than little angry. The biggest finally stepped decicively towards Mattew. "Look, punk, you either gonna say somethin', or else."

"Else." said Mattew. And before the big man could react, he launched himself into the air. Tapping into his chi, he jumped nearly ten feet, flipped gracefully, pointed one of his feet toward the bewildered giant and uttered "Eagle Strike!" He immediately sped down and delivered a ramming kick amplified by his focused chi. The man received square in the chest, went flying backward. He was uncouncious long before he hit the floor. Mattew, landing easily, assumed a fighting stance and charged the remaining bandits.

Unlike Jonathan, he was exceptionally gifted as a fighter. Unlike Jonathan, he was able to fully utilize the techniques of their father. Unlike Jonathan, he didn't believe in holding back. Thus, the three already weakened bandits found themselves in a definite no-win situation.

One attempted to punch him. He blocked, caught the arm, and punched the guy in the throat with all of his strength. The guy went down, gagging, retching, his breathing just about cut off.

The two others had more style and better defenses. One attacked while the other tried to catch Mattew unaware. That being the oldest trick in the book, the former street fighter was unimpressed. He finally caught one with a roundhouse kick followed by a vicious uppercut. The guy staggered, dazed but not out. Fighing off the other hoodlum, Mattew finished him a drop-kick to the side of the neck. The guy dropped like a stone.

With three down, the other was child's play. A few well-placed punches, and he was out cold. Looking around, he saw that the man who had been hit in the throat had recovered. Mattew walked up to him. Scowling with fury, he picked the man up and banged him against the wall. Still dazed, the man could do nothing else but whimper.

"Now you listen," hissed Mattew furiously. "The only reason you won't die tonight is because the guy you beat up - my brother - wouldn't want me to become a murderer. So I'l let you go this time." He tightened his hold on the gasping hoodlum. "But I want you out of this region. If I ever, EVER hear about you again, I'll come after you. And no one will save you then. Understand?" The bandit just bobbed his head wildly. Mattew dropped him, looking down at him with hatred and disgust. "And I want you out of town tomorrow." He then left the warehouse feeling filthy but glad to have been able to hold on to his family's principles.

Needless to say, he never heard about that gang again.

* * * * *

Four days later...

The funeral had been simple, with only the immediate family and a few close friends attending. It had been hard, letting go of this kind man. Everyone had cried, even other fighters that had come. After all, if Jonathan wasn't the best of fighters, he was certainly the most liked, and had made himself a reputation by it.

The only ones not affected by the funeral was Thomas and Jeremy, the sons of the brothers. Being three and two years old respectively, the little boys had no real idea what was happening, didn't know Jonathan wasn't coming back. No, they were up and around, chasing each other and forgetting, in that way that children have, that this was supposed to be a serious moment. Many of their parents and other guests envied them for that. Mattew and their grand-father were among those.

The elder man, stooped by age but retaining the strength of his past, looked at Jeremy with a sad look. Here was a child who would never know his parents, who would never truly understand what had happened to drive his father to forfeit his own life and abandon his son. Robert was feeling too old for these tragedies, far too old. If only Sophie and he had died before this, burying one of their sons.

Fighters thought that nothing could outrank the mental shock of a street fight. What fools. Robert had long known there was far worse than that. He had seen it when his own parents died, when Amelia died and, worst to him, when Jonathan died.

He turned to his other son, started to talk, but stopped. Oh please, God. he thought frantically in his grief. Don't let me live to bury him too. I couldn't bear it! Sophie couldn't bear it! I would have preferred to die a thousand times than go through this day.

Mattew felt his father's gaze and looked at him. "How is mother?" he asked.

"She lives." said Robert simply, not wishing to say more. Nor did he need to; His tone told the story on how hard it was to the elder woman. "You will take Jeremy."

"It goes without saying." stated the younger man. "And, as John asked, I'll train him too."

Robert looked at his son in surprised. "He asked that?" he said incredulously.

Mattew nodded, passing an hand throught his raven-black hair. "He said he had Amelia's ability. How he could tell, beats me completely."

"Jonathan was seldom wrong when he gauged people." remarked Robert sadly.

"But is he right, this time?"

Robert looked at his grandsons. Tommy was playing tag with Jeremy and the other children. He looked at little Jeremy. So smiling, so kind. So like his father already. Was there truly an equivalent of Amelia beneath this facade?

"You'll find out soon enough." said the eldest Storm.

_______________________________________________________________________
All right! Before anyone starts throwing punches, I want to assure everyone that this fic is indeed about Street Fighter. Although they won't be present in the beginning, some of the fighters we all know will appear and some will become incredibly important (enough said! :) )

I'd say the synopsis would go something like that: Growing up as a street fighter...

Let all tell me what they think at ledar10@hotmail.com

Thank you!