Bondage
by Nyohah

11
Involuntary Reversion
Letter to Yuan Li

There aren't many people left in this tournament anymore, only Kung Lao and Raiden, who already have two strikes, Sub-Zero, who has one, and Liu Kang and I. We're both undefeated, and I have a feeling it's planned to stay that way until everyone else is out.

Kung Lao beat Scorpion in a fairly close fight, the same with Raiden's victory over Kitana. Liu Kang beat Sub-Zero, and I believe he, as I, was quite impressed with his skill. That was a fight many would pay to watch.

I fought Baraka in the arena, in front of everyone and killed him, in probably a little over-elaborate way. Good riddance. Now if I could only get rid of that clone...

At this time, it is necessary to explain how I went from being part of Hong Kong's legendary super heroines, the Heroic Trio, to once again being the pawn of evil. I'm still not exactly sure what happened, but it goes something like this.

We were together for two months, myself, Tung, and Number Seven—or Chat, as I guess I should call her. That's what she named herself, other than Thief Catcher. Not a lot of imagination there, changing her named from Number Seven, in any language, to Seven in Cantonese.

For about a week I felt an amazing sense of relief, like I was suddenly cleansed of all evil. It didn't last very long. After that short period was up, I sensed a pressure coming back. It really wasn't the same kind I'd felt for so many years of bondage to the Master. It was worse.

I felt as if something had grabbed onto my soul and was playing tug of war against my will. My mind began to deteriorate, much like the Alzheimer's disease found in the elderly.

My health deteriorated also. This may have been partly due to the fact that I spent more than ten years in an atmosphere of concentrated methane. It may also have been contributed to by the amount I used the invisible robe.

But most of all, it seemed connected with the pulling I felt on my soul.

I was never well. I almost always felt cold and tired, only wanting to sleep, but when I did, I had the most horrible nightmares. They were nothing to do with my past, as they'd always been before. These were filled with demonic whispering, and grotesque rituals. It was nearly impossible to keep myself from screaming each night, even more so than it had been when I remembered falling. It was almost as though they were trying to terrify me into coming back, if only to make it stop...

I didn't tell my sister or Chat. They didn't know what was happening. Maybe if they had, they could have done something about it, or at least identified the problem. Tung was an expert on the ways of demons, the wise man having taught her all that he knew.

Two months after we had defeated the Master and freed ourselves, we helped the police on yet another case—the ninth in that period. I had far too much trouble forcing myself out of bed and preparing to fight. We were late because of me, and I really hadn't had much to do, only put on a black jumpsuit, boots, and gloves, tie back my hair and get out my new weapons. They were like Tung's blade, but about half the length, and I had two.

It was a terrorist attack, as usual. They had hostages, as usual. They were killing people until they got their way, as usual. The only thing unique about this job was the fact that I could barely stand.

I won't go into much detail on our struggle, mainly because I cannot remember it. I do know that many people died because of my sluggishness. Many more than what should have. We won, eventually, but at great costs.

When we returned, I immediately collapsed in my bed. My sister was finally alarmed at my behavior.

"Ching! What's wrong? Please tell me!" She kneeled by my bed, pleading. I had a vague sense of déjà vu, but I could not concentrate on why I felt this way. I couldn't even manage to focus on my sister's round face. I tried to tell her what was happening, but I could not speak. I could make noises, but I could not remember how to form words.

The world went black as my sister tried to revive me.

I'd felt this before.

There was the pain I'd felt just before I blacked out, but dulled. I felt violated, and every last bit of my sense of freedom had vanished. Had I died? Again?

Apparently so, as a voice said, "Welcome back to the land of the living." The sound was so familiar, charismatic and dignified, yet with a dark undertone. But I could not put my finger on who this was.

Whoever the man was who had spoken, he had spent considerably more power resurrecting me; the pain was not as severe, my muscles felt not in the least bit stiff, and the shoulder injury I'd suffered in my last fight was nowhere to be found.

I slowly opened my eyes, taking in the demonic runes of the limestone-tiled ceilings above me, the grotesque etchings of evil rituals and sacrifices.

I sat up on the stone slab I had been lying on, partly so I didn't have to look at the pictures on the ceiling. I drew my knees up to the bikini top I wore and wrapped my arms around them in a fetal position. There were silver cuffs on my wrists holding in place two pieces of cloth, rather like wings, that connected into a cape behind me, like some sort of vampiress. There were also silver bands on my ankles, showing out the sides of my very high-slit skirt. Everything was made out of a deep violet silk.

I directed my gaze up to the man standing in front of me. He was short, with dark black hair in a traditional Chinese braid underneath a plain black skullcap. He had a yellow patterned Chinese-style top, complete with frog buttons over black pants, and had the top also been black, it would have reminded me very much of a certain, oft-childish young scientist's favored fighting attire.

The image I watched speak to me brought no connection in my mind with the voice I heard, nothing to help me piece together this annoying little enigma. I had never seen this man before in my life.

"You don't seem happy to see me in the least, Mileena."

Finally, everything fit together. Shang Tsung had somehow become about four hundred years younger.

"My name," I croaked, my throat having dried out, apparently during the resurrection process, and not moistened again, "is Ching."

"Not anymore, it isn't," he said matter-of-factly. "You see, you're mine now. If the Master allowed you to think of yourself as Ching, so be it. Unfortunately, he has died. And so have you, in his service, no doubt, until the last."

I couldn't believe it. He didn't know I was the one who had actually destroyed the evil thing's mind? This was too good to be true.

"And he promised me some years ago," the sorcerer continued, "that when either he or you died, I had the right to resurrect you and you would be mine."

"What if he died and I didn't?" I asked.

"Well, that didn't happen, but if it had, then you would have been brought to me one way or another, even if it meant your death." Somehow, he hadn't noticed that was exactly what happened. But that was not all. "And being the opportunist that I am, I made sure that I could have you any way I wanted you. So you're Mileena. And you will be my wife."

My jaw nearly hit the floor. I tried to protest, my bottom lip quivering, but nothing came out, such was my shock.

"Not now, of course, not until after the tournament we're arranging. But eventually."

I slipped off the table, the limestone cool on my bare feet. The entire room looked exactly like the ceiling and it was really starting to disturb me.

"I really need to get back to Shao Kahn. Follow me," Tsung beckoned, "and I'll tell you everything you need to know while I show you around." I obeyed, stepping around a particularly evil looking symbol carved in the floor, the jagged looking edges of the stone not the only reason I wanted to avoid it. I fell into step with him, a few strides behind, as I always had with the Master. As we reached the door he looked back at me and admonished, "No, no, no, you may walk even with me. I do not care."

We left the room, and I briefly shuddered at a specific set of demon runes on the door, labeling its purpose. They were exactly as I'd seen many times in my sleep, and these dreams were not pleasant.

"This is Outworld," Tsung said, spreading his arms, applying his words to everything. "It's the base for Shao Kahn and me. I had to come here after my island was demolished. I lost Mortal Kombat to that miserable little cretin Liu Kang and for that reason he must die. My island was destroyed and I was killed. Your Master, also mine, had to quickly recreate the nexus point before Outworld fell apart, but he gave it to the Shokans instead of me," he gritted his teeth, nearly growling, then composed himself to continue.

"He resurrected me, and thankfully, gave me back my youth, and handed me over to Shao Kahn. Of course, Kahn then wanted to kill me very slowly and painfully. Somehow he'd managed to get a group of scarab beetles from Egypt, you know the kind that feed on flesh, and was going to have them eat me alive. I have to admit, he does have contacts...

"But I managed to convince him that we could arrange another tournament, with such a plan that even if we lost the tournament, we would still be helped along in our quest. And if we won? All the better, as we'd have rid ourselves of nearly every person who could possibly stop us, though, yes, we would still have to win nine more. That, unfortunately, I could not change.

"He liked my plan and spared my life, and voila, here we are." He pointed to a huge, carved, wooden door. "This is the throne room, where we'll meet Shao Kahn in a few minutes, but first I'd like to introduce you to Kitana and Jade." We continued a few steps until we came to a small training room.

Two women were sparring. They looked almost identical at first glimpse, even seeming to fight with mainly the same style. They were wearing plainly designed fighting uniforms, the traditional pants, and sporting another Chinese-style top, though theirs were overlapped, left over right, and fastened near the right shoulder. The woman with lighter skin and darker hair wore a deep blue uniform, and the one with browner hair and bronze skin, dark green.

Both appeared to be using a form of Wing Chun, using their opponent's momentum to make up for their disadvantage in size, out of habit, as it did not matter with this match. Closer observation revealed that the green-clad fighter was faster, possibly even as fast as I, though unlike me, she moved completely smoothly, keeping to the ground and circling, pulling her opponent off balance before striking them in a graceful movement, much as if dancing. I use my speed to dart in and out, rarely using any kind of holds, often jumping, putting more of a snap into my movements than she. This possibly makes my strikes more powerful, though she evades more than I, and it is quite hard to keep track of her, never stopping, never standing still.

The other fought also with Wing Chun, but more unusual about her, was the mix that she added to it, Karate or something similar, using more punches than kicks, again the opposite of I, and I do say I have never seen a woman punch more powerfully than this one.

I was astounded to see the complete lack of softened punches, and light contact strikes. Instead these two held back no power, striking each other fiercely, as though enemies, and there seemed to be no holding back, besides the seeming unspoken rule that neither attacked the face, protecting their quite remarkable beauty.

I watched the woman in green catch the blue fighter's next punch, stepping out of the intended path. She kept hold of her wrist and in a flash of amazingly quick movements, as though only habit, she twisted the other's arm and the woman in blue hit the ground in some sort of hold, seeming to be hybrid between several different styles and techniques.

They stood, respectfully bowing to each other before approaching us. Their resemblance was just as uncanny up close, but even more eerily, I resembled them far too much. I'm not sure why we look so much alike. No one has ever explained it to me. It still bothers me, but I've learned to live with it.

"The one in blue," commented Tsung, "is Princess Kitana, Shao Kahn's daughter. And Jade, of course, is in green. Girls," he addressed the others, "this is Mileena, the third of your group. Get to know her; you're going to work with her a lot. But later. First we must talk to Kahn."

We followed the blood-red carpet into a very large throne room. All the demonic symbols, all the decorations, even the structure of the room, directed your attention to one very wicked looking throne. On the seat sat a giant creature, resembling a man but far larger. His tawny skin was grotesquely distorted by the amount of lean muscle on his body. He wore a death's head mask on his face beneath a crown-like helmet. Spiked pads rested on his shoulders, as well as his knees above his shin guards, the tops of his hands, and around his thick wrists. Around his waist he wore a leather loincloth with a skull-head buckle, and the same image was repeated on the junction of the straps he wore around his chest in an x.

Shang Tsung nodded his head in a formal greeting. "My Lady Mileena," he said, "Your Emperor Shao Kahn."

I knelt before the giant figure, head bowed to the ground in a position of respect.

"Warrioress Mileena," began the emperor, "I assume you have heard of Mortal Kombat?"

"Yes, sir, if it is indeed the tournament that the fate of the Earth Realm depends on, originally conceived by Shang Tsung."

"It is, and you are to defend your Masters in the next tournament, held in a few months."

"Pardon me, your Highness, but didn't Mortal Kombat already occur for this generation?"

"Yes, but the worm of a being, Tsung, was defeated. But by taking the prisoners Lieutenant Sonya Blade and her enemy Kano, we have assured that our enemies will come to Outworld in an attempt to rescue her. But we have tied her freedom to a tournament, and therefore, Mortal Kombat will be fought again."

Not much happened at the meeting, just a bunch of formalities, and I was shown my room. It was huge. Seriously. Several families could probably live here. Who knows how many people could sleep in my bed (which, by the way, is filled with feathers and the sheets are silk), without even touching?

The floors are of the smoothest dark red wood, with rugs strewn about, some of which are probably priceless.

I wandered about my room, noticing the stocked closet out of the corner of my eye. I was pleased to find my own private training area, complete with a hanging bag and as much floor space as one could possibly need (unless of course they were trying to perform a marching band show in my room) (see how you've corrupted me!). And the bathroom was huge. You could swim laps in my tub. Honestly. Now they wouldn't be regulation length, but still.

I noticed a large mirror covering one wall, closet and the mirror. Nice, I thought, examining the perfect, flawless image given off by the ceiling-to-floor, scratch-less surface.

All in all, the place was beginning to make me feel even smaller than I already was. I sat on my bed, sinking into the consuming softness and wondering if it was possible to drown in a feather bed. Then, I remembered a little fact I'd learned about mirrors, and considering the attitude of my host thus far, I decided to experiment.

I scrutinized the huge mirror again, trying to think of its position and the correlation of the rooms around. I touched the tip of my finger up against the glass. It appeared to touch the tip of the reflection's finger. I made a mental note to avoid the mirror and sighed as I collapsed back into the bed.

I had barely had time for my muscles to relax before a light knock echoed from the door. I shuffled over to the door, dead-tired, nearly tripping over a fringed rug.

The woman who stood outside my door was nearly my reflection, only slightly taller and larger in build, and still wearing her blue fighting uniform. Kitana, was it?

"I just thought I'd see how you were doing, Mileena," she explained. I invited her in, and we sat cross-legged on my bed like two teenage girls at a sleepover. She looked around nervously for a few seconds, then glanced over at the mirror. "The mirror is..." she stumbled over the next word.

"Yeah, I know, it's a one-way. Shang Tsung..." I growled.

"And that's not all. I don't suppose you've taken a look at our uniforms yet."

"Aren't you wearing a uniform?"

"Well...no." She walked into my closet and pulled out a hangar. It held a skimpy purplish-pink leotard, long gloves, high boots, a headband and a mask. I stared in shock.

"How are we supposed to fight in that?"

"Very carefully." She hung it back in the closet. "Well, if you ever need anything, you can see me or Jade. In all reality our rooms aren't very far, in a triangular formation, separated by the long meeting hall for the Masters, where the mirrors lead in case you're wondering. You have to walk a long way, as the halls continue for a long time in each direction without an intersection. But if it's anything urgent, you can bang on the wall," she pointed right, "Over there for me, the other side for Jade." She walked back to the door. "I really ought to be going now."

"Thanks."

"Sure, no problem."

And so I became one of the silent three assassins of Outworld, along with Kitana and Jade, renowned for our beauty, skill, and viciousness in battle. Also the Warrioress Mileena, capable of leading strike forces against rebels in Outworld. It was I who conquered the mutants along with General Baraka and an army of Shokans. Needless to say, it would have been very hard to lose a battle with such an advantage, giant Shokans versus starving nomads.

And, of course, who could forget the Kombatant Mileena, dreaded in the fighting arena for her unmatched speed and notorious skill. All these things, due not completely to my talent, but largely to the influence of my number one admirer, Shang Tsung.

So here I am. Fighting in a bloodbath tournament. Supporting those I wish to destroy. Trying to remember more about my life Before.

And missing you. You never know how much you appreciate the effect that childish, if sometimes annoying, antics can have on improving a person's happiness, if only distracting one from the true unhappiness of their life.

Why did you have to die?

{small black dot}