Five years ago...
"Hey, Sarge, check this out!"
"What now... Damn! Who the hell did that?"
"I believe it was the new guy, Fury. He's just outside. Should I send him in, sir?"
The Sarge nodded and leaned back in his chair. He wiped the sweat from his brow, and took another look at the pictures in front of him. They were of two men, rapists, who'd been caught by the new officer driving by. Word had spread fast that Officer Fury took martial arts, and apparently he'd felt the need to prove it. The two men had been beaten to a bloody pulp. They'd get sued for police brutality, sure enough, and the flak would all be aimed at Fury.
He was a lone wolf, that one, and needed a partner. One should never let the new guy run around without an experienced officer to guide him. This guy was different, and made the Sarge a bit nervous.
Fury entered the office and looked around. Recognitions for bravery and service lined the wall of Police Chief Henry McGarett, along with the mandatory diploma from the police academy. The Chief himself was a rather large man, with more around his waist than his shoulders. A tie hung loosely from his neck, and sweat glistened on the bald head. He was police chief, but everyone called him Sarge from his days in the army.
In turn, the Sarge studied Officer Bryan Fury. He was tall, a bit over six feet, and so fit it was scary. His shoulders were expansive, and his entire torso was frighteningly well muscled, as well as the long legs.
The facial features were sharp, and painfully hawkish. A shock of brown hair was kept close-cut, and the eyebrows were a bit lighter. The eyes were deep-set, cold and unblinking, an icy steel-blue that made one instantly look away from the intensity. They'd already given him a nickname, 'Snake Eye,' and he certainly lived up to it. A black tattoo ran around the back and sides of his neck, in some tribal design. Must have hurt like hell. He was dressed in his day uniform, and the well-polished badge glittered brightly from the lapel. He was a young buck, fresh from the academy, and all the new recruits just LOVED to see themselves in their uniforms.
He was a tough-guy cop with an attitude problem and a penchant for foul language. He also had a violent streak a mile wide. NOBODY stole Fury's donuts and got away with it. The last guy had gotten three fingers broken, bent back to the wrist. Fury had been given a month's probation, but now he was taking out his agression on the criminals, it seemed.
"Have a seat, kid." The Sarge indicated a battered chair in front of him, and Fury sat down with a cold look in his eyes. "How old are you, son?"
"Twenty-four, sir."
"How long have you been on the force?"
"I signed up for the academy as soon as I got out of high school. I graduated two years ago."
The Sarge leaned back and sighed. Fury had only been in his particular precinct for a few months, and the Sarge hadn't been able to introduce himself earlier. Now, he was getting more than he asked for. "Twenty-four years old," he said mostly to himself. "I can barely remember that age, you know that? I'm fifty-five. And in my twenty-five years of police duty, I have never seen anything like this. The army's a different story."
He tossed the photos to Fury, who glanced briefly at them before chucking them at the trash can. "Now, Officer Fury, you wanna explain to me why you beat those boys so bad? According to the other officers, you beat at least one of them over a minute after he started screamin' surrender."
Fury fixed the Sarge with a cold stare, and it was all the Sarge could do to maintain eye contact. "They gang-raped her, sir. What did you fucking want me to do, lock 'em up all nice and sweet, and be careful not to hurt 'em? Something pussywhipped like that? God dammit..."
"Watch your language, son. This was police brutality, not justice. We're almost guaranteed to get sued for this, and I'm gonna take it all out of your hide. You're almost more trouble than you're worth..."
Fury bit back an angry reply. Why DID he lose it like that? Maybe something to do with the two punks gang-raping a screaming woman, with the woman's little kid watching and crying? Damn, these people were all politics and no justice. Whatever happened to the good old days that everyone kept talking about, where the criminals were shot on sight? THAT would have been fun.
"...which is why I'm sending you to another spot. I know an organization that needs somebody like you. You're tough, don't take crap from nobody, and you're able to play both sides. Just what they need."
Fury raised an eyebrow. "Who, the IRS?"
The Sarge belly-laughed. "No, nothing like that. Somebody else. Fine, it's Interpol. They can't find any good recruits nowadays, and those they DO find are always afraid of gettin' hurt."
"I'm sure. Everybody's a wuss nowadays."
The Sarge gave Fury a pained look. "Look, kid... I only asked because you're one violation away from being fired. This job doesn't suit you. Now, Interpol's been watching me for a while, because I told 'em I'd find somebody for them."
"And what makes you think I'm that somebody?"
"Because it's a dirty, violent job, and you seem to enjoy that kind of thing. Because I'm ass-deep in police brutality lawsuits. Because I need officers with UNBROKEN hands on the job."
"Wasn't like he wasn't warned about trying to steal my donuts," was Fury's smartass reply.
"For Christ's sake, Fury, get off your tough-guy attitude and listen! Being a street officer isn't what suits you. Detective Wulong himself asked me about you."
"Who?"
"You been living under a rock or something? Lei Wulong is Interpol's top-ranking detective, from Hong Kong. His latest partner quit because he was afraid for his family, so Detective Wulong asked me to find a replacement. He specifically requested somebody mean, and you're the meanest son of a bitch I've ever met."
This interested Fury. "I'll think it over." He stood, and was halfway out the door, when the Sarge called to him.
"Hey, Fury! I think it'd work for you!"
Fury gave a cold smile, and left.
***********************************************
Meanwhile...
Deep in the heart of the Mishima Zaibatsu, a lone figure sat in a dark office, his eyes fixed on the television screen. There was an angry scowl on his lips. He was watching live feed of the latest genetic specimen at work. He was not pleased.
"Too slow," the figure growled in Japanese. "She was faster last time. What happened? She should be more consistent. She is imperfect, like the last one." The eyes narrowed. "Have you failed me again, Abel?"
In one corner of the screen was a view of Dr. Abel, a short bald man who was the creator of the specimen before him. Abel twitched nervously. "No, Mishima-sama, I swear I have not failed you. She was slower this time because the target was better trained than her previous ones. She learns quickly, however. Here, I shall send her after another one."
Heihachi Mishima watched as another Owl was thrust into the well-lit arena. The Owl, clearly nervous, swung his head back and forth, trying to sight his attacker before-
Slash!
The Owl fell soundlessly, crumpling to the ground in a heap. Standing over him was the specimen, who immediately bent to clean the bloody knife on the Owl's uniform before straightening to face Abel respectfully. "Better, Abel-sama?"
Standing before Dr. Abel was a thirteen-year-old girl. Her features were American, but her Japanese was flawless. She was an albino, or at least designed to look like one. Her skin was a pale, almost gray color. Her hair was a metallic silver, and was currently pulled back in a long ponytail. Her most prominent features, however, were a pair of deep, lavendar eyes. They were incredibly intense, and everyone who looked into them immediately looked away from her piercing gaze.
She was the product of over thirty years of intense genetic research, and she was basically perfect. Tall, thin, incredibly strong without visibly showing it, plus a few... other abilities. She was a near-genius, and her razor-sharp mind was incredibly dangerous. She was a telepath, of sorts, and they'd spent years training her to use her empathy to sense nearby people with hostile intent. It had saved her life countless times.
She was stronger, faster, smarter, and deadlier than any human being on the face of the planet. In Japan, they called her Tenshi. When they sent her to America, her name was Angel.
At the moment, Angel faced her creator with quiet humility, and waited for a response. Abel was waiting for a response from Heihachi.
"Better," Heihachi growled. "Continue to improve her; we may pull ahead of schedule after all." He abruptly severed the connection, and sat back in his chair with a considerably more pleasant look on his otherwise unpleasant face.
"Mishima-sama was pleased," Abel reported to his subject. "He wishes you to improve even more."
"Yes, Abel-sama."
"Do you wish to go for another round before retiring for the night?"
"No, Abel-sama. I wish to rest now, to better prepare for more training tomorrow."
"Very good. Go, then, until I summon you again."
"Yes, Abel-sama. Thank you for your instructions." Angel abruptly spun on her heel and headed for her sparse, meager quarters. She was pleased with herself, as well. She'd killed the last Owl much quicker than the first one. A low smile appeared on her lips as she quietly walked the halls of the Zaibatsu.
"Hey, Sarge, check this out!"
"What now... Damn! Who the hell did that?"
"I believe it was the new guy, Fury. He's just outside. Should I send him in, sir?"
The Sarge nodded and leaned back in his chair. He wiped the sweat from his brow, and took another look at the pictures in front of him. They were of two men, rapists, who'd been caught by the new officer driving by. Word had spread fast that Officer Fury took martial arts, and apparently he'd felt the need to prove it. The two men had been beaten to a bloody pulp. They'd get sued for police brutality, sure enough, and the flak would all be aimed at Fury.
He was a lone wolf, that one, and needed a partner. One should never let the new guy run around without an experienced officer to guide him. This guy was different, and made the Sarge a bit nervous.
Fury entered the office and looked around. Recognitions for bravery and service lined the wall of Police Chief Henry McGarett, along with the mandatory diploma from the police academy. The Chief himself was a rather large man, with more around his waist than his shoulders. A tie hung loosely from his neck, and sweat glistened on the bald head. He was police chief, but everyone called him Sarge from his days in the army.
In turn, the Sarge studied Officer Bryan Fury. He was tall, a bit over six feet, and so fit it was scary. His shoulders were expansive, and his entire torso was frighteningly well muscled, as well as the long legs.
The facial features were sharp, and painfully hawkish. A shock of brown hair was kept close-cut, and the eyebrows were a bit lighter. The eyes were deep-set, cold and unblinking, an icy steel-blue that made one instantly look away from the intensity. They'd already given him a nickname, 'Snake Eye,' and he certainly lived up to it. A black tattoo ran around the back and sides of his neck, in some tribal design. Must have hurt like hell. He was dressed in his day uniform, and the well-polished badge glittered brightly from the lapel. He was a young buck, fresh from the academy, and all the new recruits just LOVED to see themselves in their uniforms.
He was a tough-guy cop with an attitude problem and a penchant for foul language. He also had a violent streak a mile wide. NOBODY stole Fury's donuts and got away with it. The last guy had gotten three fingers broken, bent back to the wrist. Fury had been given a month's probation, but now he was taking out his agression on the criminals, it seemed.
"Have a seat, kid." The Sarge indicated a battered chair in front of him, and Fury sat down with a cold look in his eyes. "How old are you, son?"
"Twenty-four, sir."
"How long have you been on the force?"
"I signed up for the academy as soon as I got out of high school. I graduated two years ago."
The Sarge leaned back and sighed. Fury had only been in his particular precinct for a few months, and the Sarge hadn't been able to introduce himself earlier. Now, he was getting more than he asked for. "Twenty-four years old," he said mostly to himself. "I can barely remember that age, you know that? I'm fifty-five. And in my twenty-five years of police duty, I have never seen anything like this. The army's a different story."
He tossed the photos to Fury, who glanced briefly at them before chucking them at the trash can. "Now, Officer Fury, you wanna explain to me why you beat those boys so bad? According to the other officers, you beat at least one of them over a minute after he started screamin' surrender."
Fury fixed the Sarge with a cold stare, and it was all the Sarge could do to maintain eye contact. "They gang-raped her, sir. What did you fucking want me to do, lock 'em up all nice and sweet, and be careful not to hurt 'em? Something pussywhipped like that? God dammit..."
"Watch your language, son. This was police brutality, not justice. We're almost guaranteed to get sued for this, and I'm gonna take it all out of your hide. You're almost more trouble than you're worth..."
Fury bit back an angry reply. Why DID he lose it like that? Maybe something to do with the two punks gang-raping a screaming woman, with the woman's little kid watching and crying? Damn, these people were all politics and no justice. Whatever happened to the good old days that everyone kept talking about, where the criminals were shot on sight? THAT would have been fun.
"...which is why I'm sending you to another spot. I know an organization that needs somebody like you. You're tough, don't take crap from nobody, and you're able to play both sides. Just what they need."
Fury raised an eyebrow. "Who, the IRS?"
The Sarge belly-laughed. "No, nothing like that. Somebody else. Fine, it's Interpol. They can't find any good recruits nowadays, and those they DO find are always afraid of gettin' hurt."
"I'm sure. Everybody's a wuss nowadays."
The Sarge gave Fury a pained look. "Look, kid... I only asked because you're one violation away from being fired. This job doesn't suit you. Now, Interpol's been watching me for a while, because I told 'em I'd find somebody for them."
"And what makes you think I'm that somebody?"
"Because it's a dirty, violent job, and you seem to enjoy that kind of thing. Because I'm ass-deep in police brutality lawsuits. Because I need officers with UNBROKEN hands on the job."
"Wasn't like he wasn't warned about trying to steal my donuts," was Fury's smartass reply.
"For Christ's sake, Fury, get off your tough-guy attitude and listen! Being a street officer isn't what suits you. Detective Wulong himself asked me about you."
"Who?"
"You been living under a rock or something? Lei Wulong is Interpol's top-ranking detective, from Hong Kong. His latest partner quit because he was afraid for his family, so Detective Wulong asked me to find a replacement. He specifically requested somebody mean, and you're the meanest son of a bitch I've ever met."
This interested Fury. "I'll think it over." He stood, and was halfway out the door, when the Sarge called to him.
"Hey, Fury! I think it'd work for you!"
Fury gave a cold smile, and left.
***********************************************
Meanwhile...
Deep in the heart of the Mishima Zaibatsu, a lone figure sat in a dark office, his eyes fixed on the television screen. There was an angry scowl on his lips. He was watching live feed of the latest genetic specimen at work. He was not pleased.
"Too slow," the figure growled in Japanese. "She was faster last time. What happened? She should be more consistent. She is imperfect, like the last one." The eyes narrowed. "Have you failed me again, Abel?"
In one corner of the screen was a view of Dr. Abel, a short bald man who was the creator of the specimen before him. Abel twitched nervously. "No, Mishima-sama, I swear I have not failed you. She was slower this time because the target was better trained than her previous ones. She learns quickly, however. Here, I shall send her after another one."
Heihachi Mishima watched as another Owl was thrust into the well-lit arena. The Owl, clearly nervous, swung his head back and forth, trying to sight his attacker before-
Slash!
The Owl fell soundlessly, crumpling to the ground in a heap. Standing over him was the specimen, who immediately bent to clean the bloody knife on the Owl's uniform before straightening to face Abel respectfully. "Better, Abel-sama?"
Standing before Dr. Abel was a thirteen-year-old girl. Her features were American, but her Japanese was flawless. She was an albino, or at least designed to look like one. Her skin was a pale, almost gray color. Her hair was a metallic silver, and was currently pulled back in a long ponytail. Her most prominent features, however, were a pair of deep, lavendar eyes. They were incredibly intense, and everyone who looked into them immediately looked away from her piercing gaze.
She was the product of over thirty years of intense genetic research, and she was basically perfect. Tall, thin, incredibly strong without visibly showing it, plus a few... other abilities. She was a near-genius, and her razor-sharp mind was incredibly dangerous. She was a telepath, of sorts, and they'd spent years training her to use her empathy to sense nearby people with hostile intent. It had saved her life countless times.
She was stronger, faster, smarter, and deadlier than any human being on the face of the planet. In Japan, they called her Tenshi. When they sent her to America, her name was Angel.
At the moment, Angel faced her creator with quiet humility, and waited for a response. Abel was waiting for a response from Heihachi.
"Better," Heihachi growled. "Continue to improve her; we may pull ahead of schedule after all." He abruptly severed the connection, and sat back in his chair with a considerably more pleasant look on his otherwise unpleasant face.
"Mishima-sama was pleased," Abel reported to his subject. "He wishes you to improve even more."
"Yes, Abel-sama."
"Do you wish to go for another round before retiring for the night?"
"No, Abel-sama. I wish to rest now, to better prepare for more training tomorrow."
"Very good. Go, then, until I summon you again."
"Yes, Abel-sama. Thank you for your instructions." Angel abruptly spun on her heel and headed for her sparse, meager quarters. She was pleased with herself, as well. She'd killed the last Owl much quicker than the first one. A low smile appeared on her lips as she quietly walked the halls of the Zaibatsu.