"It's already started." Vega said the words with the barest hint of a whine, amusing her. Hadn't he been saying he 'didn't whine'? Cammy looked up from her paper. She'd since learned that she could do the sorts of things that Vega could do, and at first, that hadn't sounded appealing at all. But then, she found herself doodling a cat out of boredom, looked down at the scrap of paper, and saw it was the best thing she'd ever drawn in her life. Now, she was drawing everything she could think of, delighting in each little scribble. She wasn't used to being able to do this, and it was exciting in a way, to have a new talent. It also helped to pass the time until her own flight back to Barcelona arrived.

"What's already started?" she asked, confused by his irritation. She hadn't said much to him since they drove back to her home. She slept for a little while more, feeling an awful headache when she woke up. He seemed to be passing the time reading. He proved this much to her by turning the laptop around towards her so she could see the screen. It was all in Spanish, but that wasn't an obstacle for her with this brain. There was a brief article, and a snapshot of the two of them eating lunch from the day before. Cammy frowned as she skimmed the article, which questioned who the woman sitting with Vega was. The little story wondered if she was his girlfriend. She stuck out her tongue, unable to imagine anything worse than that. Sure, Vega looked good, but she'd never in her life want to date him. His personality-the one she knew better, that is-was just so awful that it pained her to think of herself as being in a relationship with him. She smirked, however, at the harsh comment the gossip rag had made about his clothes. These people needed better things to do with their lives, certainly, but it was sort of amusing to see Vega bent out of shape over it.

"You're ruining my reputation," he said with a shake of his head. "Learn how to dress like you know how color theory works."

She cringed. Did he realize how pretentious he sounded when he said things like that? "Whyyyy do you care so much?" she whined.

"And I don't whine, for the thousandth time!" She laughed out loud at that. He pressed a hand to the side of his head, eyes sliding closed as he sighed. "I'd greatly prefer it if you just didn't leave my house."

"That's unfair, and quite boring," she replied. Then, the memory of that dreaded festival loomed in the back of her mind, and she added, "Besides, I apparently have to go to Valencia, remember?"

"Shit." He fell back onto the couch.

"Can't I just...call in sick?" she asked hopefully.

His eyes wandered around the room before he answered. "I've thought of it. A lot of people have already paid to attend it, and do you know how much bad publicity I would draw were I to not show up?"

"Okay, but, uh, I don't know how to fight a bull," she said , waving her hands. "And even if I did, I don't think I could bring myself to kill one."

"You wouldn't be," he said. "I would. No one would ever know it was you, if you keep your mouth shut, anyway."

"But it would be on my conscience," she argued. "I don't know how you live with yourself, really. Whether it's a bull, or a person, it's all reprehensible."

He drew his brows together with what she thought may have been concern. The way he bit his lip confirmed that-she always did that when she was bothered by something. "Regardless of your views, I have to attend. You're agile enough-and in my body, you shouldn't have too much trouble avoiding being gored."

She swallowed hard. Gored? That was a rather strong word. It only put more fear into her. She put down her pen, no longer very interested in drawing. With this reminder, all she could think about was a ton-and-a-half of horns speeding at her, completely unpredictable in its fury and terror.

"Wait," Vega said suddenly, grabbing the paper from her and staring at it. It was probably the most detailed cat ever produced by his hands-mainly because he'd never really done more than doodled a cartoonish one out of boredom in a lecture when he was a teenager. Cats weren't exactly a subject he fancied, but Cammy was damn well near obsessed. It didn't exactly surprise him that she'd produced a drawing of one with such detail and care. "If you can still manage to use me to draw this well, then you have all of my muscle-memory. My agility, my speed, my hand-eye coordination..."

She stared back at him. She didn't like the direction this was going. It only made her more nervous. "No," she whimpered, taking back the drawing and crumpling it up.

"All you have to do is tap into my brain to find the right reactions to the bull," he said, seeming to be a little more relieved.

"I'd rather not! I don't want to kill him! And he didn't do anything to me, so why have I got to...got to torture it like that!"

He blew a breath out through his lips, used to hearing this sort of thing by now. He wasn't one for addressing the issue. His stance must've been fairly obvious, given his profession. Sometimes it took all his willpower to not lash out at the more obnoxious activists who harassed him, though that didn't happen often. He had an image to uphold. As much as he'd like to insult and harm and mock people who seemed to think so little of him, he couldn't afford to risk any behavior that would alienate people. "I understand your apprehension," he said, channeling his socialite persona. He felt strange when he did this. It was as if he were watching some other man behave in such an intelligent and refined manner, patient and professional. "But I have to do this. It's unfortunate that you are me right now, but it simply must be done. Just allow my mind to do all of the work, and you will be clean of the kill."

She sighed, and buried her head in her arms. He frowned. He didn't like it when she was upset. But why should he care? After all, she certainly didn't care about him.

"Let me give you some advice," he said. He took one of the papers, and scribbled something out, a little frustrated to find that he could do no better than awful stick figures. His entire sense of perspective was gone, and forget foreshortening. A little irritated, he crumpled the paper and tried again. It was no better than the last, and he resigned to drawing like a child. He scrawled a bull in the center of the paper, and drew out its line of sight. "A bull does not have binocular vision. It sees the world on either side of it. So as strange as this may seem to you, the most dangerous place to be is beside it. He can see you best here." He marked the areas on the sides of the bull's head. "Especially if you move. If you stay still, he may associate you with the background, and not even realize you are there. But here, right in front of him," he circled the conical area between the lines of sight, just in front of the bull's nose. "He can see nothing here. Tickle his nose, if you feel up for it. He'd never see your hand. Pass the muleta across his face from there. Then get out of the way, in the most visually pleasing manner possible."

"You know a lot about bulls," she murmured.

"You wouldn't be a mechanic if you knew nothing about vehicles," he said, as if it were obvious. "Or rather, it's just like fighting anything-the more you know about the opponent, the better your chances are of winning."

She began to feel a little more confident. Vega's mind didn't seem nervous about the bull at all. If anything, it was the crowd that scared him, which was utterly foreign to her. She didn't mind being the center of attention-though she didn't necessarily relish in it, either. But for him, each crowd was simultaneously a threat and a joy. All that positive attention was tempered by his paranoia, leading to a pretty volatile inner conflict that was even making her feel a bit ill. Someone may recognize him one day as a member of Shadaloo, and could hide themselves among fans until they were ready to strike. He'd never see them coming. The crowd also scrutinized and doled out judgement-they could think of him as a failure, a disappointment, and if he lost the crowd, what was he then? What was an entertainer without anyone to entertain? No one at all. Failure was never an option, he had to be perfect, she had to be perfect, one screw up, one flaw and it all-

She took in a sharp breath, trying to calm down. She couldn't wait to get out of this body.

"Not to frighten you further," he said, trying to look innocent. "But, the breed of bull you'll be fighting is a Miura."

"What's that mean?" she asked.

"It's a breed of bull notorious for the number of deaths it has caused in the corrida," he responded. "Just don't turn your back on it? My back. I don't want a horn put through it."

"Oh my God," she whined, burying her head in her arms again and entangling her fingers in her hair.

It took some convincing, but he finally managed to get her to agree. He was certain that she could do this if she relied on his mind for everything. He'd done this often enough to have a routine of sorts memorized. Not completely, of course-he had to keep people entertained, after all. But it was routine enough for everything to be done on memory alone. And she was a skilled fighter. It could translate well enough to the bullfight. She just had to stay calm, and let him do most of the work.

And then it was time for Cammy to get back to the airport. She didn't want to. Being at home made her feel better, but she wasn't allowed to stay. He didn't want rumors going around about the two of them, which perturbed her. She didn't care if people thought they were seeing each other-she knew they weren't. But he seemed nearly disturbed by the idea, which made her more than a little irritated. "Do you think I'm ugly or something?" she asked. And he stared at her, confused at her anger. Men were idiots, even when they were inhabiting women's bodies, she thought.

She pouted a little in the car, leaning against the window and staring out at the familiar places going by. The silence was tense and awkward, and apparently it got to Vega, because he reached over for her music player and put it on. He couldn't be bothered to look through it-he didn't want it on for the music, but just as a way to fill the silence. It made her feel a little better, too. Something that was hers, that she liked, to remind her she was a person with her own preferences."You really like this?" he asked, glancing over at her.

"What, not pretentious enough for you?" she said, still annoyed with him. She couldn't imagine what someone who read Aristotle for fun listened to. Probably nothing but ridiculously ostentatious classical music or...

"No," he responded, similarly annoyed with her. "I enjoy this myself."

She looked over at him. "You're joking?" What a coincidence that was. She didn't know the obscurity or prominence of the music, so maybe it wasn't that strange after all. She snatched up the player, skipped to the next song, and set it down again. Completely different artist. That would make her feel a bit better. He definitely wasn't going to know this one, so she could still enjoy it.

He laughed, but it wasn't a happy laugh. Ironic and resigned. "That, too," he said. He glanced down at the music player. Scrolling through the artists, he would've thought he was looking at his own, save for a few odds and ends. "Interesting," he said before he set it back down.

"This is bizarre." She listened to the music again. Two coincidences in a row. Or maybe he was pulling her leg. She became even more irritated with him for that, and snapped, "You're mocking me, aren't you?"

"Look for yourself," he replied, now irritated himself. How dare she accuse him of that? "I give you my permission."

So she did, making his brain think of the music she liked and then-

Tapping fingers against the steering wheel, but I stop. I know it drives Bison mad. He's absorbed in some file or another, how can one mind process so much information, it seems nearly constant. I'll turn the music on to distract myself. It's vaguely summery, it fits the bright heat of the Thai afternoon, and wait, Killer Bee seems focused on something now, she stares at the speakers, I ask her what's the matter-I mean, "Status report?"

"There is a foreign noise."

"It's music," I say.

"What is music?"

"Art that is for your ears," I say, unsure precisely how to explain something like this. She's completely without any knowledge of culture. Bison wants it that way, for all of the Dolls. She has to stay away from things that may incite self-awareness, or evoke memories of home in the case of the others, who had homes before this one, and perhaps that is a little unfair, but I don't have a say. I want her to know so badly about the beautiful things in the world, because while a death is beautiful in its own way and she is well-versed in death, she can't know that because the idea of beauty doesn't exist in her mind, even in spite of her own beauty, and how ironic is that, after all?

"I am experiencing interference-my processor is no longer idling."

I hate that she refers to her mind as a processor, further evidence that she is not quite a person. She means she is experiencing an anomalous sensation-it is not related to temperature, to illness or physical injury, sight, sound, smell, taste, touch, it is beyond sensory input, it is emotion, I'm certain. Bison snaps himself out of his reverie and demands a status report.

"I am uncertain of my status," she replies, and I want to tell her she is probably feeling something. There is not a word she has on file to answer him because emotions are not part of the programming. She continues to stare at the speaker, and I wonder if she likes the music or hates it.

"Turn that off, now," Bison orders. I oblige, it would be foolish to argue with him, he could kill me with a thought if he wanted. "I shouldn't have to remind you-she can not be exposed to this sort of thing. Let this be the last time I have to warn you about it."

"Of course," I reply, but it wouldn't be, everyone has a right to see the beauty in life, in sound, in art, in everything, especially someone as beautiful as her, so I take her occasionally, under the guise of specialized training. Drive her out into the winding dirt roads, different music each time, show her the works of famous artists in books picked up in Bangkok, read her poetry, English, Spanish, Japanese, doesn't matter. Ask her for her status, closer and closer, inching towards the grasping of the word 'emotion', of an understanding of 'beauty' or 'art', she could almost comprehend it, she gets so close, just push her a little further, tell me what to do to give this to her and I'll do it, I want her to be happy, why do I want her to be happy?

"What-" she breathed, grabbing her head.

"Right," he said, completely oblivious to what she'd just remembered through him. "See? I do listen to these things."

"You showed it to me," she whispered, turning to stare at him, awestruck at the memory-his memory. Nothing like the one with his step-dad. There was hope here that wasn't there before, but why was she the source of it?

He seemed startled. "What did you-"

"You showed this music to me!" she cried, now feeling overwhelmed and confused. "This, so much of it, I learned it from you!" The memory was fleeting, and she was too frightened to try to experience it again. She shook her head, and he stared. "Why are you so fixated by me?"

He seemed hesitant. He didn't want to respond. Telling her could only worsen the situation.

"Answer me!" she nearly screamed. His voice was terrifying when he was angry, no more sarcasm or pretension, no sardonic humor, no fake humility in some attempt at charm. Just bare anger, and she could see by the look on his face that he was a little frightened, too. It wasn't that he'd never been that angry before-he had. But knowing he'd driven Cammy to that level of irritation was startling. Then there was the fact that her body was reacting to being in this risky situation. He didn't want to be in such a confined space with that maniac, that murderer. Killer for hire scum. Anything for a dollar, manipulative bastard, how could he pretend to care when he'd helped ruin her life?!

"I don't...It's..." He shook his head, helpless, thoughts so disorganized. How could he answer this question? He claimed to care about her. So why did he teach her to kill? Again, he shook his head, unable to follow one train of thought far enough to produce a coherent explanation.

Groaning, Cammy grabbed her head. "I could find out for myself, but I'm almost too frightened to do it!" He wanted her to be happy? She shuddered, wondering what else he thought of her, what other sick fantasies he might have concerning her. It disgusted her, to be so interesting to someone as deranged as Vega.

"I'd ask that you didn't, but I suppose in the end I can't stop you," he said. "I could retaliate, look through your mind, but what embarrassing things, what awful secrets could you possibly have that I don't already know from who you were before?"

"You shut your god damned mouth!" She grabbed him by the arm, had an urge to hurt someone, to lash out, because she was being hurt, and it scared her and-

She gasped, withdrawing her hand and covering her mouth. It was him again. She was acting too much like him. She shook her head, wanting to cry, but he didn't cry so easily, and it was one of the most frustrating things she'd ever experienced in her life. "I'm becoming too much like you," she whispered, eyes wide and directed out the window. She couldn't look over there. At him, at herself.

He frowned, keeping his eyes on the road, but said nothing. He felt Cammy's hatred of him clawing its way through his own thoughts , and he wanted to give up. She simply despised him too much. She hated him for training her to kill, for all the people he had killed. Hated him for his loyalty to Bison, who'd created her to be a puppet, a murderer. Hated him for his deceitful nature, wanted so badly to expose him, to show the world that he was a giant fake, to show everyone what he was really like. He felt tears stinging his eyes. Was it really so hopeless? She was the last person he wanted to hate him but was there anything he could do to change that now?

A vague sense of relief came over him as they made it to the airport. This repulsive monster was finally leaving. Her mind seemed to hope never to see him again, and it hurt more than anything to know she felt that way about him. Cammy looked over at him, hatred still in her eyes. "I can't wait until this is over," she said. "I don't know how much longer I can stand being you." He didn't reply-what could he say in his own defense? From her mind, his crimes were clear. But in his own, he could grasp at some pathetic justification. From her less flawed mind, he could see everything he'd done wrong, everything that made her and those like her hate him. Was he past the point of no return? Was changing her mind about him an attainable goal? He didn't consult her mind. He already knew the answer it'd give him.