His home is nicer than mine, and did I really ever doubt that for a moment? You can see the beach from it. It's lovely. But the inside is nice too. He's neat, he's organized, everything has a place to go in and nothing dares fall out of line. I think of soldiers in the army, except now they're books and clothes and shoes and plates and cups and whatever else. He isn't much in the way of nic-nacs and trivial little items. No games, or even movies. He doesn't see the point in video games, but I think he says that because he's not good at them. He says movies are okay every now and then but if he sees too many too, he starts to feel like he's wasting time. He says he doesn't mind watching a movie with me once and awhile though, which is good, because I quite like movies. I made him watch one called The Lion King and it made me cry and he fell asleep. How's that for opposites?

I like the neatness, though. I like how it feels like you can breathe, there's not a lot of stuff to clutter it up. Like my house. He jokes about my habits like that. The way I leave things everywhere, and how I don't clean up after myself until it's absolutely necessary. I just feel like I could be doing better things than cleaning, but he says cleaning is important. You have to know where things are in case you need them. You have to keep your home clean so it doesn't make bugs and rats come around. Maybe I'll try to make an effort to clean my flat more now that I've been to his.

I like to watch movies so I begged him to watch Leon: The Professional with me. Both Lita and Ginzu recommended it to me, and they never agree on anything so I thought, this has got to be worth watching. I was enthralled by it but I'm honestly enthralled by most movies. It's about an assassin who saves a girl after people are out to kill her because she knows they killed her family. He teaches her how to be an assassin like him, and she starts to think she's fallen in love with him but she's too young to really know, I think. Leon agrees.

He seems uninterested as per usual, but sometimes he kind of laughs at the movie. I thought to ask him what he thinks is funny, but I feel like maybe it isn't that he finds anything funny. I ask him what he thinks at the end and he says it's fine. His eyes go up to the ceiling like he's reading a cue card up there or something. "What do you think of that, being an assassin for a living?"

"It seems like a sad way to make money."

"Aren't you in a paramilitary group?"

"Well, yes, but that means there's structure. There's law, and we aren't meant to go and kill people. That's a last resort. It's a bit different, him being paid to kill people and maybe they haven't done anything to really deserve that."

"Who deserves to die?"

I haven't thought about that. "Bad people, if you can't find any other way to deal with them." I don't want to be without an answer.

"What makes a bad person?"

I press my lips together. "They do bad things. Like hurting people or killing." He doesn't ask anything else. He seems tired. Maybe he wants to go to sleep but he thinks it's impolite to say. "I can go, you know."

"If you'd like." He stands up and straightens his shirt out. "Where are you staying again?" He squints as he tries to think, like he feels like he should know the answer and that's when I realized I never found a place to stay at all. My heart kind of thumps and my stomach feels empty and I think there's something stuck in my throat. My ears feel hot and I feel awful, just so very awful, he went to the trouble to pay for my flights and I couldn't even book my own hotel room, like an adult!

"I-I might-" I try to think quick. I'm not good at lying, I'm utter shit at lying. "I'm going to stay-somewhere."

"Does somewhere have a proper name?"

"I don't-" Oh how could I hope to make up the name of a Spanish hotel? He'd sniff me out in an instant. I want to burst into tears for being so oblivious, but I don't because that'd be even more embarrassing. "I'm sorry! I didn't get one! I forgot! I was just so excited to come here and I was thinking of all the exciting stuff and not the boring part and-" I babble and babble and his eyebrows come together and up a bit and I can't tell, is he pissed? Is he mad? Is he going to tear me a new one for being so irresponsible and forgetful?

"Don't be so upset." I take a real deep breath because he's right. I feel dumb for getting so worked up. It's just a hotel room isn't it? Just a place to sleep. "The hotels are still out there, I think."

He's teasing, but it's late. I think about saying I could just stay here. It'll take up his time to help me find somewhere else, to get me there-because he'll insist on going with me-and to get my bags there. So one the one hand, it's impolite to force him to do all of that, but on the other, it's impolite to invite myself to stay in his home. Which is the worse transgression here? Why do things have to be so difficult! I'm biting my lip while I think about all the ups and downs until I just say, "Maybe I should stay here, so you don't have to worry about it." I have to look at my toes and I curl them into the floor. "I think-It seems like an awful lot of trouble to put you through. And I won't bother you! I'll be just fine right here."

He seems unsure and I feel guilty but I guess I was going to feel guilty either way. Doesn't make it any easier to look at him though. He never seems unsure so it's just odd and wrong and I feel worse. So of course that means it's best to keep talking. "I just, I hate for you to have to help me find a place, and move everything, and get me there, and I thought it'd be easier this way, that's only the reason I asked, I don't mean to be rude."

"I suppose." He says it quietly like he's making himself say it and I'm sure he's not used to making himself do things he doesn't like.

"I promise I won't bother you at all, I'll stay right here." I move my hands in circles just above the sofa. My little territory, I've marked it for your convenience.

"No, no, go in there," he says, pointing back to his bedroom and I feel like I've been punched in the gut. I think I've given him the wrong idea.

"I-" I start to say but he's already gone in there. Oh God. What does he expect out of me? Really, what? I'm not sure, but maybe I should've been clearer. My stomach's all fluttery. I have to be honest and firm here-

But he's back holding a pillow and a blanket and I catch my breath. He means he'll sleep on the couch so I can sleep on the bed. Oh what an idiot I am. "Are you alright?" he asks when he sees my face.

I nod and say "Mmhm." Because if I talk I might say 'I thought you wanted to sleep with me'. I can't argue with him anymore because I might say something stupid. I tell him thank you and good night and all and maybe I say thanks one too many times because he says 'really, it's fine'.

I don't know if all boy's rooms are simple this way or if it's just him but in my room there's all kind of things. My clothes are all over. My games. My movies. My cats. Some stuffed animals I like. Particular rocks I find that look interesting. I pick flowers and set them in little cups and eventually they die and I get new ones. There's some gadgets and little wind up toys I have, one walks a bit, the other is a rabbit that will flip over backwards. He's got nothing like that. It's a bit weird to me, but it's almost like he doesn't really live here. And if that's the case, why have a place at all? But then I guess you've got to call somewhere home, even if you aren't always there.

I can get to sleep pretty quickly once I lay down. It's just the laying down that can be hard if I have good distractions but there aren't any distractions here. Once the air came on and it startled me but that's about it. I think he might still be awake even though he looked tired because I keep hearing a noise. And I realize it's paper, it's a page turning. I don't like to read so I'm not so familiar with that sound I guess but he likes reading. Maybe that's why he knows everything.

Why is there a gun in my hands, stock pressed into my shoulder. "Maintain position." A voice, distorted somehow, like a ghost is speaking to me. "Acquire target." What? No, why am I listening? It's like I'm not under my own control, my elbows press against the brick of the edge of the roof. I'm looking down through the scope at a man, no idea who he is. "On my mark."

"Yes sir commander." My voice isn't even my own! Oh my God I want out! How do I get out?!

"Three."

No no no!

"Two."

Why won't someone help me?! I'm going to kill someone! I don't want to-

"One."

Twin gunshots deafening and followed by screaming and blood, there's blood everywhere! I see bits of my target's skull, I see his brains, his wide eyes, the hole in his head, oh my God, I'll be sick, no, no God what have I done?! I'm trying to scream and my body simply doesn't respond. It goes on its own, slinging the gun over my shoulder. "Quick," the ghost man says and I follow him. Follow him to kill more people. We are both covered in blood, doesn't he notice?! I feel it all over me, sticky, thick, almost black, putrid in my nostrils, suddenly the ground is a carpet of dead bodies, and I don't want this, I didn't do this, someone please God help me!

But then I see him. White eyes bearing down on me like they can see right into my soul and read every bit of my brain. My heart's pounding, he's coming closer. Closer. Run, oh my God, just run! My legs feel heavy and I can hear this awful laugh, he's mocking me for trying to escape. Have to keep going. Fight. Everything hurts, but keep fighting. "You don't know pain, Killer Bee," the man says. His voice is terrifying. "You don't know fear. You only know-"

"Cammy."

I don't know how I know where the wrist of the hand that's poised in midair as if undecided about trying to touch me is, but I grab it all the same. Who is it, will I kill him too?! Has it been asked of me?! Try to jerk him forward to knee him in the chest, make him lose his breath. He breaks the hold and catches my knee and pushes back. Threat detected.

"Cammy, wake up."

I throw myself at the threat, nullify at all costs. Swing fist to jaw. Subject ducks, grapples, juke back, strike foot to ankle, break hold-

"Cammy!"

I gasp like I've been drowning all my life and I feel a pressure on one of my wrists. My other hand has him by the collar. What's that he's doing with his eyes and his face? Upturned brows, marginal frown, tone is-

Concern, I know what concern is! What is wrong with me?! I let go of him quick and my hands are shaking but at least they aren't covered in blood. "Oh God," I mutter and my voice is shaking too. "I'm so sorry, I'm sor-"

"It's fine. But are you?"

I stare for a second then shake my head slowly. I feel like I don't want to admit it but at the same time he might be the only person I can admit it to because somehow he's never treating me like I'm nuts when I say odd things. "No," I manage to say. He sits next to me and puts a hand on my shoulder.

"Were you dreaming?"

I hope it was just a dream. "I think. I don't-It's all so-"

"You don't have to say."

I nod slowly and stare at the wall. Why do I suddenly feel like I've been here before? "I was on the roof of a building and it was like I didn't have any control over myself," I say and maybe I'm talking fast, like I need the momentum to keep the words going otherwise I'll just never say it at all. "A-I don't know, it was a ghost or something. His face was all white and featureless and all I could see were his eyes. We shot some people and then we ran and I was just covered in blood and there were corpses everywhere. A different man showed up and he was so frightening, so horrifying."

"What was he like?" he asks in a quiet sort of voice I don't hear out of him often.

"Enormous. Like a giant out of a fairy tale. White glowing eyes, and lightning followed him wherever he went, and he told me I don't feel pain." I stopped. There was more. What else had he- "He called me Killer Bee." Just the thought of that made me feel sick, like I'd been kicked in the stomach.

He shakes his head a little. "It's just a dream."

I nod because he's right. No sense getting worked up over that. Don't be childish. "Right, I'm sorry."

"Don't ever be sorry," he says and that's like his mantra to me. He always says it. I don't require justification, excuses, permission. "Everybody has bad dreams."

My toes are rubbing against each other and curling into the floor and I picture them growing into roots and sinking themselves into the foundation of this place. "Do you?" I ask. Like I need to know he's not just placating me. Like I need to have some evidence of this phenomenon claimed by everyone.

He nods.

"Well how do you get rid of them?" I don't want to ever dream what I just dreamt again.

But I don't like the look on his face when I ask it. He's the one staring at the wall now but it's like he isn't really seeing it. After an uncomfortable moment of silence, he finally shakes his head and tells me, "You don't."

The description of Vega in this next part deviates from his character design. I made his hair shorter and changed the tattoo into paint. Obviously his design is unique and works well in a game but when trying to write a story like this, it would just make Cammy(and others) look sort of oblivious if they didn't notice her friend, the blond spaniard with two feet of hair and a full body tattoo, is the same guy as the terrorist, the blond spaniard with two feet of hair and a full body tattoo.

"You've never been on this sort of assignment before, correct?" Wolfman asks me and I shake my head. It's a little odd seeing him dressed casually. A man that big, seems like the only thing he should be wearing is camo or battle armor. "Well, I trust you read over the information about it?"

"Of course, sir."

He wags a finger at me. "No more sirs from here on out. Nothing to give away our affiliation. This is strictly about research, reconnaissance. We aren't soldiers tonight. We're the sort of...miserable scum who could find something entertaining in watching men beat each other senseless." I bite back a question about what he thinks of folks who enjoy football or rugby or boxing, since those are pretty lucrative sports that have huge fanbases. But he's right, this place is different. It's suspected that the funds get funneled back to various groups of ill repute-gangs all over Europe, some drug runners, even terrorists. It's up to us tonight to scope the place out and see if we can spot any familiar faces.

We get to the door and are met with minimal resistance. I suppose I expected a lot worse, but the pair of men at the door look us over, ask us for bets-because if you don't have money what's the point of you?-and we give our rehearsed answers. Mine's riding on some fellow named Mulligan and it feels like a bad joke. Wolfman's got his money on a former soldier from Iran. We're checked for wires or other recording devices, forced to check our phones. And of course, we show them the money before being allowed entry. Inside, a wave of warm air hits me like a brick, and the tobacco smoke hangs heavy. It's noisy, people are laughing, arguing, making predictions, begging for another go around, that they're sure they've picked a winner this time. I try not to stare at any one thing, or gawk, or make it plain in any other way that I haven't been around this sort of environment before.

I scan the crowd for any familiar faces, but find nothing. Not too surprising. Most of the people in here are just spectators. They don't know where their money is going, don't too much care, I'm sure. This is just the sort of thing they find fun.

We officially place our bets before taking a seat in a corner, get ourselves a couple of pints, and settle in. Three rounds tonight. Wolfman and I make benign small talk, unable to really discuss the assignment for obvious reasons. Talk about the weather warming back up. Even with him here, I feel tense, as though everyone else is already aware of what we're here for. But it's important to stay calm, so I try to keep it that way. I'd say I took deep breaths, but the smoke makes it too difficult, and probably harmful.

The first fight is Wolfman's fellow versus some other man who speaks with a Scottish accent. Watching the fight is difficult, but we both do so, pretending to be enraptured. I force myself not to wince with some of the harsh, obviously painful blows that one of them gets on the other. Wolfman's obviously backed a winner here, the man moving like the seasoned vet he is. The fight's called when the Scottish man hits the mat hard, coughing blood, unable to push himself back to his feet. Wolfman doesn't say anything about his success. There's nothing to be proud of here.

My bet is up next and it's a shorter fight. Mulligan's obviously new at this and he looks terrified, so the crowd jeers at him, cajoling him, mocking him. His opponent sounds like a native Londoner, and he makes quick work of the newcomer. The fight's over and I wonder a few things. Will Mulligan try his hand at this again? What made him so desperate as to try this out?

I wish that we could leave since neither of the matches have produced any notable faces. But there's one more fight to sit through, much as I don't want to. The first steps up into the ring, another Londoner. The other fellow makes me feel a little ill suddenly. People are making jokes at him for the odd mask on his face-he's not the only one to try to hide his identity so far, with other men wearing ski masks or what have you. His hair is a bit long for a man, but barely long enough for him to pull it back out of his face. And a violet streak wraps itself around his torso, like someone dipped their fingers in paint and wiped it off on him. Takes me a second to realise it's a snake. There's something familiar about it all and I have the urge to ask Wolfman about it.

But I obviously can't. And before I can think too much on it, the fight starts. The masked fellow is quick, quicker than anyone who's stepped into the ring tonight. A few people are pissed that their fighter isn't winning and start yelling about it. The masked one seems pretty confident about his pending success, occasionally stopping while the other struggles back to his feet, even turning his back to the man as if he's unconcerned. He does this a few times, looking out at the crowd and people shout at him-insults, cheers, jokes, encouragement, all kinds of things. His eyes sweep over our corner of the establishment and he seems suddenly to do a double take. And why do I feel like he's staring at me, of all the people in this room? It's difficult to see his eyes, the mask casts a shadow over them, but I swear he's looking at me-

"Oh watch out!" I can't help but shout suddenly, pointing frantically behind him as his opponent pulls back his arm for a swing. The masked man's attention snaps back to the fight but a little too late. He gets clocked hard in the side of the head and stumbles back. But it's like someone flipped a switch in him and he turns into a killing machine, like he's so enraged that he let his opponent get a hit on him and he's going to make sure everyone knows it. I can't stop my lips from peeling back in disgust by the end of the fight. There's blood in the ring, some on his mask, on his knuckles, and people are loving it. They want this, this violence that so many people in the world want so badly to escape. And here these disgusting monsters are cheering for it, paying money to see it. I think I might be sick. The man in the mask looks over in my direction again, though I don't know if he's looking at me. I hope he is, in a way, so he can see how horrible I think he is for participating in this. It might be my imagination that he looks down at his bloodied knuckles and that his shoulders seem suddenly to sag almost as if he is as disgusted with himself as I am.