Alright! First chapter finished in my first Street Fighter fanfic! I hope you enjoy it, and please don't hesitate to tell me your thoughts on the story. Any reviews are greatly appreciated :)!

            Darkness.

            Darkness and shadow as far as the eye could see.

            The sky was blanketed by it.

            The air was stained with it.

            The earth— muffled and oppressed by the heaven's blinding tears.

            It fell.

            It fell upon her— down upon the ruffled dark-brown strands of her hair, down through to the thin curves and elegant features of her nose, down still to the frigid and numb-with-cold surfaces of her slightly pale cheeks, and down finally to hang timid and precarious on the very edge of her slender chin. The rain fell thick all around, dribbling upon the crackled cement and dilapidated pavements, splashing chaotically around street corners and avenue lanes before stopping to bleed almost reluctantly into the rusted metal gratings of ancient sewage drains.

            She blinked the water away from the fringes of her dark-auburn eyes. Did the skies of the day cry with her? It was there again: that familiar feeling which would always coarse through her blood, through her veins, through her soul before any major engagement. A feeling of sudden savagery; the unprovoked desire to lash out against anything and everything in the world around her. She was ashamed of it, but at the same time was desirous of it to the point of greed. Undoubtedly it was what had already gotten her this far in the Street Fighter tournament, and she wanted it— needed it— for just a tiny bit more. This was for herself… and for her father.

            Her father.

            "One more." She whispered harshly to herself, listening to the open violence of the words with a sickening sense of shame and self-disgust. No. Stop. Don't think of it. This was simply one more. One more fight to win. One more opponent to defeat. One more until Bison.

            The rain fell relentlessly, beating down hard upon the ground in a steady wave of discordant percussion blasts. Rat-a-tat-tat. She peered forwards through the mist of water to the hazy silhouette of her opponent standing across on the opposite end of the street. It was a man— fairly tall and well-built, sporting a blood red-bandana around his forehead and clothes as white as snow. His name was Ryu.

She stood stock still, her breaths coming in short bursts, her muscles tense with anxiousness. Ryu. She knew of him. A renowned martial arts master traveling the world in search of fights and worthy opponents. A quirky life-style to be sure, but she was not here to judge him; she was here to defeat him. And she would defeat him. All the training, the years at Interpol, fighting thugs, busting up drug deals, investigations of Shadowloo, waiting, waiting, more waiting. Now this. An open shot at Bison. A final chance to destroy him once and for all. She was ready this time, and she would win. She had to. For her father's sake.

            "Are you ready?"

            The sharp, clear-cut voice of the mediator awakened her from the stream of half-dozing thoughts on which she had settled, setting her back onto the broken, run-down city street on which the semi-finals would be fought. She gave a final look about her, studied the uneven pavement, the broken cement, the chipped concrete of the battlefield, and squared herself into her fighting position. She nodded.

            An uneasy silence swept through the scene. She stood there in absolute concentration, eyeing her opponent, ignoring the steady stream of raindrops which beaded down her face and splattered upon her dress. The blue cloth pasted itself firmly against her skin, having been rendered heavy by the flood of water which splashed all around. She waited intently, listening for the shout which would finally signal the match's beginning.

            "Then FIGHT!"

            And she was off, moving quicker than she had ever moved, running faster than she had ever ran. Her pent up anger, frustration, hate— it was released in one sudden burst of malevolent will, fueled by her savage desire to get to the man who killed her father. She madly ran at her opponent— a human blur attacking with blinding speed, charging with all the ferocity of a raging bull. Her blood sped up. Her breaths quickened. Her fist pulled back into the ferocious punch which would surely end the fight in one decisive blow…

            And he stepped aside. Dodging deftly to the left, he swung his arms fiercely to the side, back-handing her a violent blow to the head as she charged on past. She gave a cry of pain as she was knocked forwards, falling down roughly onto the concrete of the street.

But she was back up almost immediately. Hitting the ground rolling, she shielded her face and leapt to her feet just in time to intercept another punch from her opponent. Catching the fist in mid-air, she twisted to the side and gave a quick knee to the chest. He reeled back momentarily stunned, allowing her the time to quickly spin around into the position of a hand-stand.

            "Spinning Bird Kick!"

            Kicking her legs upwards, she twisted her body and laid into him with a series of helicopter kicks to the face. He fell backwards to the ground, but caught himself in mid-air and backward somersaulted onto his feet.

            "Yahhhhh!"

            She charged him again, launching a flurry of quick punches and kicks to keep on the pressure. Left. Right. Left. Right. Once again he was ready for the assault, and easily dodged or blocked the storm of attacks which beset him from all sides. The onslaught was ferocious but uncontrolled. An opening. All he needed was an opening. Side-stepping one kick to the right, he leaped upwards into the air. She froze. It was too late.

            "Hurricane kick!"       

For a split instant time seemed to slow to a crawl. She could see him sailing lazily through the air— face contorted, leg outstretched, flaming red bandana flying wild in the breeze. And she could see herself too: defenseless, surprised, a little girl frozen in place and time as the memories and hopes of a past and future slowly shattered into a million pieces. She saw herself drawing backwards in startled terror, her eyes wide open in fear, vainly trying to avoid the storm of kicks which surged mercilessly forwards.

And then the blows fell.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Each kick struck with a singular power, raining relentlessly upon her face and head with all the force of a mighty peal of rolling thunder. She heard herself scream, heard the notes and echoes of her yells and cries mingle and disappear into the torrent and shrieks of the encircling wind. Red… red… so much red… Her neck snapped backwards, her body crumpled to the ground, her head banged against the concrete with all the helplessness of a discarded rag doll.

            "Father…"

            A long, tortuous groan escaped the threshold of her lips as she lay upon the chipped pavement of the ancient street— unable to see, unable to feel, unable to move her legs at all. Red… red… red all around… she couldn't see. The cold drops of rain continued to beat relentlessly down, the water now draining upon the shadows of the street to mix and bleed with the syrupy liquid of her own blood. A million colors danced bright upon the threshold of her mind; a hundred voices cried out in the depths of her ears. She… she couldn't move. It was over, wasn't it?

            "… daddy… baba…"

            No. It wasn't over. It couldn't be over. Not now. Not then. Not like this! Not when she had come so close! She forced herself to move her arm, crying out in pain when the sharp feeling of burning fire ripped through her arm like the heated points of a thousand needles. Get up. Get up. Get up! With one violent motion she twisted herself upon her belly, biting her lip to restrain the scream which sounded aloud in her head. She pushed herself upwards. So… so much blood. Her tears rinsed the red liquid away from her eyes, allowing her to see the pool of dark crimson in which she so helplessly lay. Oh god… too much… it was too much… Her hands quivered, her arms gave way; she cried out as the warm drops splashed violently against her face. How… how could she?

            "Don't over exert yourself."

And suddenly there was a hand on her shoulder; a touch at once both gentle yet firm, strong yet delicate. She knew who it was right away.

"Relax. I'm going to help you. The match is over."

No! It wasn't over yet! Not yet! She spun wildly around to face him, screaming out with all the pain and anger of her soul and body. She wouldn't lose! She wouldn't! The pain shot wildly threw her arms as she punched outward with all her remaining strength, drawing forth a sharp gasp of air from her quivering lips. The tears flowed unrelentingly forward, spilling down her cheeks, mixing with the rain and dirt of her blood-soaked garments. She had to fight on. She had to… for her father's sake… for her father's memory… she had to…

            And then the world blurred. Her breathing became shallow and staggered; the screams of her voice drowned out into a silence of nothingness. She could still feel herself punching. Punching. Punching. Ever punching. But at what? The punches stopped. An arm was suddenly cradling her head. A hand was wiping away the tears and blood of her eyes. And then she was being lifted up into the air, high up by a force she could neither see nor feel. The light faded. The day ended. The night closed in…

            Chun-Li opened her eyes. The pale-golden shine of the early morning sun filtered in through the glass of a nearby windowpane, bathing the small, rather cramped bed chambers in a halo of soft yellow light. The golden morning seemed to be almost reluctant as it extended its glowing fingers gingerly across the room, as if suddenly ashamed at having awakened the figure of the lone girl who lay reposing quietly upon the small, make-shift wooden cot tucked cozily into the corner.

She blinked. So bright… why did it always have to be so bright in the mornings? The sun was always her enemy during those first few seconds after awakening, shamelessly taunting her clouded sleep-ridden mind with the cursed rays of its overly optimistic sun-shine. Pushing herself upwards with a slow sluggish groan, she desperately fought the urge to fling herself back onto bed and sleep the day away.

"Come on Chun." She moaned softly to herself as she forced one foot upon the floor,  "It's time to get up. Rise and shine."

It was of no use. The omnipotent powers of sleep quickly overwhelmed her futile resistances in a matter of moments, and she found herself once again on the mattress of her bed. Ughhh. It was almost always like this in the mornings. She hated it. Oh how she hated it.

"Get up. Get up Get up! Too much sleep is bad for you."

So spoke her mind. Her body, however, seemed just fine with forever languishing lazily under the cover of the blankets. What time was it? The alarm bell hadn't rang yet. Maybe she could sneak in a few more moments of precious sleep time before she was forced to truly get up? Yes, that sounded reasonable. Tilting her head upwards, she threw a dazed glance towards the rusted mechanical clock which stood ever ticking on the wooden surface of her bed-stand nearby.

            10:15.

            "Oh no!"

She fairly leapt out from under her blankets. Ten-fifteen?! Why hadn't the alarm bell sounded?! Leaping down violently upon the hard-wood floor, she gazed about herself in a dazed and confused manner. Oh! There was no time now! She was late! Oh was she ever late! Sprinting over to the dresser, she quickly tore off her nightgown with one violent motion, replacing the soft cotton with the warmer fabric of a brown, coarse-knit sweater. She muttered angrily to herself as she fumbled around for a pair of jeans, verbally kicking herself for relying on that piece of crap clock in the first place.

            "Not even time for a bath." She sighed forlornly to herself as she picked up a comb and sloppily worked it through the dark-brown strands of her ruffled sleep-damaged hair. It had never been too difficult for people to tell when she had had a good nights sleep; the condition of her hair said it all. On days directly following the peacefulness of a restful slumber, her hair was always shiny and vivid— at the absolute peak of its possible performance. On nightmarish nights when she would spend her hours tossing and turning, however, her hair would oftentimes transform into nothing more than an entangled ball of chaotic messiness. In the mornings she would try to comb it down it was sure, but sometimes it was beyond the limits of possible salvation.

            And speaking of nightmares…

            A slight frown of displeasure slowly furrowed itself over the lines of her brows. Nightmares… there had been something there during the course of the night. She could vaguely remember something; a feeling— an expression of intense pain from the deepest recesses of her mind. That dream… what had it been about? She couldn't quite recall it now. During the nighttime it had been so vivid, so full of the seeds of human emotion— anger, fear, desperation— it had all been there. Now there was barely a slight tinge of leftover memory remaining to evidence its existence at all.

It didn't really matter. She could lay a fair guess on what the dream had been about anyway. Undoubtedly it had been the same nightmare which had haunted her repeatedly for the past few months. Nightmare? No, not so much a nightmare as a memory. A memory of her final assignment as an agent of Interpol.

            "What a way to go out." She remarked sarcastically to herself, twisting her hair into two braided buns which she neatly tied down with a pair of ribbons. That hadn't been too long ago. The day still stood vividly in her mind— a memory to forever burn imprinted in the darkest reaches of her consciousness. She had been too overconfident; too sure of herself; too much filled with the lusts of her own ambitions to fight with a clear and steady mind. That wasn't the way her father had taught her. Her father would have chastised her. Her father would have disapproved…

            "I'm sorry baba…" She sighed, brushing away a creeping tear from the corners of her eyes. Great. She was getting emotional again. When was she going to stop crying? The past was over and done with. Nothing would ever change how events had unfolded on that fateful day. And just what exactly was she so upset about anyway? Bison was dead; the drug ring of the Shadowloo empire destroyed and scattered into a million pieces. Interpol couldn't have asked for a more satisfying way to end the conflict.

            And yet… and yet…

            A deep unsettling feeling still lay buried deep within her. All those years at Interpol… what had it all been for? All those exhaustive afternoons spent in the office under mountains of paper, those sleepless nights of endless tossing and turning, the seemingly infinite hours of training— had they really meant anything? The hand that struck down Bison had not belonged her; it had belonged instead to a wandering warrior by the name of Ryu…

            "Ryu."

            And it all came back to him. How long had it taken him to utterly destroy the very foundation upon which her life had been built upon? Chun-Li bit down on her lip, fought the wave of violent fury which swelled deep inside her. No. There was no need to be mad at him. He was after all only another contestant who had participated in the Street Fighter tournament; an innocent unaware of the true nature of the tournament or of the sinister organization which acted as host. What could he possibly have known about her feelings; what could he have possibly hoped to understand about the helpless sense of desperation she felt as she writhed in that crimson pool of her own blood? And yet the fact still remained…

            "Never-mind…" She sighed to herself, shaking the thought away as she quickly finished up her hair. It wasn't worth thinking about it. The past was in the past, right? What would fretting possibly accomplish? A slight smile crept upon her features as she headed for the door. All that mattered was the present, and presently she was happy, right? She had a place here— a normal life with a normal job away from all the chaos and turbulence of an average day at Interpol. What more could she ask for?

            Chun-Li breathed out a deep sigh of relief as she stepped a foot out into the cold glare of the Chinese winter sun. It was a beautiful day.