Article: 17310 of alt.games.mk Path: senator-bedfellow.mit.edu!bloom-beacon.mit.edu!mojo.eng.umd.edu!cs.umd.edu!news.umbc.edu!europa.eng.gtefsd.com!howland.reston.ans.net!EU.net!uunet!newstf01.cr1.aol.com!newsbf01.news.aol.com!not-for-mail From: vctr113062@aol.com (Vctr113062) Newsgroups: alt.games.mk Subject: FANFIC: "The Blood On My Hands" 1/8 (Kitana) Date: 1 Nov 1994 00:58:18 -0500 Organization: America Online, Inc. (1-800-827-6364) Lines: 411 Sender: news@newsbf01.news.aol.com Message-ID: <394ldq$hdb@newsbf01.news.aol.com> NNTP-Posting-Host: newsbf01.news.aol.com "All the time people say to me, 'Vlad, how do you do it? How come you're so good at killing people? What's your secret?' I tell them, 'There is no secret. It's like anything else. Some guys plaster walls, some guys make shoes, I kill people. You just gotta learn the trade and practice until you're good at it.'" -Vladimir Taltos, "Phoenix" "Step One: Barter your soul to demons." -Kitana THE BLOOD ON MY HANDS For as long as I can remember, Master Kahn has been my god. It is so easy to serve him, officially as a warrior and unofficially as an assassin. All I have to do is obey, and in return, he takes care of my every need. I never have to worry about the future's pitfalls. The only purpose I need in my life is to protect and serve Master Kahn. If not for him, I would be lost, faced with innumerable uncertainties, and utterly alone. Alone, that is, except for my only blood relation. She is my twin sister, Mileena. Mileena... how should I begin to describe her? I have never seen her unmasked. Never. Even when we were children, she wore that pink satin mask about her nose and lower face at all times, although I freely went barefaced. Once, when we were young, I tried to pull Mileena's mask down as part of a madcap child's prank. We were playing in the Armory; that intensely warm chamber fascinated us both. (Master Kahn allowed us both the free run of his entire domain. We had guardians, of a sort, but they never spoke and never intervened unless we were in imminent danger... such as when I tried to hold the pretty, lime-green waters of the acidic castle moat in my cupped hand.) We were drawn to the slow-moving, incandescent rivulet of molten iron near the Armory's far wall. The liquefied metal flowed through a parallel set of carved stone gutters, one taller than we were, another at our feet. There was no ledge or rail to protect the unwary from falling in. Molten overflow in the upper trough slowly poured through evenly spaced perforations into the lower trough. Both troughs channeled their contents to other chambers reserved solely for weapon-making. One end of the Armory stored the weaponsmiths' latest crop of newly-forged armaments. At the other end of the Armory, broken weapons and armor accumulated until they were smelted into fuel, so that the cycle could begin anew. Among the heaped piles of cold steel and languid pools of hot metal, Mileena and I were playing hide-and-seek. She was counting, with her arms crossed in front of her face, and she leaned forward on the far side of one of the Armory's square pillars. The viscous rivulet of oozing metal silently coursed some ten feet behind her. Our guards observed both of us carefully. Since Mileena had turned back upon me, I, mischievous little girl that I was, hatched a spontaneous scheme: what a funny practical joke it would be, to yank down her mask and finally see what she looked like underneath it! It would be a simple matter to silently approach her and whisk her satin veil away, before she could react. Or so I thought. I was wrong. As soon as my fingers touched her cheek, she swung her elbow back, hitting my forehead. She followed up the unexpected blow with a reverse kick, the hard heel of her foot catching me solidly in my chest, all without turning around. I flew backward. My arms clumsily flailed in an instinctive impulse to soften my fall; they twisted underneath me when I landed upon the Armory's warm stone floor. A sharp ledge struck the back of my head, hard enough to scrape open my skin. The ugly, crackling sound of something smoldering assaulted my ears. I had landed just short of the lower creek of molten iron; the further extremity of my long black hair touched the superheated metal, and its red-hot warmth had set my tresses alight. Had Mileena been strong enough to kick me with just a little more force, I might have fallen in completely. I think I screamed, and started to cry. Our guards rushed forward. Before they could reach me, Mileena turned around, simultaneously readjusting the corner of her mask, and jumped. She cleared the distance between us effortlessly - I would have gaped in awe of her grace if I weren't so terrified - and landed heavily upon my upper body. The wind rushed out of my lungs, one of my ribs cracked, and I almost, but not quite, fainted from the pain. My eyes were wide with bewilderment. Hers seethed with undiluted hatred and malice. Her left hand grabbed my hair and wrenched my head back, within inches of the gutter of molten metal. By now my guards were next to me and attempting to restrain her, but they could not stop her right hand from delivering a crushing blow to my throat. I died. I clearly remember dying. When I awakened, Mileena was by my bedside. She said that she was sorry I had gotten hurt, but it had been my own fault for provoking her. Then she asked me why had I done this to myself, hadn't I known better, and had I learned my lesson for the future? Her hands spasmodically clenched and unclenched while she waited for my answer. When I managed a slight nod, she turned and left without farewell. Once she was gone, I noticed that I had been holding my breath, and slowly let it out, waiting for the tension in my muscles to recede. She had been faster than me. She has always been faster than me. I grew up knowing this; our games of tag were a constant reminder. I would invariably be "it," and she would taunt me, always staying out of my reach, while I strained to keep up with her. She sprinted without exertion, gliding like some ethereal ghost, her feet barely seeming to brush against the ground. I pursued, desperately laboring for additional velocity, my unwieldy feet pounding with each frantic step. But the full extent of her swiftness never truly sank in until that one day, the first time she ever turned on me without restraint. Every move she'd made had been a blur, faster than I could react, faster than our guards could react, perhaps faster than anyone could have reacted. Since then I have undertaken countless hours of daily training, tests of strength and stamina, acrobatics, and sprinting, so that I myself am one of the most agile warriors in the Outworld. Despite all my efforts to narrow the gap, she remains faster than me. Perhaps that is why I have never tried to remove her mask again, or even ask her about it. Three years after that fatal incident, I took to wearing a mask of my own at Master Kahn's request. Since then, I have never questioned why Mileena wears hers; I've assumed that the Master expects it of her, just as he expects it of me. Comparative dexterity aside, there is only one other physical distinction between Mileena and me: our voices. Her voice rasps and grates upon every syllable. She cannot speak two words without sounding cruelly sarcastic. In contrast, my natural voice is fairly mellifluous. I can even sing, a little. I flatter myself to think that I am tolerably good at it. Sometimes, during the rare moments when I am not busy carrying out my obligations to Master Kahn, I retreat to my private quarters and reread the two books I have upon music. I've been training myself to play a small, wooden flute, which took me two months to painstakingly carve. The Master takes a dim view of such "frivolous" undertakings in general, but he has not explicitly forbidden me to practice my hobby... not that I have ever brought the topic up for discussion. I've never told anyone, including my sister, about my private studies in music. Mileena has her secrets, and I have mine. ***************************************************************** People should know better. One would think that by now, Master Kahn's subjects would have learned not to oppose him. There is not a single successful tale of anyone who ever rebelled against him in the smallest way. But there are always fools who are lost in their own self- importance, jokers who think "it can't happen to me," and suicidal madmen. These are the ones who keep me busy. My duty is to search out troublemakers and deal with them - permanently. I remember them all. Sometimes, when I am wandering the misty domain between wakefulness and sleep, I can see their faces frozen in death. When I am fully asleep, I sometimes hear their voices cry screams, pleas, insults, or incoherent cries of rage. The effect is so chilling that I awaken in a cold sweat. I don't know why. They don't pose any threat to me. They are dead, and will stay dead forever; the only beings in the Outworld with the power to undo death are Master Kahn and his recently returned minion, Shang Tsung, the shape-shifting sorcerer. The Master had spent over five hundred years preparing for the day when Shang Tsung would pave the road to further conquests and glory. Shang Tsung's duty was to unbalance the Cosmic Furies, and permanently breach the barriers between the Outworld and the Mother Realm. He planned to open the gateway at the climax of his grandiose martial arts Tournament, but something went disastrously wrong. A Shaolin monk named Liu Kang won the Tournament, sowing the seeds of chaos amidst the sorcerer's designs. The carefully nurtured vortex between two worlds collapsed in on itself. Shang Tsung died. Shang Tsung's Outworld liaison, the four-armed, half-human half-dragon prince Goro, disappeared without a trace. If Master Kahn had any part of Goro's body, then he could expend his power to revive Goro, just as he brought Shang Tsung back from the dead, just as he brought me back when Mileena killed me. Master Kahn's single most powerful servant, Adjutant General Kintaro, searched the rubble of Shang Tsung's former palace for three days and three nights without finding Goro. Goro is gone forever only because his body _cannot_ be found... an irony appreciable to anyone familiar with the protocols of death and murder. Such as myself. I do not understand why Master Kahn has renewed Shang Tsung's youth and replenished his power. The Master claims that Shang Tsung stays loyal to him out of "respect." I have maintained an uneasy, covert vigilance of the sorcerer regardless. Master Kahn may be generous enough to give him the benefit of the doubt, but I am not so charitable. Shang Tsung is too capricious, too prone to excess, and too self- obsessed with his quest for "immortality." He is not as loyal to Master Kahn as I am. Then again, I suppose few beings are as loyal to Master Kahn as I am. He is my god, after all. ***************************************************************** For several weeks now, Master Kahn has been keeping two warriors from the Mother Realm prisoner. They are chained to concrete pedestals in his Arena, near where the Wasteland borders his city of Shokan. The Master has decreed that they shall remain there, on display like taxidermic trophies, until they swear allegiance to him. It strikes me that he is going to a disproportionally large amount of trouble over two mere mortals, but it is not my place to question his will. I have, mostly out of boredom and curiosity, taken it upon myself to personally inspect the captives. There was quite literally nothing better for me to do. Master Kahn had not sent me on any missions in weeks, presumably because there hadn't been any recent events serious enough to warrant my intervention. I was not the only one who was bored. Mileena was there, talking to the male prisoner. She was too far away for me to make out her words, but when she brought one of her sai up against the great vein of his throat, her meaning became all too clear. "Mileena! What are you doing!" I called, quickening my pace. She turned her head toward me, without letting up on the pressure of the sai. Mileena's eyes are brown, like mine, yet I can't help thinking that they should be blue - the cold blue of deadened human skin overexposed to the frosty bite of the elements. For Mileena is a practitioner of Ice Sorcery. Where she learned it, I don't know... Ice Sorcery is rarely used or taught in Shokan because of its dangerous and unpredictable side effects. Some say that the Sorcery of Ice chills both outward and inward, literally and figuratively. It is reputed to replace one's capability for compassion with glacial aloofness, and turn one's blood as frigid as the current of a winter river. "Cold, her look; cold, her touch; and cold, some say, her heart," goes the archaic adage. I do not know whether the warnings are true. Mileena can be cool and unfeeling sometimes, but that was part of her nature long before she undertook her sorcerous studies. She has become moderately adept at using Ice Sorcery offensively through her chosen weapon, the paired sai. The desire of her will converts her silver sai into the azure essence of pure frigidity, which she can hurl at a distant foe; then, her weapons mysticly re-form on her person. Most times, I doubt that the casting of a few spells could have any effects upon her personality or physiology. And then there are times when she looks at me as if to freeze me solid where I stand, and I shiver as if flinching from an arctic wind. "Oh, Kitana," she drawled, "you _never_ let me have any fun." "Master Shao Kahn's orders are to leave the prisoners be." I have never understood her fascination with torture any more than her fascination with ice. The infliction of physical or mental torment is a notoriously unreliable means of extracting information; the one being tormented won't necessarily say the truth, but rather whatever he thinks his captors want to hear. And outside of being used to gather information, torture is a pointless waste of valuable time and resources. Our duty is to swiftly eliminate the Master's enemies, not to wallow in gratuitously excessive displays of sadism. I have told Mileena that more than once. It is not that she refuses to listen; rather, it is as if I am speaking to her in a cryptic foreign language, and she cannot comprehend my words. Instead of continuing her protests, as I expected her to, Mileena shocked me by abruptly asking, "And since when do you care anything for the Master's orders?" What in all the Astral Planes...!? "I don't know what you are talking about, sister." Was this another of her mean- spirited jests? If so, then it was not at all funny! Mileena removed the dagger from the prisoner's throat, and twirled her paired sai in her either hand. "Don't you... _sister_?" I remained rooted where I stood, speechless with disbelief and motionless from astonishment. Master Shao Kahn is my god! My loyalty to him is and has always been absolute! How dare she insinuate - just what _was_ she insinuating? My sister had crossed the distance to the female prisoner, and was treating her in much the same way as she'd treated the male. The prisoner did not react in any way save to vacantly stare at her. "Mileena!" I snapped once more. She used her sorceries to warp and disappear from view before I could question her further. The male prisoner interrupted my stunned silence with an expletive, and made a pass at me. I suggested that he accept the offer to become part of the Master's army, and resisted the desire to behead him. He refused, but I knew that it would be only a matter of time before he came to see things our way. He had the feel of a killer. Not just any common street thug or deranged madman, but a practiced, professional killer, who knows how to insert a knife in the back of one enemy and invite all the others to dinner. I could feel the gaze of the female prisoner on me as I departed. Turning around to look at her, I saw - blankness. Nothing. No spark. No substance. Her eyes were stagnant pools of blue-tinged grey, more cold in their own way than my sister's worst, most hate-filled stare could ever be. At least I know beyond doubt that Mileena is alive. That day had been jarring, but it was nothing compared to the days that followed. At one point, I happened to walk past the Arena. I briefly deliberated going in, then decided against it. I'd give the prisoners a little more time to reflect upon their hopeless state before reiterating the Master's offer. I was about to leave when I glimpsed Mileena and Major General Baraka in the shadow of the door jamb. They were engaged in hushed conversation. Maj. General Baraka is one of the few beings who genuinely frightens me. He is not human; he belongs to a malformed generation of one-time humans whose bodies and genes were scarred by fallout from the Great War. "Mutants," we call them, yet that simple word cannot begin to describe their hideous appearance. Their skin is colored a jaundiced yellow-brown; their bodies are lean and wiry. The males almost never have hair. Their strength is, on the average, one and a half times greater than a corresponding human's. Cut them open and they may bleed red, brown, or brackish black blood, depending upon the individual. Their flesh is colder and stiffer than ours, and adapts to foreign objects more easily; some of them undergo surgery without anesthesia to graft metal weapons onto their limbs. Baraka in particular has retractile swordblades embedded in the backs of his forearms. By far the most psychologically chilling aspect of the Outworld's mutants is their faces - especially their sunken, solid red eyes, and their anomalously wide maws of metal-coated teeth. Their faces are virtually frozen in a nauseating rictus grin, with their lips peeled abnormally far back, further than any living human could ever manage. Despite the impression I may give, it is not Baraka's image that instills quiet terror within me. Appearances can be extremely deceiving, as any experienced spy will tell you. No, what bothers me is that I know Baraka; he is prone to unreasoning fits of murderous rage, due to his unpredictable temper. I suspect he has no true loyalty to anyone, not even Master Kahn. Baraka is a nigh-unstoppable killing machine with no heart, no soul, and no remorse. I should know; I've ordered him to kill and watched him relish every second of it. Setting aside my unease, I approached the strange couple, intending to question Mileena about the accusations she'd made the previous morn. Before I could say a word, though, she took her eyes off Baraka, glared at me, and hissed, "Leave, 'sister.' This doesn't concern you!" Baraka also stared at me; I could only guess what thoughts might lurk behind those empty red eyes. I had nothing to gain by prolonging the implicit conflict, so I muttered, "I need to talk with you later," and left. At the time, I thought nothing more of the encounter. It wasn't until much later that I began to ask myself just what business Mileena and Baraka might have that "didn't concern me." I spent the evening practicing my singing within the soundproof walls of my private quarters. The next morning, I heard so many wild tales that at first I was sure they must be groundless rumors; but all my sources confirmed everything. The male prisoner had slipped out of his chains and attempted to flee. Baraka had stopped him, with help from the female prisoner. Both prisoners had died in the process, and the Master had chosen to resurrect them. Baraka? The female prisoner? Why didn't Master Kahn ask me to hunt the escapee down? Must I chain myself to a concrete pedestal before he considers me worthy? ***************************************************************** "YOU MUST LET ME KILL HIM!" The furious scream cut into my ears so harshly I thought they might bleed. I choked back a snarl and fixed my eyes on the screamer. It was that miserable excuse for a petty magician, Shang Tsung. For the thousandth time, I wondered why the Master had bothered to resurrect him. Was there no one else in the entire Outworld who could create a permanent gate to the Mother Realm? And why, for that matter, did the Master agree to back Shang Tsung's wild fantasies of a second Tournament? Even now, they scheme to "lure" their enemies into their "trap," the better to "destroy them." Why should they need a Tournament to do that? No matter who or what threatens the Master, Mileena and I could make them vanish for good. We are not called "the Master's Right Hand" and "the Master's Left Hand" for nothing. But he has not requested our services. I don't understand. We have served the Master faithfully! Neither of us has ever failed! Shang Tsung _has_ failed, and yet the Master entrusts him with the responsibility of delivering their "mutual enemies" to his "Tournament"...! One advantage to wearing a mask is that my concealed face cannot give away my inner feelings. My eyes won't betray me, unless I am not careful to rigorously control the burning drives to narrow my eyelids into slits, or knit my brows into angry furrows. And so, as I heard Shang Tsung's sniveling yelps encroach upon the divine sanctity of the Master's throne room, I erased all traces of righteous outrage from my demeanor. Not that Shang Tsung could see me - I hid in my ceiling niche close to the Master's throne - but it is a good habit to keep in practice. "Damn you, Shao Kahn!" the sorcerer ranted. "Enough of your games! Do as you wish with the rest, but LET ME KILL LIU KANG!" I held one of my bladed fans in each hand. A word, a single gesture from the Master, and I could have dropped from above, using their lethal edge to shear off that whining dog's head before I touched the ground. It would not have been the first time... yet Master Kahn neither spoke the word nor made the gesture. He did not want me to interfere. "-you've GOT to let me KILL him, he's a danger to us all! I'll bring you other mortal warriors for your Tournament! I'll bring you a whole ARMY of mortal warriors! But LIU KANG HAS TO DIE! YOU MUST-" Master Kahn stepped down from his ebony, skull-decorated throne, swinging his massive right arm in a gesture that might have seemed lazy if not for its staggering velocity. His open hand squarely cuffed Shang Tsung's face. Shang Tsung slammed against the wall behind him with a sickening sound, then slumped to the floor. The force of his crash had crumpled the solid gold decorations upon the wall's white marble surface. A slow-moving stain of fresh blood worked its way downward from where the back of his skull had connected. "...is this a bad time?" he croaked. No man could have survived that blow, not if he were caught unawares as Shang Tsung had been. Yet the shape-shifting sorcerer not only lived; he was still conscious, albeit dazed. I have no explanation for this, other than a speculation that his external, humanlike appearance is just another disguise. "I GIVE YOU _ONE_ WARNING," boomed the Master. He did not have to elaborate; Shang Tsung knew precisely what would happen to him if he did not heed the notice, and heed it well. "KNEEL, SLAVE, AND REPORT. HAVE YOU BROUGHT ME THE WARRIORS THAT I SENT YOU TO RETRIEVE?" Oh, the abhorrence in Shang Tsung's eyes! Couldn't the Master see it? I redoubled my vigilance. Shang Tsung genuflected and quickly explained that he'd tried to transport the warrior Liu Kang to the Master's palace. Soon after he brought Liu Kang through the unstable, prototype Portal near the fringe of the Master's domain, the monk turned upon him. Shang Tsung had fought back, severely hampered by the Master's orders not to kill or do severe injury to Liu Kang. The sorcerer had fled, leaving Liu Kang behind to wander the Outworld. "AND DO YOU FEAR THIS MONK SO MUCH THAT YOU REFUSE TO FACE HIM A THIRD TIME?" laughed the Master. "CAN'T YOU PERFORM THE SIMPLE TASK OF BRINGING ME _ONE_ LONE MORTAL, ALIVE AND UNHURT?" Shang Tsung's face flushed deep red. "If it were any other, yes I could. But Liu Kang...!" He licked his lips and shook his head slightly. "That is not within my power." "EVEN TAKING INTO ACCOUNT ALL THE SORCEROUS ENERGIES I HAVE INVESTED IN YOU?" The sorcerer flinched and averted his eyes from the Master's piercing gaze. "Master, you don't understand! I haven't told you what Liu Kang is capable of; after we both entered your realm, he-" The rumbling of Master Kahn's mirth sounded again, so pervading that the stone arch I crouched upon vibrated in synchronization. "AND IF ONE OF MY SERVANTS WITH MUCH LESS POWER THAN YOU WERE TO SUCCEED IN THIS TASK - THEN, WHAT WOULD YOU SAY?" At first, Shang Tsung looked ready to complete his interrupted sentence, but all he said was, "Master, I pity the servant who tries." I wondered what debased thoughts were crawling through his corrupt mind. Certainly not pity. Shang Tsung never wasted pity on anyone save himself. "SO YOU CLAIM," sneered the Master, folding his arms. I could just barely see his lips curl upward beneath his polished steel mask. Insight flared. At last, I knew the answer to a riddle that had plagued me for weeks. I intuitively grasped why Master Kahn deigned to permit Shang Tsung's continued existence: Entertainment. Master Shao Kahn is very old. I've heard appraisals of his age range from one thousand to ten thousand years. Those estimations are off by a factor of twenty. He is, quite literally, the oldest living being in the Outworld. Is it truly surprising how easily even the extravagant pleasures of conquest, rule, and power bore him? He has already seen and done so many things... Shang Tsung was a weak and traitorous lackey, yet his pathetic antics amused the Master. That Shang Tsung was no professional jester, but rather a deadly serious contender in his own right, only sharpened the razor keenness of the irony. The master chuckled; his pet clown fumed in silence. Then, without raising his eyes to my ceiling niche, Master Kahn thundered, "KITANA, I CHARGE YOU TO BRING ME THE WARRIOR LIU KANG, ALIVE AND UNHURT. YOU WILL SET OUT, ON WYVERNBACK, IN NO LESS THAN ONE HOUR FROM THIS TIME." I damn near dropped both my fans.