Detective Greenwood enters the scene of the crime, a classy penthouse in a high-end section of Super Bangkok. A sunset the color of electric grapefruit sizzles across the terrace’s window.
The gumshoe’s footsteps enter the kitchen with the crackle of static. On the floor is the deceased, a blonde Caucasian with a physique no casual gym devotee could ever achieve. The victim looks like he’d been cut out of granite, but now he’s just stone dead.
Detective Greenwood has been on homicide for more years than he can count. He likes to keep things simple. He stopped counting at ten. The victim’s neck is twisted but the rest of his body seems to be laying there in what seems to be a voluntary posture, flat on his back, almost comfortable.
Detective Greenwood kneels to inspect the man’s face. A trickle of blood stains the corner of the deceased’s mouth. There’s saliva as well, not just at the corners of the man’s lips, but all over his mouth. The detective leans in and sniffs. He closes his eyes and inhales more deeply this time. He nods his head.
“Detective Greenwood,” the voice of a cherub says behind him. “My name is Officer Mcgillicuddy. I’ve been assigned to shadow you, sir.”
“I thought I told the chief I wasn’t doing any more babysitting,” Detective Greenwood says as he rises and looks at the young officer up and down. “I don’t care how much karma they’re offering. I don’t want help and I certainly don’t need it.”
Detective Greenwood wears a slate gray trench coat and a dark suit beneath that. He has a formal necktie that changes color according to his mood. This is the one luxury of modern technology he allows himself.
Despite that fact, his necktie is always black, like his mood. His avatar is that of the classic private eye from the days of old. Officer Mcgillicuddy has gone for the avatar of a rookie beat cop, his blue uniform neat and pressed with just a slight shimmer of electric sheen across the material. His face is young, solemn, and eager to impress. He has a youthful innocence about him, like a boy-scout. Detective Greenwood’s face is full of contempt, but this is the game.
“Should I head back to the station, sir?” Officer Mcgillicuddy asks.
“No, no,” Detective Greenwood says. “Just stay out of my way, and we’ll get along fine.”
“Yes, sir,” Officer Mcgillicuddy says. “If you don’t mind, I did reach out to a few of the neighbors on my way upstairs. There weren’t any signs of struggle. They did, however, say that there was a visitor, sir. A woman, dressed in a peculiar manner. Oriental, sir, if that term is allowable. I’m not sure whether Chinese, Japanese, or what yet. As soon as we get access to the cameras around the perimeter, we can have a closer look.”
“That’s good work, Officer,” Detective Greenwood says, nodding his head and walking back toward the body. “But I’ve already determined the cause of death. It’s a bit of an unusual case, as our killer had her own special methods. We’ll have confirmation once the coroners get here, but if you look here, you’ll see where the neck was broken.”
“Yes, sir. Upper cervical fracture if I’m not mistaken.”
“It wasn’t broken by arms nor by hands.”
“Sir?”
“Take a closer look, Officer,” Detective Greenwood states. “Tell me if you see any evidence on the man’s face.”
“Discoloration of the lips would indicate asphyxiation. I also see some saliva, sir. Looks like the man was struggling for breath and choked a bit on his own vomit, sir. And of course, there’s a little blood.”
“Look closer, Officer.”
Officer Mcgillicuddy passes Detective Greenwood a curious glance and then takes out his standard issue spectrometers. He places the glasses over his eyes and can simultaneously see, hear, and smell ions that were just a moment ago undetectable to his rookie senses.
“Oh,” Officer Mcgillicuddy utters. “I see.”
The officer neatly folds up the spectrometers and places them back into his pocket.
“This tryst became a murder,” Detective Greenwood confirms. “Or perhaps it was meant to be a murder all along. We’ll get to that later once we dig up a motive. But for now, we know the facts of the case. The man’s neck was broken during cunnilingus. Whether forced or voluntary, again, we don’t know. Look at his ears, how pressed they are against his skull. See that? It’s almost like he had the cartilage in his ears completely flatted like a pancake against his own head.”
“So, the killer, uh,” Officer Mcgillicuddy stammers and almost blushes, “held the man’s head between her thighs…and then…twisted.”
Detective Greenwood and Officer Mcgillicuddy both inhale deeply, privately, for a moment. They look at each other and nod.
“Have the men collect some samples,” Detective Greenwood orders. “If there are any more cases like these, we’ll need to make a match. Collect the juices.”
2.
Detective Greenwood is sitting at a sushi carousel when Officer Mcgillicuddy enters the portal, wet from the rain. The water evaporates with a faint blue glow of ions as the officer steps into the realm of the Japanese. His clothes and hair return to “dry.”
In Super Bangkok, the avenues which connect players to portals are under constant tropical deluge. The splashy reflections of lurid neon on the wet streets distract players from the ever-changing shifts of pixels being traded and redefined in the streets of information. The shifts in virtual reality never end. It’s a city of amnesia. No one remembers anything—unless, of course, you offer them enough karma. That usually jogs their memory.
“What have you got for me, Officer?” Detective Greenwood says without breaking his concentration from the revolving plates of sushi.
“The I.D. on the stiff came back as Charles Nash, military,” Officer Mcgillicuddy reports, using his wristwatch to beam a holographic profile page into the space between them. The hologram is a vibrant display of images, video clips, and information from files and fandom pages “He was Guile’s superior officer and close friend.”
“Toxicology report?” Greenwood questions.
“Nothing. Totally clean.”
“So, it was consensual, at least at first,” Detective Greenwood says with a nod. He takes his chopsticks and stirs his wasabi and soy sauce, creating a greenish brown mixture. It seems he has no intention of eating. He’s only there to ruminate. “The only other fighter who could’ve done this is Cammy.”
“Do you think Cammy could’ve dressed up in Chun Li’s outfit to throw off a follow-up investigation?” Officer McGillicuddy wonders.
“She could’ve, but then Charlie would’ve known something foul was at play,” Detective Greenwood says, dismissing this theory. “He wouldn’t have danced into the mouth of a Venus Flytrap that easily.”
“Apparently, Cammy once worked for M. Bison during the war. Charlie never forgave her for that,” Mcgillicuddy confirms as he continues scanning the profile. “Chun Li and Ryu were the only two fighters who Charlie respected, outside of his friendship with Guile. That means that Chun Li killed a man who considered her a friend.”
“Anything is possible in Street Fighter,” Detective Greenwood says. “New characters, new plot twists. New reasons to fight. And for what? What do they even win?”
“Glory, sir?” Officer Mcgillicuddy ventures. “A chance to be Number 1?”
Detective Greenwood is full of rhetorical questions, as Officer Mcgillicuddy is discovering bit by bit. The detective already knows the answer to his own question.
“They want what we all want, Officer,” Detective Greenwood says, rising from the sushi carousel. “They want to keep playing forever. A game with no end.”
Officer Mcgillicuddy stands up and the two policemen begin to exit the Japanese restaurant.
“You said you had two things to tell me,” Detective Greenwood says before they exit the portal. “What was the second?”
“There’s another Street Fighter tournament coming up,” Officer McGillicuddy stammers, knowing now that he should’ve delivered this information sooner. “Two days from now.”
Detective Greenwood’s dark eyes glitter despite their charcoaled appearance. “There’s not much time. I want you to track down Guile. Let him know his superior officer has passed if he hasn’t heard already. Afterwards, let him go, but keep a tail on him. He might lead us to Chun Li. I’ll see what I can dig up on M. Bison. If there’s evil afoot in Street Fighter, there’s always the possibility that he’s behind it.”
Officer McGillicuddy nods in the affirmative. Detective Greenwood adjusts the brim of his hat as they step through the portal and out into the rain.
*
“It can happen that quickly,” Officer McGillicuddy thinks to himself later that night. “One moment, you’re in the vice grip of those incredibly toned legs. The next…snap.”
A squad car idles in the pouring rain. Palm fronds waver in the light wind. It’s dark and apart from prostitutes looking for karma to return from Game Overs, the neon streets are calm. The sound of drumming rain provides a deafening shield around Officer McGillicuddy’s vehicle as he sits behind the wheel with his pants down, breathing heavily as he imagines the moment of death with his face smothered in wet darkness. He feels himself about to come.
“Stop, stop!” Officer Mcgillicuddy commands himself, and forces himself to delay gratification, in perpetuity it seems. The young officer knows that if he shoots off his load, it’ll be game over. His character will die, and he’ll need to use more karma to continue the game. He’ll end up somewhere totally different and will be forced to live through the tediousness of going through the same motions to get back to this one, until he finally makes the right choice.
But what about Charlie? How far back will that fighter go? Charlie’s not part of this story anymore. He’s lost, somewhere in the Street Fighter universe, but he’ll never be in this game again.
And what if Officer McGillicuddy does encounter Chun Li and dies for real? Will he even end up in the Street Fighter universe or will he be reassigned to a more dismal game like Final Fight?
He shudders at the thought.
Officer Mcgillicuddy pulls up his pants and refastens his belt buckle with frustrated exhalations. His wife is always nagging him about how little karma they’ve saved, how many games he’s played, how many times they’ve had to start over.
“When the hell am I going to restart a game and find her happy?” he wonders.
Officer Mcgillicuddy gets out of the squad car and is immediately soaked by the digital rain. The raindrops look like infinite shards of glowing sparks, the splashes indicated by little flashes of light as the officer makes his way toward the bar where Guile agreed to a rendezvous. The officer is about to find out that, in fact, this is where Guile always is.
“Hola muchaho, looking for some fun?” a streetwalker dressed as a defeated Vega asks, accosting the officer and flicking his long hair. This prost doesn’t even try to hide the fact that his facemask is broken, as well as his claws. He looks like a total noob.
“I don’t swing that way, pal,” Officer McGillicuddy replies and steps into the bar.
Inside the bar, there’s a décor that is reminiscent of every G.I. bar you’ve ever seen in games or movies. The music is country, and the billiards are all occupied by bikers and war vets. Everyone has an American flag tattooed on their upper bicep and the only females in the vicinity are a collection of miniskirt-wearing bots, there to cheer on their man or egg on a fight, whatever stage the night is in.
The boozy atmosphere is complete with a wooden bar lined with bottles, but the only thing anyone ever drinks around here is either whisky or beer. The beer mugs are yellow and foamy, and no matter how much gets drunk, the mugs never reach the bottom. The whisky glasses are filled and then emptied as soon as the tipping back motion is activated. It’s a place made for players who want to remember the retro days. Everything is 16-bit at best and a little hazy.
In the middle of the bar, an unmistakable crest of stiff blonde hair is there, waiting for the officer. Guile’s back and shoulder muscles are in evidence under his army green tank top. Guile is wearing camo-pants as usual as well as his service boots. His dog tags hang over the bar as he hunches over his drink.
“Guile,” Officer Mcgillicuddy says and sits down. He knows that a company introduction is the last thing Guile wants to hear. This is a man who’s just lost his best friend and mentor. “I’m sorry about Charlie. I know you guys go way back. I just want to start by offering my condolences.”
Guile turns to Officer McGillicuddy, clearly drunk. It seems like he can barely see straight, but despite this fact, his face remains as stoic as ever. He was never designed to shed tears.
“He was my best friend. He saved my ass more times than I can count back in that jungle,” Guile says somberly, trying to focus his blue eyes on McGillicuddy’s. “First, we lost Jimmy in Brazil where he became that green, orange-haired, electrified freak. Now, it’s Charlie.”
“It must be hard losing your comrades, long after the war has ended,” Officer McGillicuddy says gently.
“THE WAR’S NOT OVER!” Guile shouts, slamming his fist on the bar. The bar almost breaks in half. Guile begins to cry tearlessly into his chiseled forearm.
“Guile, we may have some information that could lead us to Charlie’s killer,” the officer says, trying a more direct tact.
“But isn’t it possible that Charlie’s not really dead?” Guile says, turning to Officer McGillicuddy with uncharacteristic emotion. “We thought we lost him once to M. Bison. But he came back. He came back and almost won the Street Fighter tournament. Maybe this is all just a ruse to throw us off. Maybe Charlie will come back this time and win!”
Officer McGillicuddy nods at the bartender and accepts a double-shot of whatever Guile’s having. Probably whisky, but who knows? It looks flat, brown, and depressing. He takes the shot.
“Guile, I don’t think Charlie is going to come back this time. But we can still get justice.”
“Tell me who did it,” Guile says, leaning closer to Mcgillicuddy now. He presses his face uncomfortably close to the officer’s. “I’ll take him out in three moves. Roundhouse, sweep, flash kick. It’s over.”
“We have reason to suspect it’s Chun Li,” Officer McGillicuddy says, leaning back cautiously. He’s not sure what kind of rivalry the two have had in the past, who bested the other in which series. There were so many. Privately though, he grimaces, knowing that instead of beating off to Chun Li in his car, he should’ve been studying their fights and understanding their dynamics. Maybe next game…if there is a next game.
“That commie bitch,” Guile says simply, summing up their relationship in those words alone. “You can never trust a commie, even if they help you win from time to time. There’s always an end game, and a million compromises along the way. I’ll kill her. I’ll suplex that bitch into the ground!”
“Was there ever anything romantic between Charlie and Chun Li?” Officer McGillicuddy asks, sensing the conversation is about to become unmanageable in the next drink or two.
Guile side-glances at Office McGillicuddy and smirks at him with contempt.
“We’re all designed to be men, are we not?” Guile says, leering at the officer. “Who of us wouldn’t love to feel those thunder thighs around our ears?”
Officer McGillicuddy keeps himself from showing any signs of agreement or hints that this is exactly the way Charlie Nash died.
Guile takes a shot and immediately orders another one.
“She only loved one man,” Guile continues. “The only man who never had any interest in her.”
“Ryu?” Officer McGillicuddy guesses correctly.
Guile nods. “The only thing Ryu was ever interested in was the tournament. He only wanted to get better, to keep on training, forever.”
Guile squeezes the shot glass in his hand until it shatters. He ignores the blood trickling down his wrist.
“To tell you the truth, I bet Ryu’s a virgin. He’s probably never even touched a woman, worried that busting a nut would weaken his ki.”
“Do you think Chun Li might’ve killed Charlie in order to help Ryu win?” Officer McGillicuddy asks.
“I don’t know why she killed Charlie, if she did in fact kill him,” Guile says. “But if she did, that means that I’m next.”
“If you need any protection—” Office McGillicuddy starts, then shuts his mouth when he sees the look in Guile’s eyes.
Guile plays it cool and reaches for a comb. He brushes that amazing crest of hair a few times and puts his comb back.
“Tell me, Officer. Why is it that women always fall in love with the ones who don’t want them?” Guile asks.
Officer McGillicuddy has no idea. He only knows that the woman he fell in love with seems to hate his guts yet needs his paycheck every week and makes his life a gamified hell.
“Do you know where I can find Ryu?” Officer McGillicuddy asks.
Guile orders another shot and takes it down. He’s beyond drunk now.
“Charlie was the best,” Guile mumbles to himself, no longer listening to the officer. “If I find Chun Li, I swear it’s going to be SONIC BOO-hoo-hoo…”
Guile crumples into sadness over his lost mentor and friend.
Officer McGillicuddy doesn’t want to see his old hero this way. How many times did he marvel at the perfect arch of Guile’s flash kick as a kid?
He pays the tab in karma, despite knowing the shitstorm he can expect when he gets home.
3.
Detective Greenwood’s wristwatch beeps. Detective Greenwood covers the glow with his hand and answers quietly, without removing his eyes from M. Bison’s fortress in the distance.
“What’ve you got for me, Officer?” he asks in a hushed and gruff tone.
“It’s Ken Masters,” Officer McGillicuddy’s voice says somberly. “He’s dead, sir.”
Detective Greenwood grits his teeth, knowing he should’ve anticipated this earlier. He never thought that Ken, the only fighter to rival Ryu, could fall victim to the charms of Chun Li.
“Broken neck?”
“No, sir. Looks like he’d been kicked repeatedly. Lightning kicks, sir.”
“I’m on my way.”
Storms pass overhead as Detective Greenwood drives through the Thai jungle on the highway back to Super Bangkok. Lightning flashes and for a moment illuminates the serene face of a fallen Buddha.
The huge reclining Buddha statue was the battleground where Ryu and Sagat had the infamous showdown that left Sagat with a scar on his chest from Ryu’s Shoryuken.
That spinning uppercut left the Thai kickboxer disgraced, forced to work as a handsomely paid flunky for M. Bison, abandoning any hope of becoming the world’s best fighter. Indeed, no one would ever—could ever—match Ryu in his singular purpose to become the greatest warrior the world has ever seen. It was almost futile to try.
“Yet, they come from every part of the globe to test their strength against each other, and ultimately, against this one man,” Detective Greenwood thinks to himself. “Only Ken ever stood a chance against the fighter who was able to defeat M. Bison, and now Ken is dead. What’s Chun Li’s angle? Is it to propel Ryu to an ensured victory, or is it to increase her own chances of winning?”
Super Bangkok isn’t just the prime location for this Street Fighter universe to link portals because of its love of blood sports. It’s also a neutral network where political affiliations are meaningless, voting histories null, where red and blue party lines are transformed into a spectrum of neon.
Despite all this, Detective Greenwood’s intuition won’t leave him alone. What if these Chun Li murders go deeper than the tournament itself?
“What if,” he wonders, trying one last time to shake this feeling of paranoia, “the Chun Li murders are the product of a greater conspiracy?”
Detective Greenwood hits the brakes with a squeal of tires against the gravel. He veers right at a fork in the road and changes course for Super Bangkok International. He calls Officer McGillicuddy and says, “Change of plans, Officer. Meet me at the airport. We’re getting on the next flight to Japan.”
“Japan, sir? But the tournament is in two days. Chun Li is still at large. She might strike at any moment,” Officer McGillicuddy stammers in surprise.
“We know where she’ll be,” Detective Greenwood says. “I’ll skip Ken’s dojo. Tell me everything on the plane.”
The two officers flash their I.D.’s and passports at the airport and get on a plane that flies directly to Japan in the time it takes to load the next screen. A yellow dotted line marks the path of their flight from Thailand to Japan.
Officer McGillicuddy summarizes the crime scene at Ken’s dojo, noting that though Ken was naked, it seemed that he had broken out of Chun Li’s vice grip before she could finish him. However, she had already worn Ken down to a significant degree through other means.
“There’s no point in describing the state of the dojo, is there, sir? Busted walls, broken furniture, the works. It was a real struggle. It looks like Ken had gotten off a few fireballs and hurricane kicks before she finally overcame him with her lightning kicks. There were burn marks left from her feet all over his chest. His power meter was completely gone, sir.”
“Women always have their reserves, don’t they, Officer?” Detective Greenwood muses.
“I guess we’re off to tell Ryu the bad news. I’m not sure he’ll take it as badly as Guile. I suspect he’ll take it worse,” Officer McGillicuddy says.
“We’re here.”
The two officers get off the plane and in seconds they’re standing on a mountain at the base of a stone staircase that leads to a Japanese temple. They spot Ryu standing with his back facing them, watching a red sunset. His bandana is blood red. His belt is black and fluttering in the wind. His karate gi is in tatters. He’d been training when he felt a sudden darkness fall over him. He knew without having to be told that his best friend and rival was dead.
“Ryu!” Detective Greenwood calls out. “You know why we’re here. We’d like to have a word with you.”
Ryu nods his head. The two officers begin the long climb to the edge of the cliff that faces the sunset and the sea. Ryu turns and faces them with fire in his eyes. He has a shaggy beard and he’s aged significantly since Street Fighter II. However, despite his weary appearance, there’s no doubt that just as hungry as he ever was to be the world’s best fighter.
“Ken Masters is dead,” Detective Greenwood says. “We have reason to suspect he was killed by Chun Li.”
Upon hearing this news, Ryu drops down to one knee. The two officers stand in respectful silence as Ryu processes his sadness with a fist against the earth. They can almost feel the electricity crackling around Ryu’s body.
The moment passes. Ryu stands up and looks at them, indicating that they should explain themselves.
“It’s a different world than it was years ago,” Detective Greenwood reflects. Officer
McGillicuddy stands by with his hand near his sidearm in case Chun Li should suddenly appear.
“Every fighter comes to Street Fighter to represent their country of origin, while engaging in the time-honored traditions of martial arts. They wear ridiculous costumes and come bearing their flag and the unique fighting style of their cultures. Street Fighter has always been a celebration of stereotypes and cliches, with battles taking place in remote locations or in busy town squares as onlookers cheer and make bets, repeating the same fist pumps or cheers for added effect. It was never about placing one nation over another. It was always about being the best.”
Ryu’s hard look softens just slightly, signifying his curiosity at this philosophical spiel.
Detective Greenwood goes on, “But as I’ve said, times have changed. Now the world is hyper-connected. And so, we have these portals, these multiverses, where anyone can be the hero as long as they…”
Here, the detective pauses dramatically for effect.
“…wear the same gi.”
Detective Greenwood can see his words sinking in as Ryu reflects on the appearance of new fighters over the last few generations. New versions of himself hailing from Brazil, India, Europe, and more.
“There was only one man who was worthy to wear the gi,” Ryu says, breaking his silence. “His name was Ken Masters.”
Ryu studies Officer McGillicuddy, then Detective Greenwood, and finally asks the question weighing on his mind.
“Who else did she kill?”
Something in his voice tells Detective Greenwood that Ryu knows exactly in what manner the men died.
“Charlie Nash,” Detective Greenwood says. “We suspect that if she had the time, she would’ve gone after Guile as well.”
Ryu’s face hardens.
“I need no help in victory,” Ryu says.
“Don’t you see, Ryu? Everyone is a winner,” Detective Greenwoods says softly, “which means that there are no winners. There is no game.”
“But there will only be one Ryu,” a voice declares.
All the men turn in surprise and see Chun Li, who stands on top of the temple’s roof. Their mouths are slightly agape at her stunning beauty. She is wearing her traditional blue qipao with gold accents, her muscular thighs in sheer pantyhose and her wrists adorned with spiked metal bracelets. She does a front flip from the height of the roof and lands noiselessly a few meters away. She isn’t afraid of any justice coming her way. She looks at Ryu directly in the eyes in the way that only a friend and a competitor can.
Ryu’s look momentarily softens at the sight of her beauty. Detective Greenwood and Officer McGillicuddy are transfixed and barely prepared to intervene should the two fighters suddenly battle.
“Ken was my rival,” Ryu says stoically, “but he was also my friend. My place in Street Fighter must be earned, year after year, version after version. There are no guarantees in battle. One must be willing to train…without mercy!”
“You will always be the winner, Ryu,” Chun Li says gently as she steps closer to him. “Because you represent what none of them ever could. You are what every fighter wants to be, what they could only hope for.”
“But why not let me prove myself?” Ryu asks in painful confoundment. “Did you believe that I would…lose?
“I am the peacemaker, “Chun Li says, standing close enough for him to hold her. “I put our enemies to sleep so that we might thrive in harmony.”
“You gave them your fortune cookies,” Ryu confirms, his voice strangled with emotion.
“I did it for you,” Chun Li says. She touches his cheek. “I did it for us.”
“Alright, enough of this already,” Detective Greenwood says, interrupting the tender moment. “This has gone on long enough. Ryu, it’s obvious that you and Chun Li belong together. I may be a newcomer to the game, but it’s obvious that she loves you and you love her.”
Chun Li stares into Ryu’s eyes and nods. “How many more versions of the game need to pass before we admit the truth to ourselves? Is this life just an endless tangle of blows?”
“I respect her as a warrior,” says Ryu at first, then finally admits, “and I love her as only a man can love a woman.”
“Then you know what you have to do,” Detective Greenwood says.
He gives Officer McGillicuddy a signal, indicating that they should leave now to give Ryu and Chun Li some privacy. Chun Li already has one arm draped over Ryu’s shoulder and is skillfully untying his belt with one hand.
“ I think we’d better watch, just to make sure she doesn’t kill him,” Officer McGillicuddy stammers, turning back as the detective leads him away.
The two officers descend the mountain. They’re about halfway down the steep stone stairway when they hear Ryu experience the climax that was already decades in the making.
“HADOKEN!”
The two officers pause, look at each other, and nod.
As they reach the bottom of the stairs, Officer McGillicuddy asks Detective Greenwood, “Do you think he’ll have enough ki to win the tournament?”
Detective Greenwood smirks with contempt. He hears a beep and checks his wristwatch to confirm an update.
“My Chinese broker just sent me a generous gift for our work on the case. I’ll bet you a million karma that Ryu doesn’t make it past Round One.”
Officer McGillicuddy stops in his tracks and stares open-mouthed at Detective Greenwood as the grizzled gumshoe walks on into the mist.
“Come on, Rookie,” the detective says. “Lunch is on me.”