STREET FIGHTER: Tropical Dreams

The island of Dathtinas is not what you'd call conspicuous by any measure. It's a relatively small island resort in the Pacific. Self-governed. No major political importance. No warlord running the place that's quietly ruling the island with an iron fist... just a small air strip, and a resort of decent size. Hell, there isn't even a native population - the "locals" are all employees of the resort.

You keep looking at the data, imagining another Bison or Seth or Gil behind the scenes... but the more information you get, the less likely it seems. Maybe... just maybe... the Third Annual Velvet Fist Martial Arts Exhibition is actually just what it claims to be? The last two years have gone on with no notable issues.

Your name is Cammy White. You're a member of British antiterrorism unit Delta Red, a genetically altered clone of dictator-wannabe Bison, one of the strongest women in the world... and you're presently enjoying some enforced downtime from your work. Sure, Delta Red are practically your family at this point, and you love working with them, but you can't plow into danger face-first every day. The organization makes you take a few months off each year... and this seemed like a good way to burn a few weeks.

The small aircraft touches down with a loud squawking noise of rubber against asphalt, bumps up once, and down one more time, before rapidly slowing down. It trundles to the end of the runway, and finally comes to a halt. A few minutes of waiting for the stair truck, and you're out.

The phrase "as beautiful as an airport" has never made it into any language on earth, but you're not at an airport, per se - no major hub building, just hangars and the airstrip and a tower. There's no customs to speak of, just a woman in a very nice business suit waiting for you. Seriously, that is a _very _nice suit. You're wearing a tracksuit at the moment, just something you threw on because it was decent travel wear, but she makes you feel terribly underdressed. Or... overdressed? She's a black woman, with a dense mane of neatly kept dreadlocks and a tiny little smile. As you descend the stairs, she offers you a hand.

"Miss White. So good of you to come." You can't place the accent - not quite New Zealander, not quite Filipina. Maybe she's just moved around a lot.

"Ah. Good to be here, Miss..."

"Scrivener. Anna Scrivener." Oh. OH! She's the tourney organizer. You smile a little wider, adjusting your grip on the duffel bag containing the few things you brought along with you.

"Didn't think I'd be meeting you until the big day... uh... well, it's a pleasure!"

"Likewise, dear, likewise." She beckons towards the side of the air strip, near a hangar. There's a small car waiting for you, something like an off-brand Jeep. "I just wanted to come by to give you a run-down of the island's rules and what to expect for the next few days."

"Alright." You're pretty sure you've read the important things, but it doesn't hurt to have a bottom line.

"As you're here for a martial arts tourney, some sparring is expected before the big day. No assaulting people at random, no grudge matches, and keep things under control. If you're breaking each other's limbs or destroying random property, it's going to cause problems."

"Oh, I won't have any problems with that, I assure you." You nudge Anna. She glances over her sunglasses at you.

"There have already been a few incidents. I have to go through these, even if your personal reputation would say otherwise."

"I, ah... alright." You clear your throat. She continues.

"Dathtinas is a clothing-optional resort. We ask that you keep any coupling out of the public eye - not necessarily behind closed doors, but not out in the middle of the open, so to speak-"

"That won't be an issue either." You interrupt, embarrassed. Anna chuckles, turning to you, and... oh. Hey. She's pretty close, and... her suit is open enough to give you quite a view of her cleavage, and... those tits are unreal. She has to be an F-cup. And she smells... good. Really good. And - are you blushing?

"Again, there have been incidents. It's understandable. This many beautiful women, with history with each other, used to being physical with each other?" She shakes her head once. "It's going to happen."

"Ri-er-right." You stutter briefly. Well. That was graceful.

"Beyond that, the rules are fairly standard practice. Don't go into Employees Only areas, though the only places that qualify there are the small cove at the north that's reserved for the locals and a few places in the resort area. Drinking and being 'merry' in public are allowed, but being sloppy drunk is not. Certain substances that are illegal elsewhere are legal here." You've read the pamphlet - marijuana and a handful of 'non-manufactured' narcotics are allowed, including a locally produced one called Teth, which you can't find much information on. "Beyond that... it's Tuesday. The tourney proper starts on Sunday. So... enjoy your week." She gives you a dazzling grin, and then pats the ugly little car. "This one's been registered to you. It'll get you around, if you need to use the road." Road, singular. There's only one in the whole island, a hundred-plus kilometer loop, though it looks like there are a few dirt road 'shortcuts' between sections of the loop that are close to each other if you check the map. "Anything else you need to know?"

"I... think that's it, yeah." You nod. She suddenly sweeps you into a giant hug, and OH HEY THOSE TITS ARE RIGHT IN YOUR FACE NOW. You really want to say something, but embarrassment, arousal, and the debilitating state generally referred to as 'being English' stop you.

"Then I shall simply say 'welcome', and let me know if you need anything!" When she lets you down, you're stammering a little, but you manage to nod and mumble a thank you before she heads off. Without further preamble, you toss your bag into the car and head off. Five days of paradise. Surely you can deal with that.