Lacey Bruce grew up in a rough patch of London with her father—Daniel—younger sister, and brother. Her mother had been a stripper her father dated a few months before she wandered off. A year later, he started dating anther. Unlike Lacey's mother, this woman was slowly descending into drug addiction, neglecting and even hurting her family.
When their youngest was three, Daniel loaded them all up in his heavily restored vintage mustang and drove to London, whee he got a job as an auto mechanic.
Money was always tight for them, but it wasn't a bad childhood. When Lacey was nine, she gave her father a soft, serious talk about why they'd left her mother while they worked on the car together. By the end of it he'd put aside his own marijuana habit never to take it up again. Lacey loved to watch movies, play games, and practice martial arts with her father. They both loved RC Cola, and would sometimes crack cans of it together. Lacey did passingly well in school, and even better on the gym team.
After Lacey's freshmen year, her father got an opportunity to take a big step up in the world. He was offered a position in Paris working for a specialty shop that maintained American sports cars.
Trying to make new friends in Paris—and get better with the language—Lacey met a diverse club of young men and women who played at parkor—both racing and performing. She rapidly fell in love with the hobby. It felt like flying. It felt like magic. It felt like she was taking a firm grip of her own life and making it do what she wanted it to!
Lacey was seventeen and touring a college campus when she first saw the girly, drunk frat boy who seemed to kick parties into high gear whenever he went. At first she thought nothing of him, but from time to time over the next days—it was summer, she was always wearing her favorite lacy, bare midriffed tops—she kept stumbling across him, and noticing hims staring at her tight little waist.
Long story short, he was starting to get creepy. But when he stole her belly button, Lacey's fear became anger and she pummeled him with her purse, then chased him—laughing like a mad man—up onto the roofs of Paris and off across town.
He taunted her, teased her, performed all manner of immobile stunts, but between anger, pride, and annoyance, Lacey refused too give up. Eventually, it ended with her cornering him in the bell tower atop Notre Dame.
(Yes, she scrambled up the outer walls to get there!)
“I knew it!” the man laughed as he somehow became more grand—voice resonant as a bronze bell, wild hair storm tossed instead of greasy, scars looking more like nobly won war wounds than signs of bad acne. “You're no ordinary girl. You're mother should have awakened you by now.”
“What are you talking about? Who are you? And what did you do to my belly button?”
He laughed long and loud. He smacked her on the hard abs and her naval reappeared. Then he replied, “I am Raiden. The question, girl, is who is your mother? More importantly, the question is who are you?”
“I don't understand? My mother's name was Shana?”
“I doubt that, but I'll answer the important question. You are a hero waiting to happen. You are the daughter of a goddess. You are the wind and the rain. You are apotheosis waiting to happen. You stand here, like a lightning bolt coiled to strike.
“So what are you waiting for? Burn hot, shine bright, awaken!”
Lacey threw back her head and howled in agony and ecstasy as the divine blood in her veins was rewritten partial in Raiden's image and brought to life!