[color=gray]
[indent][indent][i]Charlotte Cahors is young and she is afraid, afraid of a world that will never accept or forgive, afraid of the sleepless nights, afraid of the world that shudders and churns upon the wailing cries of her only daughter. The child barely eight years of age, spun of her likeness with those subtle reminders of her father that Charlotte still yearned for. On whispered promises, he made to return to her, when things were safe, when things made sense, when a mission had been fulfilled and a purpose had been given. Bound to an innate desire better fitted to demented chains that held him to obligations he had long sworn to before she. It is in the arch of her delicate brow, the intensity a child of her years should not have been capable of, and yet when Charlotte looked upon her, she felt everything shift as if the universe bid itself to her chaotic whims of youth. Bright eyes laden in crystalline blue banked with an innocence the world would later seek to destroy. [/i]

[i]A child she adored, a child she feared, a child she wanted to save.[/i]

[i]She would later cry and weep and scream, cursing a sky where an Almighty reigned, pleading to the heavens for redemption to lay upon her daughter, to spare her for the wrongs the world would do unto her. If only Charlotte knew that a netherworld would instead heed her woes, the darkness of an eternal void already marked upon Amma's soul. All that was, and all that would be, done upon the elegant scripts of two very different letters that would decide the ultimate fate of the harbinger of destruction, the elegant reaper that could've been Beloved and was traded instead for the Unknown.[/i]

[i]A monster. A beast. A spawn of circumstances and manipulated chance laden in ash, the crown of bone impaled so deep upon her scalp she would know not where it ended and she began. [/i]

[i]The first time such a christening is foretold is in the spires of Rouen: a cathedral that punctures the clouds above, spearing into the gardens of an Eden where once mankind reigned, sanctioned from such a beauty by the mutterings of an ill creature. Under the designated hour of twilight, Charlotte held a child with hair liken to a raven's wing, clung to her for all the hopelessness that bedeviled her life since those pulsating coils of hated scarlet first wreathed her daughter's bearings; eyes aglow, becoming brighter and brighter, almost laden in silver for all the strength that spun from delicate hands suddenly there and then not. [/i]

[i]Ushered within, hushed mutterings of prayer and thankfulness as the vestibule yawned forth into eternal darkness speckled in small flames of lit candelabras encumbered by wax, almost skeletal and perverse and lain upon iron wrought in peculiar patterns. She mutters her worries in French, her accent reminiscent of a delicate hope that dubbed her as both Mother and Protector and Darling. Among the ivory of her skirts, Amma Cahors peers eyes wide and high, the arched ceiling giving way to bell tolls that mark the hour, gilded pillars tarnished by time, the interior a herald of the lost age when many gathered in prayer and worship. Led by a man donned in ebony robes they came upon a dias, the structure inlaid with obsidian and stone, plaster conformed to the lustre of volcanic glass to depict plunging angels that heralded many wings and eyes, the flickering fires abound cast them aglow.[/i]

[i]Words are interchanged in hushed, panicked lapses, the manic fluttering of once simplistic gestures now as if wounded fletchings, a peculiar ring flashing there, twisted bronze and golds, the child that was Amma often looked upon its malformed design, noting that such was an all-seeing globe that was set with a precious jewel of red. Here her mother was strained and taut, the ridge of her stare a tumultuous breadth of fated nature raked over the world, peculiar starbursts lain in those eyes, wreathed in the cosmos of an all-seeing being. [/i]

[i]Stars rose and fell in the encompassing stare of Charlotte Cahors, perhaps more unsettling than the wealth of power in her daughter's crippling gaze. She had stars in her eyes and the world in her hands, as once whispered to her by a philosophical man that saw both beginning and end in her damning gaze. [/i]

[i]And lo, before them, anchored into the dias was a pool of rippling sapphire that lapped away at edges of gold, the slight depths bisected by a sliver of cerulean. Bidden closer, both mother and daughter looked unto those churning blues, and there in the flash of color, a marring whorl of black, something almost unseen and indiscernible if not for the eyes beholden to Charlotte to see and know All. In rushed whispers, she asks:[/i]

[i]	[/i][i][color=#624e51]What is this?[/color][/i]

[i]A purposeful pause, a hidden signal, a wreath of black as more robed figures gather - a hush of a hymn vibrated down to her bones. [/i]

[color=000000][i]	A cure, a means to see your child saved.[/i]
[i]	In the world we reign; in the world we live.[/i]
[i]	There is no room for false gods.[/i]
[i]	There is no room for a defiler --[/i]
[i]	you want to save her, do you not?[/i][/color]

[i]Charlotte stills, head panned down low, a glare that her daughter knew as both stern and wrathful. She quickly claims they were mistaken, that her daughter was no foretold wretch of this life. She was merely a child, and she was a mother only wanting to keep her safe, to seek the means to allow her the gift of happiness owed to her. [/i][i][b]They simply laugh.[/b][/i]
[i]It happens too quickly, it happens too fast. A mother torn away from her daughter, screams of horrid pain impaled upon this hour of hellish twilight, a trembling hand reaching and seeking and clawing for her precious babe. A child that wails, hands manacled and bruised upon her delicate arms, pale skin bloomed with fresh violets as she is dragged forward. Nails splinter, bones break, a terrifying cry that rings through the cavernous spires looming above. Above her crown, windows lain with stained glass, a myriad of colors blooming red and then silver, as the hour betwixt dawn and dusk reigned true. The glass splinters, cracks, it falls plink by plink by plink until --[/i]

[i]Cherub bearings turned demented with rage, a screech of defiance and fury, tiny hands turning inward, slicing scarlet smiles into her palms, mouths gaped wide on the feral screams that tore asunder through her body beholden to fear. Amma screams and she screams and the world answers on drones of terrifying manifest, it explodes, the belfry of this cathedral shudders and trembles, wood and stone bellow and crack, flesh peels upon the herald of crimson whips of power that challenges the very heavens above. Fissures of silver reap and tear and pillage through bone and blood and eyes turn yonder in prayer as Charlotte grabs her child and runs.[/i]

[i]She runs for what seems like eternity, she runs and weeps and falls to the earth, she laments over her daughter and the cruelty of the world that would don her the unworthy and the forsaken. [/i]

[i]Chaos is many things. It is an awakening of disorder that existed long before the mundane, it is the reign and herald of something that the world has never forgotten but also refused to acknowledge. It is the unknown and the in-between, the void of life and death, the void of total disorder that gleams red upon pale skin that would later be defiled by many, many scars. [/i]

[i]At the feet of Amma Cahors, where her hands weep blood, flowers of pulsating ruby cores suddenly bloom. [/i]

[i]It's only a couple of years later that Charlotte Cahors loses her daughter to all the fears and woe she tried so desperately to save her from.[/i][/indent][/indent]

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[CENTER][img]https://i.imgur.com/mnuXeVg.jpg[/img][/CENTER][indent][sub][COLOR=978184][B]Location:[/B][/COLOR] [I]Infirmary Wing: Solitary Confinement - P.R.C.U. Campus.[/I][/sub][sup][right][COLOR=#978184][b]Take On Me #3.007:[/b][/COLOR] [I]reflection.[/I][/right][/sup][/indent][center][sup][color=#2e2c2c]_____[/color][color=#373534]_____[/color][color=#403d3c]_____[/color][color=#494644]_____[/color][color=#524f4c]_____[/color][color=#5b5754]_____[/color][color=#64605d]_____[/color][color=#6e6965]_____[/color][color=#77716d]_____[/color][color=#807a75]_____[/color][color=#89837d]_____[/color][color=#928b85]_____[/color][/sup][sup][color=#9b948d]_____[/color][/sup][sup][color=#928b85]_____[/color][color=#89837d]_____[/color][color=#807a75]_____[/color][color=#77716d]_____[/color][color=#6e6965]_____[/color][color=#64605d]_____[/color][color=#5b5754]_____[/color][color=#524f4c]_____[/color][color=#494644]_____[/color][color=#403d3c]_____[/color][color=#373534]_____[/color][color=#2e2c2c]_____[/color][/sup][/center][INDENT][sub][color=#978184][B]Interaction(s):[/B][/COLOR] &&[/sub][SUP][RIGHT][COLOR=#978184][b]Previously:[/b][/COLOR] [color=gray][I]devour.[/I][/color][/right][/SUP]
[indent][INDENT]
[i]A flower. But not a flower. The grass wet beneath her palms, dirt on her nails, and the sky above bearing down upon her.
Was it real?
Did all of that happen?

The simulation ends and Amma Cahors falls to her knees, once, twice -- again and again, breath caught betwixt her bruised and battered lungs. Every cinch of bone turned inward to impale against her erratic heart. Harsh pants rip away from her bloodied lips, slivers of bone impaling into her pout as she struggles to summon control into her waking world. Manic eyes of a horrid blue flash back and forth, upon every member of Blackjack -- she tacks each of them, rakes her intense glare through every pass of flesh and bruise and blood. [b]Alive. Real. Maybe[/b].

Or she was just dead.

	[color=#978184]"Who."[/color]

It was a declaration of malice, hate, of an untamed nature that simmered long and cold betwixt broken ribs, it was a bidden christening of the demented monarch, the coronation of the damned beast that rose with a crown laden of bone and blood and hate. 

	[color=#978184]"Was it you."[/color] She hisses, eyes fell upon Calli, and then Harper, her lashes fluttering on erratic pulses as whorls of red pulsated against her quivering hands.

	[color=#978184]"No.. No. Who did this. Who --"[/color]

Sparks of dreaded carmine pulsated in threatening strikes upon her arms and hands, nails sunk deep into soil and rock, fingers arched and chest heaved with her quickening breath, eyes of a netherworld peeled wide on tides of a storm, a hellacious act of nature that burned and writhed and punctuated through every twitch of wailing muscle as Amma roared. [b]She needed to get it out- she had to get it out. [/b]Needles from long ago pricked her skin, laying upon her flesh, and drove down to the sinew and marrow until burning hate was pumped directly into her soul.

	[color=#978184][b]"Get It Out!"[/b][/color] Amma snaps, teeth bared, a wild animal stricken in blood loss and panic, her strength ebbing into disarrayed cords that slid around her throat, choking her cries, writhing against her tongue and stricken upon her teeth as fangs that pried her lips agape with each screech that peeled away from her heaving chest. A manic peel of laughter sundered from those bloodied lips capped in violets and sapphires and black, the grin that curled over her wounded cheeks split wide liken to a fiendish cheshire. 

	[color=#978184]"They wanted to punish me for the life I spared. She said she could help me find her if I let her go! She said she had a sister. [/color][color=#978184][b]Baxter.[/b][/color][color=#978184] I know I asked for it, I know I wanted it. Instead - they gave me to Hell! I didn't ask for [/color][color=#978184][b]this[/b][/color][color=#978184]."[/color]

Somewhere she hears the call for sedatives and within the bedlam of her shattered spirit, Amma's heart splinters and crumbles away into dread, a choked gasp sputters from her lips, lashes peeling wide before her body suddenly goes limp, her entire frame broken and bleeding, wounds freshly irritated and exposing the lining of scars over the entirety of her body; the horrors of her past on a sickening display. 

Upon the earth, she lays as a fractured doll, porcelain defiled by death and blood; a begone weapon forsaken in this life, and then the next, the means and her purpose warped and shredded. 

Discarded and broken.[/i]

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Amma Cahors was condemned to solitary confinement under the disguise of demanding to allow her wounds to heal; treatments were sparse and erratic, attention for critical medical applications spared for others, she thought she heard the staff mention Gil at one interval -- punctured, broken, bleeding. [i]Dying.[/i] However, she phases in and out of reality, arms free from restraint after twenty-four hours of powerful sedatives to quell the compelling summon of HZEs that had continued to crawl across her skin in fiendish lines of black. After a series of various psychological evaluations, she was scheduled for release in the coming days, pending that she no longer attempted to flee. The first night had been a testament to the incredible power lain within, the walls of her room still held the scars of her wrath, the ceiling eternally marred and the floor splintered and jagged. A message had been left for her by Torres not long after, a cryptic missive and subtle demand that she comply with the school and rest well in preparations for the sparring matches to come. A reputation was to be held, and nothing less would be accepted.

They still demanded Tiamat- Amma promised she would receive it.

She rested now, as much as her body would allow, carefully plucking away at the bandages coiled of her wrists and arms, bruises fading into bisque edges, deeply seeded hues of purple and blue heralding over her flesh, beset by intense blemishes of red where the most powerful of blows had fallen. And there, upon her chest, the most devastating of wounds to behold where healers had attempted to still the remnants of death that had corroded muscle and tissue, where once a moth had been inked over her heart, wings displayed and proud and bright and beautiful. The testament of art that had been commissioned to regain a sense of self, to one day seek light and life in the dark, to hold over her own life as her own, which was now torn and jagged with a hideous scar. Amma studied it often and carefully, pulling away at the shirt given to her in exchange for a traditional gown, it pulsed and throbbed with her heart, an eternal reminder of the trials endured.

To the simulated life she had taken.

She had made a simplistic request to board the ferry at a later time, to purchase new clothing and certain supplies, which had been hastily delivered, and then answered with denial, claiming that Amma required a chaperone or guard until she completed a series of delegated therapy sessions. Such assignments had been seamlessly blended into her newly given curriculum, of such Amma could not be bothered with, not as she thought and pondered about her place here. P.R.C.U tried, it did, it attempted to welcome her as a normal girl, one burdened with power, one given a critical label, one that the faculty deemed themselves wary of but still a girl. 

If only they knew.

Amma breathed in deep, ribs protesting against the stress of her actions, every follicle of nerve shorn and sensitive, firing signals of warning down every plane of skin exposed as she pulled away at her bindings. Pain was not new to her and neither was the aching sluggishness of healing, she grew up upon the finer knowledge of pain and the breadth of life that saw every scar anew with the summon of her powers that often linked into her back or postured over her arms. Though her many embellishments hid their truth, it could not entirely distract away from the simple nature that Amma was subjected to torture and experimentation for over an entire decade. A truth that had been revealed during their manipulated trial and the realization that even the most sterile of domiciles contained the most heinous of sins. Amma knew of the cruelty of this individual dubbed Hyperion and the remaining disciples that had bid themselves under the rule of this rumored Harbinger that had trapped them within that hellish realm from her nightmares. A group she knew nothing of besides the whispering of the healers and nurses that bustled outside her fortified door that she knew was guarded carefully not by just one, but two individuals.

The phone call she had received only just a few nights before resurfaces as a vague memory.

She carefully rips away one bandage, then another, gauze peeled and shredded, congealed lines of red against her trembling arms, the unbidden tremors coiling away into her scarred palms.

Did she even belong here anymore?
If she ever did.

Amma stares down upon the lines of fate and heart, disfigured by the myriad of scars crossing over one another in silver slivers of a horrid tale, one she refused to share. She splayed her fingers wide, listening to the grinding pop of her bones, her nails broken, her quivering gestures unable to be quelled as she stared and stared. Hands of the reaper, hands of the woeful, hands of a beast that had attacked two of her teammates. She still feels the flayed skin of her beneath her touch, she still feels the softness of feathers sweeping through her palms, she still feels the thread of power that she had given to another, she still feels the clutch of a clove cigarette shared before a quiet and innocent flame, she still feels the bloodied skin of him as she begged and pleaded to be slain. 

[i]She feels everything and wishes she could forget.[/i]

She knows, without a flicker of doubt, that she does not belong here. Amma knows this and clenches those hands tight, palms them through her hair, and shields them over her eyes as the hopeless dregs of reality tug and pull upon her limbs and the threaded strings woven within a hellish medley over her heart. She once denied Torres that she would return, that she would not go back, it was her Will, her Truth, her Conviction, and now it remained shredded and bloodied at her feet liken to pools of crimson hate that followed Amma through her waking world -- within and without.

She tells herself that she doesn't care. She tells herself that it doesn't matter. For she is selfish, she knows she is vain and stricken with sins of wrath and greed and lust. She whispers unto herself over and over and over again: [color=#978184]I am the monster you all want, the answer to all the wrongs and all the things lost, I am the creature you fear and the one you envy - I am me. I am The Foundation. [/color]

Amma Cahors knows that freedom is often lost and fleeting, and hers was slowly coming to an end. 



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