Eris Shepard: Sixteen, or thereabouts
Eris Shepard, Sixteen, or thereabouts:
In a species with a depleted genome range, her genetic code more resembled a script for a play, open to various inferences and offered few definitive conclusions; the single copy of the MC1R gene that should not result in the phenotypic presentation of autumnal auburn hair being the least of it.
He entered the cell alone, becoming acutely aware of whimpering from under the bed at the far side, a result of their hideous efforts to induce her biotic ability. Watching him lock the door and start disconnecting all recording devices, she supposed this was the part where the ‘unsanctioned’ state torture started.
The detached gaze of the scrawny, mucky faced child came into view as Anderson, keeping a safe distance away, lay on the cold concrete floor. On his way in, the psychiatrist cautioned him that her commitment to being evasive and bullish was outstanding, but he was in no danger as they’d successfully neutralised her. But he saw only a forlorn, grief-stricken little girl who had been alone for far too long. Two decades later, that haze lingered. “You need to start talking, kid, or you’ll be here for quite some time.”
Having fabricated everything about herself in each new location over the past few years, deception came as easily as breathing, but she doubted he would believe any of her stories. The inexplicable urge to respond, at least partially, to his questions, rose again. Certainly not everything, perhaps very little, only just enough, yet whenever she tried to speak, her mouth felt filled with the fuzzy static of old televisions.
A dangerous compulsion, and instead, she decided now was the optimal time to find a fulcrum on which to place her lever. “A rather more accurate name for Cerberus would be Hydra.”
