Chrono 002:10
R-D Quartier de sécurité maximal
Salle n°12: Essais approfondis
Numéro d'identification du sujet: # 52-0A-351
Nom du sujet: Encre
L'apparition des toxines s'est précipitée rapidement, envoyant une fois de plus le patient dans un sommeil profond et terrible...
Les échos palpitaient tout son esprit. Elle n'avait jamais entendu les pathétiques plaider pour sa propre vie jusqu'à ce qu'une vraie menace lui pende la tête. Cela avait toujours été une série d'insultes et de tonalités décevantes qui ont échappé à la bouche de l'homme comme s'il ne pouvait jamais trouver un mot encourageant à simplement plunk de l'air. Non, cet homme était vil, un homme que d'autres respectaient et vénéraient comme un leader et un système de soutien, et pourtant ils étaient tous aveugles au monstre qu'il était vraiment. Comment une bête telle que celle - ci pourrait - elle devenir capitaine, superviser une force de police, et pourtant permettre à sa propre famille de chair et de sang de s'effondrer autour de lui?
La panique s'ensuivit. Le diable qu'elle appela autrefois "père" se tenait au-dessus d'elle, sa ceinture en cuir oscillant en avant et en arrière comme un taquin, taché de son sang de coups seulement quelques instants auparavant. Une feuille tachée autour d'elle pour couvrir sa honte. Une honte qu'il lui apporta chaque fois qu'il décida de voler et d'empoigner un autre morceau de son existence. Il n'a ajouté qu'un autre clou dans son propre cercueil, mais elle a tenu le marteau pour le sceller pour toujours. Étonnamment il semblait, les tatouages qui couvraient son corps n'avaient pas vraiment manifesté leurs capacités jusqu'à plus tard dans sa vie, quand il semblait désespoir, colère, et la peur étaient à leur sommet. Quand son frère aîné, son ancien protecteur, était parti pour ses propres raisons, pour ne jamais revenir, laissant Czigani faire face à ses propres horreurs.
Czigani regarda son père, enveloppé dans une épaisse bobine d'encre éthérée noire, s'écria et cria sur le sol, tandis que l'ooze sombre pressa lentement l'haleine de ses poumons, creusant le cartilage et l'os le long du chemin. Elle était maintenant celle qui se tenait au-dessus de lui, et pourtant n'était pas souriante comme il l'avait toujours fait quand il était dans cette position. Il n'y avait pas d'émotion à ce moment-là. C'était comme si tout sentiment avait momentanément disparu et pourtant elle pensait seulement le remercier à sa façon. Pour le remercier d'avoir déverrouillé un instinct de survie qu'elle n'a jamais cru avoir. Pour le sortir de sa propre misère et incinérer un passé qu'elle espérait ne plus jamais l'attraper. Elle atteignit le briquet en acier inoxydable préféré de son père, posé sur le sol, un cadeau qui lui avait été donné lorsqu'il fut promu capitaine, et enflamma la flamme à la vie.
Elle disait franchement qu'elle parlait à elle-même, mais savait que l'homme suffocant sur le sol pouvait entendre chaque mot. C'est assez ironique, papa, que ce plus léger que vous me me menaçiez avec le temps et encore comme un enfant, sera l'outil pour vous en finir. Elle jeta la flamme sur le tapis du salon, qui s'enflamma et commença rapidement son chemin de destruction, et se dirigea vers la porte d'entrée.
Bienvenue dans ma version de l'enfer, salope

L'esprit de Czigani est venu autour, les souvenirs cauchemardesques s'effacent avec la déficience des effets tranquillisants. Deux voix masculines pouvaient être entendues en arrière-plan, probablement dans la même pièce, mais elle gardait les yeux fermés en s'assurant que ce n'était pas une autre fausse réalité.
On a besoin de ça pour le prochain... quoi, comme cinq heures?
Oui, ferme-la et jette-moi un autre grand garçon, cette nana va n'importe où et je suis affamé frère. L'autre a dit, son discours s'est un peu assoupi.
Les odeurs et les sons familiers du laboratoire d'essai et il est une myriade d'équipement a agressé ses sens. Elle a ouvert l'œil juste assez pour confirmer ce qu'elle savait déjà.
Merde... toujours au même endroit... je jure si je... Son brumeux train de pensée a soudainement été coupé par le bavardage incessant de deux jeunes techniciens.
L'un d'eux s'est brouillé alors qu'il se rapprochait de leur patient encore enchaîné à la table droite du labo. Il s'est bourdonné à lui-même.
"Yo, regarde ce doux tatt sur sa jambe, on dirait une sorte de...
Tu te souviens de ce crétin d'Anders?
Oui, mais elle est sortie, frérot. Cette merde que le Doc Kordano lui a donné mettrait un éléphant muté dehors pendant une demi-journée, et vous savez combien ces choses sont censées obtenir!. Mike snired, alors qu'il se retournait pour obtenir un regard de plus près sur les femmes ornementées tatouage tribal, criss-croisement de sa jambe inférieure et se déplaçant vers le haut pour enrouler autour de l'arrière de sa cuisse et au-delà de ce qui pouvait être vu.
C'est comme une sorte d'araignée... pas de tarantule. Merde, je ne peux pas voir le reste avec sa jambe sécurisée.Pendant que l'enfant l'examinait, sa main glissa vers le levier manuel de relâchement.
L'autre mis en garde Mais ce sera votre cul si quelque chose arrive!
La très curieuse technicienne de laboratoire a tiré la libération et les chaînes sécurisant la jambe gauche de la femme s'est ouverte, ce qui l'a amené à basculer momentanément. Il se retourna vers son collègue, un gribouillis sur le visage.
Voir Jake, rien à craindre, frérot
Alors qu'il retournait la tête vers le patient, Czigani, qui n'était pas sécurisé, le genou gauche s'est effondré et a cassé le carré technique sans méfiance dans le nez, l'a frappé en arrière et a envoyé du sang frais s'éclaboussant contre le sol blanc.
Elle cria, comme le technicien blessé se blottit sur le sol tenant son nez ensanglanté et envoyant un barrage de profanations.
Czigani a tiré sur l'autre technologie un regard perçant qui pourrait porter un trou dans un mur de métal. J'en suis sûr. Moi. Qu'est-ce que tu fous de cet endroit, espèce d'enfoiré!
Le technicien, l'expression pleine de peur et d'incertitude, a tiré pour la porte en criant pour la sécurité.
Elle a pris cela comme un signal pour accélérer sa propre libération, mais a eu un temps difficile de se concentrer en raison des toxines restantes dans son flux sanguin. Les mêmes toxines qui semblaient réprimer ses mécanismes de défense.
Tu sais, enfoiré? Elle a regardé le pauvre gamin encore en colère par terre. Vous auriez été mort plus tôt dans des circonstances différentes, alors pourquoi ne pas être un bon outil, et me faire sortir de cet enfer de torture?
Il a dit que sa voix prenait une tonalité nasale.
Elle criait au sommet de ses poumons, et une rage qu'elle n'avait pas ressentie depuis longtemps émergeait alors qu'une ondulation traversait son corps pour réveiller les tatouages mystiques. Elle sentait leur essence s'élever.
Regarde ce que tu as fait de génie. Vous avez réveillé les chiens...
La technologie, découvrant son visage, regarda vers le haut pour voir les vrilles noires de plusieurs créatures qui commencent à tirer de sa peau. Ses yeux s'élargissaient dans la peur.
Il s'est poussé du sol, et a commencé à tirer les leviers restants jusqu'à ce que chaque chaîne soit ouverte.
Czigani, effondrée au sol, les fils sortant des capteurs coincés à son corps, ses jambes se sentant comme de la gélatine. Elle a regardé le technicien de laboratoire qui s'est éloigné d'elle.
Il a dit, pointant vers la porte. Prenez le couloir gauche...vous allez contourner les gardes de sécurité en direction d'ici.
Czigani se leva à ses pieds aussi vite qu'elle le pouvait, grogneant de douleur dans sa colonne vertébrale.
Je ne sais pas quel genre de merde perverse tu fais ici, mais si je te revois, je te jure que je vais te coller mon poing dans la gorge, retirer tes intestins, et les nourrir à tes autres collègues de travail!
Elle a vite couru pour les portes doubles menant hors du labo, ne sachant pas exactement dans quel désordre elle était pour la suite.
Name: Czigani Salahori
Nickname: “Ink”
Age: 28
Gender: F
Appearance: Czi stands taller than an average female. Her wardrobe is kept generally simple, from black denim pants covered in various belts, chains, and buckles that serve no purpose to simple leather and cloth tank tops varying in color and inked with custom artwork. Leather & steel “shit kicker” boots...if she’s wearing shoes at all. Depending on her mood, her head is shaved at times, or grows it out on one side about shoulder length and keeps the other side shaven to reveal a circular tribal tattoo. Various piercings adorn her ears and lip, and her body is mostly covered with black tattoos ranging from tribal patterns, to more elaborate mythical creatures.
Height: 6`1
Weight: Approx 150lbs
Personality: Czi has a tough exterior, and is even harder to please. She tends to come off as pushy and can be impatient with most people, even though she is a tattoo artist (lol). Her real only “joy” is delving into her artwork, whether it’s a simply doodle on a napkin in a restaurant, to a large mural on the side of a building, she takes it seriously enough.
Bio: (see below)
Skills:
Tattoo artist & street mural artist,
Raised in Industry Ring, has small tattoo shop and also specializes in airbrushing designs on prosthetics/cybernetics
Power:
- Art Manipulation (specializing in body art)
- Essentially, a telepathic ability that allows her limited control over tattoos on skin and (to an extent) the paint used on prosthetics, and to a smaller degree, black ink sketches on paper or solid objects can be made substantial and controlled.
- Natural ink created by plant dyes, animal minerals, salts and various other natural sources, etc work the best. Synthetic inks are generally weaker.
- If manipulating her own body art, then the results are more successful and effects stronger and longer lasting (i.e. a crow tattoo can fly off her and attack, but damage is minimal) or she could manipulate a drawing on the wall to reach out and grab an assailant, helping her to escape, or beat the pulp out of them.
Can manipulate targets tattoos (up to 30ft away) with varying results
Her body is covered with various tribal & cultural designs which can temporarily augment to protect her from physical damage (more out of self-preservation than willful act, i.e. defense mechanism)
Drawback: Each piece of artwork causes varying degrees of mental fatigue, and the longer it is sustained, the more lethargic she can become, to the point of unconsciousness if not careful. There are instances where art, if not conjured properly and kept in control, could turn on her and become violent until it dissipates on it’s own.
Possessions: messenger bag full of art supplies, namely ink vials, several pen tips, sticks, and reams of paper.


“At what point, Padre, do we forget who we are, what we stand for, and where the fuck we're going?”
The young woman, stained in sweat, blood, and soot sat on the floor at the base of the church altar, her head resting against the severely out-dated wooden paneling. The black mascara that once accentuated her emerald eyes ran down her cheeks like watercolor on canvas, covering the several cuts and bruises she’d suffered only an hour earlier. Her dark hair, shaven on one side revealing a circular tribal tattoo pattern, and on the other side hanging roughly jaw length tangled and wet with sweat, obscured her direct line of sight to the priest sitting and listening intently in the pew across from her.
“I'm not ashamed of what I did. He had it coming. So think whatever sick shit you want to conjure up in your small brain.” The girl flashed a wry grin, a slight cough building up from smoke inhalation earlier. “I bet you think I’m just some mutant street shit from the Indi, yeah?” She accused, trying to hold back any tears. “I bet all us tattooed freaks down in the slums look the same to you...” She forced a pathetic laugh, pushing her bangs behind her ear. “I know they did to...him...that prick I once called ‘family’.”
The priest leaned forward in the bench and gazed for a moment at the olive-skinned woman with the slim build, her dark-red tank top dotted with black soot and torn, and her jeans riddled with small holes. She had no shoes, which exposed her mud-covered feet and black toenails. He noticed several large dark symbolic and bestial tattoos that covered her arms were slowly moving, mesmerized, almost as though they wanted to peel away from her skin. A long dragon-like creature on her arm slithered in a hypnotic motion, and a crow on her chest with wings spanned from shoulder to shoulder, appeared as though it would launch at any moment. Most of her body, from what he could see, had various tattoos of tribal or cultural significance, many of which she inked herself as was her profession. He knew who she was. What she was. But it didn’t make being in her presence any less awkward.
Her kind were distastefully known as “Children of the Dark”, and their existence to many were a blight within the community. To a mother she never knew, possibly, but to her father, an honored ex-military police captain who was hailed as some hero from years ago, she was simply known as “Some kind of Damaged”. His love was to the job, and if that job meant keeping the Children in line, then his eye was ever fixed on his only daughter. No matter how often the beatings came, or being locked in her room for days without food, she wouldn’t change. She couldn’t be normal like he wanted. But it didn’t matter. He was gone now. Nothing but a charred corpse and a hollow building she once called a home.
“It’s God’s job to judge, not mine” The priest finally responded, trying to avert his eyes from following the path of the women’s ornate body art, which lead into areas he deemed inappropriate for a young lady to defile with such imagery. “And...yet you being here, confessing, allowing me to listen, is a step in the right direction to redemption. So I applaud you for that, child.”
The girl snickered “Child? I’m almost a hag...geez pushin’ thirty, bro. Meh, it doesn’t matter, you’re still way older than me, am I right?” She forced yet another snicker causing her husky cough to return.
The main sanctuary doors at the other end of the aisle quickly opened revealing a handful of uniformed Military Police officers, flashlights and assault firearms poised at the ready.
“Czigani Salahori, you’re under arrest for the murder of your father, Captain Jorgio Salahori” The lead officer held the girl at gunpoint “You sick piece of gypsy trash” He mumbled under his breath, but loud enough to be heard “Why’d you have to burn him alive…”
The girl, her eyes wide with a mix of anger and fear, looked back at the priest, whose somber expression gave away too much.
“Y-You called them?” She exclaimed, her voice echoing throughout the sanctuary hall. “Bastard Gadjo!...I knew I shouldn’t have trusted you! What the hell happened to that ‘seal of confession’, or whatever bullshit you assholes are supposed to follow?”
The priest shifted uncomfortably as he spoke. “I didn’t tell them anything, except that you were here. They already knew the rest Czigani…”
The woman, enraged, lunged out toward the priest from her sitting position “You son of a b-...” She was caught by one of the officers mid-way, spun around, and pushed back down onto the floor. “Fuck! He deserved it! You pricks knew he was corrupt and abusive-” Her words caught in her throat, as the lead officer pushed her face against the cold floor and clasped her wrists with handcuffs, taking extra care to tighten them until she screamed.
“Shut your whore mouth!" The arresting officer snarled, his knee pressed firmly against her back. "Cop-killer scum like you don’t have rights. And where you’re going, you’ll wish I’d put a bullet in your head right here.”
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The long trip to the R&D Ring was anything but pleasant, but why should it be? Thrown in the back of a police cruiser, chained to the seat, with two heavily armed and armored officers flanking doesn’t usually mean you’re being brought in on a misdemeanor charge. Although her snarky comments and sarcastic disposition did nothing to help her, and only awarded her a swift elbow in the jaw. No, this was some real damage Czigani had done, a scar to not only the community, but to the Military Police force. Her father, warts and all, was a well-respected and upstanding officer within the R&D, and his brutal death sent a ripple that would never be mended so easily.
They just didn’t see in him what she saw throughout most of her life.
The transport pulled up to the precinct, and the woman was practically dragged into the building by the two officers and tossed into a holding cell where she sat, swearing and banging on the cell door, until a few hours later was visited by a large figure she hoped to never see again.
“Hello Miss Salahori” The towering beast, more machine than man as he appeared, leaned against the barred door holding a holopad with a series of scrolling information, his expression painted with a hint of amusement, and his eyes glowed with an almost sinister intent.
“I see you’ve been a very bad girl.
“You!” Czigani’s eyes widened and mouth agape, but no sound came out.
“Officer Reinhardt actually, but you can call me Drei, or whatever...”
“Asshole”
“That works too” He grunted, keying in a few digits on the holopad before continuing. “So, you’ve got quite the rap sheet: petty theft, some vandalism, oh...and mostly graffiti related on private property…”
“Pfft, it’s not ‘graffiti’ you dick..” She interrupted, laying her head back against the stone wall. “It’s artwork, something you’ll never get through your cyberfreak neanderthal head”.
Reinhardt, paying little attention, continued scanning through the list until he stopped at a particular section.
“Ah, so that explains all the ink - you call “artwork” - covering that pretty little body of yours. The genetic mutation gave you power over them. A sort of ”Art Manipulation”, if you will. And I suppose that would also explain the black ink markings around your father’s neck”
“Yeah, I strangled his sorry ass for laying hands on me.” She lifted her right arm into the light, revealing a reptilian creature tattoo wrapped from her wrist to her shoulder. “This one here, he’s a nasty bugger when he wants to be, and it knows when to step in. So, it was your beloved ‘Captain’s’ own damn fault for touching me”
Reinhardt nodded, intrigued to a point, but trying his best to keep from putting his fist through her skull. “So, a defense mechanism? Interesting.”
“Look numbnuts, are we going to be here all fucking day? Isn’t there a quiet corner you could put me in so I don’t have to listen to your droning voice?”
The cell door suddenly slid open, and before Czigani could react, the large cybernetically enhanced officer had her pinned up against the cold wall, his metal hand slowly clamping down around her neck. The woman’s face was a mixture of surprise and anger, but she was helpless to do anything at that moment.
“Do you think this is a game? I could kill you right here, right now, and no one would give two shits about it” His voice was low, gritty, and a raging fire seemed to erupt in his cybernetic eyes.
“In fact, I would love nothing more than to tear you limb from limb and let those mutant shit-hounds that scour the lower sections feast on your pathetic remains. No one will remember you ever existed. And all of that precious work you call ‘art’?...well...it’ll be nothing but a bad memory. But you’re not going anywhere. Oh no, you’re not getting out of this as easily as death. You will get what is coming...”
Reinhardt gave her a swift elbow in the stomach and released his grip, causing her to double over onto the floor. He remained still for a moment before walking away.
“That was only a warning, bitch. Hard times will be ahead and one way or another you are going to cooperate with us.”
A slight chuckle replaced the previous heated anger.
“Re-Education is coming, my dear...”