Chrono 002:20
R-D Quartier de sécurité maximal
Numéro d'identification du sujet: # 52-0A-351
Nom du sujet: Encre 
Statut : Évasion de la quarantaine
Le couloir avant était beaucoup plus long qu'elle ne l'imaginait, mais peu de temps pouvait être passé à s'inquiéter de la distance qu'elle devait réellement parcourir. L'idiocie pure l'a portée à travers le sol en métal froid, et étant un glouton pour la punition, Czigani n'a pas hésité même quand les quelques gardes aléatoires sont venus canonner hors des portes latérales, matraques de choc serrés dans leurs mains.
Elle manœuvrait autour du premier, un gros oaf maladroit, dont la large balançoire l'envoyait hors de l'équilibre et se confrontait d'abord au sol. La seconde a essayé de se charger de la femme dans l'espoir de la combattre, mais encore une fois Czigani a pu passer en tournant son cadre maigre, évitant une collision tête-à-tête et plongeant à travers la première porte sur la gauche. Elle brouillait jusqu'à ses pieds, poussait la commande de porte à la position rapprochée, et se dirigeait rapidement vers le bas du couloir vide.
Statut d'ALERT: Violation dans le secteur 3, Corridor 15. Séquence de verrouillage initiée. Procédez avec prudence.Une voix monotone et robotisée annoncée sur le système de diffusion, faisant éteindre les lumières du couloir et allumer les lumières auxiliaires rouges.
La femme s'est exclamée, ralentissant le rythme pour obtenir ses repères. Tous ces enfoirés paieront quand je sortirai de ce trou de merde!
Czigani pouvait sentir l'anxiété et la peur s'accumuler à nouveau. Elle détestait le sentiment d'être piégée comme un animal, la méprisait même, et ses défenses du corps semblaient répondre, alors que les tatouages runiques et créatures qui couvraient son corps rampaient lentement et soulevaient leurs tentacules noircis. C'était une sensation inconfortable, qui brûlait l'intérieur de son corps, mais à son tour alimentait leur protection encore plus de la douleur qu'elle causait. Ses pouvoirs, à toutes fins utiles, étaient un cercle vicieux qu'elle trouvait difficile à contrôler.
Mais le contrôle qu'elle ne voulait pas à ce stade. Elle voulait sortir à tout prix...
Ses pieds ont repris le rythme, se dirigeant vers l'une des portes au bout du couloir faiblement éclairé, et ont glissé à travers avant qu'il ne se refermât définitivement. Elle a pris un moment pour reprendre son souffle et se recentrer, essayant de bloquer les sirènes saillantes et les feux clignotants de leur système de sécurité interne. Un sentiment accablant de nausées s'est lavé sur elle, et elle s'est soudainement retrouvée s'effondrer sur le sol avec à peine n'importe quelle réponse musculaire, mais ses sens étaient entièrement intacts.
Qu'est-ce que c'est que cette baise... Ses mots sont venus très respirants, comme si ses poumons ne pouvaient pas prendre et pousser assez d'air comme d'habitude, et les tatouages ont commencé à cesser lentement leurs mouvements, et se replier à leur place d'origine sur son corps.
Vos défenses innées, Mlle Salahori, ont causé votre corps à éprouver une quantité massive de fatigue, au point où votre tissu musculaire s'est systématiquement arrêté jusqu'à ce que vous ayez complètement récupéré.
La voix sur le système des haut-parleurs sonnait très bien comme le scientifique principal de retour dans la pièce ils avaient initialement gardé Czigani dans, cependant un peu plus artificiel.
S'il vous plaît arrêtez cette folie, et laissez-nous vous aider.
La femme, allongée sur le sol dans une position foetale, a lentement sorti un bras, espérant prendre la chaise en métal à proximité. Le mouvement est venu, mais lent et douloureux, alors qu'elle glissa plus près de la chaise, finalement en s'emparant de la jambe pour se tirer vers le haut. Sa main remontait la jambe en métal, sentant un endroit à saisir, mais réussissant à causer une petite tranche dans son doigt à partir des fragments déchiquetés sur le dos de la jambe. La douleur était momentanée, mais au moins elle ressentait quelque chose...
Le haut-parleur supérieur s'est craqué une fois de plus, répétant le statut antérieur d'alert dans la voix robotique, suivi de la voix du scientifique principal.
Vous entendez, Mlle Salahori? Ils connaissent ton emplacement et viennent te chercher. Renoncez au combat, et laissez-nous vous aider.
Ses sens étaient vifs, et la volonté de pousser était toujours présente, mais son corps manquait de la force dont il avait besoin. Elle se sentait égouttée et impuissante, allongée sur le sol comme un pauvre drogué dans les bidonvilles. Peut-être que c'est là qu'elle appartenait, avec les monstres, les parias, et le malheureux que le reste de la société ne voulait même pas savoir existait. Ses pensées s'arrêtèrent un moment sur ces nuits, un jeune punk sans direction, ramassant des combats n'importe où et partout, et méprisant sa vie de fille d'un capitaine de police respecté.
Elle se demandait souvent si la vraie raison pour laquelle elle l'avait tué était d'effacer complètement ce titre de son histoire, mais savait ce qu'elle faisait et savait que la liberté qu'elle avait autrefois ne serait plus, après tout, dite et faite. Cet endroit, cependant, voulait la démolir. Ce bâtiment géré par la Division des sciences élitistes dans le secteur de la R-D ne la voulait que pour une seule raison. C'est pas vrai. Ils n'allaient pas avoir ce cobaye pour leurs projets pervers et leurs recherches bizarres. Elle savait qui ils étaient, et ne voulait pas qu'ils aient le dernier rire.
"Allez en enfer, ASSHOLES!" Elle cria, laissant les derniers mots traîner, alors qu'elle griffait vicieusement son poignet contre la jambe de la chaise en métal déchiquetée, déchirant ses veines, faisant couler du sang sur son bras, et sur le sol blanc dans une flaque sombre où elle se coucha.
L'orateur s'est effondré, suivi de la voix frénétique du scientifique.
Qu'est-ce que tu as fait?...CODE BLUE! Chariot d'écrasement médical immédiat nécessaire dans le secteur 3, salle A-6! Des lacérations auto-infligées à son poignet!
La voix de l'homme s'est évanouie et s'est évanouie lorsque le sang s'est vidé du corps de la femme, et le voile noir de la mort finale s'est approché pour la saluer avec un sourire méchant.
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...”