Chrono 018:24
R-D Quartier de sécurité maximal
Numéro d'identification du sujet: # 52-0A-351
Nom du sujet: Encre
État : 

La femme dormait sur le sol au milieu de la cellule de dix à vingt mètres entourée de diverses petites bouteilles de peinture en plastique, et quelques boîtes de bâtonnets de charbon usagés. Les murs de couleur autrefois décolorés avaient été entièrement recouverts de diverses peintures murales abstraites et impressionnistes et d'images, dont beaucoup dépeignaient des créatures mythologiques détruisant des bâtiments, pourchassant les gens, et se transformant en miliciens avec les lettres R & D de leurs poitrines. Des symboles d'origines inconnues ont été dessinés sur le sol, à partir des coins de la pièce, et se déplaçant dans le centre. Le long du mur, un petit lit avec un matelas mince, des draps déchirés, ainsi qu'une petite table avec un plateau de nourriture intacte.
Un buzzer sonnait, ouvrant la porte qui mène dans la pièce juste à l'extérieur de la cellule de Czigani, et la surprenait d'un sommeil par ailleurs profond.
Elle s'est brouillée dans une boue incohérente, clignotant ses yeux rapidement pour ajuster sa vision, et essuyant le petit peu de ronflement de sa joue.
Le scientifique principal a dit, se rapprochant du blindage énergétique qui servait de porte de cellule, et a regardé autour de l'intérieur. Je vois aussi que vos sentiments pour la R-D n'ont pas beaucoup changé ces derniers jours...
Eh bien, les salopes sont nulles, votre nourriture, c'est de la merde, et j'ai à peine vu quelqu'un venir ici, alors ne va pas me dire ce que je peux et ne peux pas peindre le vieil homme.
La femme s'est assise et s'est étendue les jambes pour s'étirer. Son poignet avait été bandé à partir de l'incident récent, et les cheveux noirs courts qu'elle avait une fois complètement rasés, révélant plusieurs tatouages runiques et tribaux, quelques-uns qui correspondaient à ce qui était déjà sur son corps. Et ses piercings d'argent et d'onyx furent enlevés, ne laissant que les trous dans ses oreilles, son nez et sa lèvre pour servir de rappel. Ses vêtements, un simple haut de réservoir gris clair et des pantalons de coton assortis, étaient simples, maladroits, et un contraste dur contre sa peau tatouée.
Toutes mes excuses
Je ne veux pas de vos excuses stupides, d'accord... Doc?, elle s'est exclamé, en saisissant une des bouteilles de peinture séchée et en la jetant sur le champ d'énergie, la faisant craquer et agiter momentanément. Et arrête d'essayer d'être mon ami pour l'amour de la baise...
Le docteur Kordano a laissé un souffle empathique, et a retenu le datapad qu'il portait. Eh bien, aussi dur qu'il soit de croire, vous avez été moins agressif depuis les traitements après votre tentative de suicide. La perte de sang massive que vous avez subi semblait avoir mis vos capacités spéciales dans une sorte de stase.
Qu'est-ce que tu me dis, je suis libre d'y aller parce que je ne suis plus une menace pour le trou du cul dans la rue? "Oh attends... ça c'est vrai, j'ai tué quelqu'un, donc "no Czigani, tu n'es pas libre parce que tu es un meurtrier au sang froid et nous devons te garder ici pour le reste de ta vie merdique pour te taper avec des aiguilles et de la merde" Sa main se balançait dans un poing alors qu'elle se moquait de tenir une grosse seringue se poignardant dans la tête. Alors, est-ce que c'est à propos de résumer, Doc?
L'homme ne pouvait pas retenir un sourire pendant qu'il se tenait debout et regardait la théatrie de la femme. Non, vous n'êtes pas libre, mais ça ne veut pas dire que nous n'avons pas quelque chose de spécial prévu pour vous.
Ah oui? C'est mon anniversaire? » Elle a dit, tournant son corps pour s'allonger à plat sur son estomac, et procéder à des pompes. Ou peut-être, juste peut-être que j'ai des putains de pinceaux à utiliser avec la peinture bon marché que vous m'avez donné, alors je n'ai plus besoin d'utiliser mes doigts?
Le médecin s'est étourdi, et a tiré une chaise pour s'asseoir devant la cellule, plaçant le datapad face vers le bas sur ses genoux. Il s'est penché vers l'avant, regardant la femme un moment avant de parler.
Savez-vous ce qui est arrivé à votre frère, Mlle Salahori?
Il a laissé la question suspendue, et Czigani, continuant ses pompes, est resté silencieux jusqu'à ce que le médecin était sur le point de parler à nouveau, et l'a interrompu.
Oui. Il est parti quand j'étais adolescent et je ne l'ai plus jamais revu. J'espère qu'il est mort. Fin de l'histoire.
Et si je te disais qu'il ne t'a pas quitté, mais qu'il avait été kidnappé et détenu pour rançon à cause de qui était son père. Votre père, le capitaine Jorgio Salahori.
Czigani se poussa vers le haut, retourna dans une position assise, et regarda le médecin vieillissant avec un grand sourire sur son visage. Dire que vous êtes quelques cartes à l'écart d'un jeu complet, Doc. Et pourquoi dans les neuf enfers me le diriez-vous de toute façon?
Parce que Mlle Salahori, votre père était une cible de haut niveau par des groupes de résistance dirigés par les enfants de l'obscurité. Ces bandes mutantes ont essentiellement kidnappé, torturé et racheté sa vie pour une grande somme d'argent. Quand votre père n'a pas été capable de payer à temps ce qu'ils ont demandé, ils ont tué votre frère, et envoyé la vidéo de la police de tout comme un avertissement. Il n'a rien à voir avec tout ça, mais ils l'ont utilisé comme appât...
Czigani était assis là, son sourire s'est évanoui et remplacé par une colère brûlante, et les larmes se sont épanouies qu'elle n'avait pas ressenties depuis très longtemps. Elle s'est levée, a balancé les deux mains en poings, a serré les dents, et s'est levée à seulement quelques centimètres du champ d'énergie qui la séparait de son médecin.
Montrez-moi la vidéo...
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...”