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[b]Name[/b]: Spencer Marianna O’Connor. 
[b]Codename[/b]: Odora. 

[b]Age[/b]: Nineteen. 
[b]Place of Birth[/b]: Phoenix, Arizona. 

[b]Occupation[/b]: Starbucks employee. 

[b]Family[/b]: 
-Daniel O’Connor – Father. 
-Evelyn O’Connor – Mother. 
-Richard O’Connor – Younger brother. 

[b]Sexuality[/b]: Gay. 
[b]Relationship Status[/b]: Single. And she plans on keeping it this way. 

[b]Mutant Ability[/b]: Ice Manipulation – 
With this power, Spencer can create, shape, and manipulate ice, as well as freeze objects merely by physical contact, otherwise known as ‘ice touch’. Spencer may also use the hydrogen particles in the air to form ice using both her mind and hands as wielders. While there is very little that Spencer has discovered about the potential of her abilities, Spencer has realized that with her powers, she is capable of healing herself as well as others by absorbing the frozen energies and using them to freeze molecules which then renew damaged cells, which can ultimately stop the bleeding. Ice has the competency to provide energy in closing up wounds, and overall, allowing optimal health. 

[b]Limitations[/b]: 
-Spencer has a difficult time creating ice from hydrogen particles, reverting to using already existing sources. 
-Dry areas (mainly around fire or deserts) make it even more difficult for her to produce ice. 
-Spencer has little control over her Ice Touch, and could possibly freeze objects – or even people – without having realized it. 
-Her ability to heal only works with that of small wounds. 
-She hasn’t had a successful case of healing another person as she has herself. 

[b]Personality[/b]:
Spencer, to put it simply, is a very introverted person. Remaining solely to herself, she relies on no one, and carries the mentality that others are not to be trusted. With that being said, she is a very quiet individual, preferring not to speak when it is unnecessary. While she has thoughts, she does not process them as many others would. Spencer is utterly emotionless. She does not bring herself to feel what one would normally feel – happiness is foreign. Sadness is too energy consuming. She brings herself to be numb, really, as being without much feelings is easier than having them. 

Even so, there is a portion of Spencer that is so terribly vulnerable and raw, that even she is terrified of it. There is sheer anger, resentment, fear, betrayal, anxiety, sadness – [i]tears, oh god, the tears[/i] – and only ever does this come at night when the nightmares hit. The memories. The recollections. The remembering. Spencer hates to remember. She despises it. She does her best to think only of the present and occasionally of the future. Her survival, although pointless, is her only way being. Of existing. 

She knows she is alive. She is not at all an idiot, for that is what everyone with a beating heart is doing. But she is not living. Perhaps it is because she does not know how to live. 

[b]History[/b]:
Over the years, Spencer has forgotten a majority of her past. She’s suppressed it, every little detail, deep within her mind, in order to not recall the damage she’d lived through. Having a drug-dealer as a father and a drug-doer for a mother, her house was rarely ever unoccupied. Being that her house was so utterly cramped, Spencer had never been given a room of her own, much less a bed, forced to share one with her little brother, Rickie, in a room with whoever was lucky enough to snag the bed that had previously been hers. Rickie and Spencer learned to share a bed at a very young age, never sleeping without the other, too afraid to know what the consequence might be. 

While there was very little she could do for herself, Spencer was consciously active in keeping Rickie out of trouble, no matter what may happen to her. By the age of ten, she’d managed to get her own job mowing lawns. The pay was very little, but it was manageable, as the money her parents made was stowed away for drugs they did not grow or could not get for free. With this money, she purchased perishables, water bottles, as well toiletries that they lacked. On Christmas, she bought Rickie toys, and they often times played with his action figures when they were alone. 

Even though she never told a soul, teachers would often ask if her parents were hurting her at every opportunity they got. She and Rickie both – per their father’s request – had denied it every time, knowing that they’d be punished if they said anything. Teachers were always suspicious of the two, as they constantly came to school smelling of alcohol and weed. It wasn’t until Spencer was sent to school with bruises all along her chest did the school finally call the police. 

She was only thirteen when she was taken from her family. It was nine at night. She and her brother had just gotten into bed when gunshots sounded. Her mother began wailing. Father shouting. Her brother was hyperventilating. Men in uniforms came into their room and carried them to cars. Separate cars. It was so quick. So abrupt. So sudden. And no matter how many times she implored the officers, she never saw them again. Not her dad. Mother. Not even Rickie. 

She’d been put into a foster home the next morning, with her own room and blankets that didn’t have blood stains on them. The nights were often silent and her room did not smell of weed and mildew. There weren’t alcohol bottles strewn all across the hallways. No one was yelling or fighting. People smiled. The girls wore tank tops and shorts, not at all frightened that it would be too provocative. The adults flipped pancakes, offered everyone more, to which they denied. They denied [i]more food[/i]. 

For four years it went on like this. Spencer hopped from foster home to foster home, never complaining, never questioning. Always silent. 

She was fifteen when she wanted to cut her hair. The woman whom she’d lived with at the time, Tammy, did it for her. She shaped it in such a way that it framed her face and brought out her jawline more. It was masculine. And it suited her well. Of course, the kids at her school did not understand her want to dress in the attire she chose and act more like a boy and less of a girl. They spat at her, threw objects, hissed “faggot” underneath their breath. Her locker was always covered in sticky-notes with scrawled on adjectives in the morning. She had a process, a way of making it through the long weeks. 

Get up, go to school, ignore their comments – [i]don’t listen, don’t listen, goddammit, don’t listen[/i] – tear off the notes, get through all her classes in one piece, come home, go for her bedroom. 

This was a continuous routine that did not end until she was out of high school. It was then that her powers developed, and it was then that Spencer left her foster home and headed for the roads. She did not have a car, much less any friends to drive her to the bus station, so she hitchhiked. She walked for hours on end. Found herself in a small town down in Virginia. She found sanctuary here, choosing to stay away from others rather than have them discover who – no, [i]what[/i] – she was. 

She got herself a job at the only grocery store for forty-seven miles and bought a nice house just two miles away. She walked it to and fro, using whatever free time she had to control the abilities she’d been cursed with. When a letter came in at the age of nineteen, though, of a school that was welcoming applicants such as herself, she spent days wondering of the damage she could cause. Still, the letter spoke of the training of her abilities, and the assistance in understanding, which was something that she could use. 

Spencer wasn’t at all a fan of accepting the help of others, but she found herself drawn to this school. She packed her bags, located the nearest bus station, and headed off to the Institute.