[b][u]Aurora Claudwell[/u][/b]

Rory pulled into the parking lot of Ronnie's, seated behind the wheel of some sleek, purring thing that she had purchased purely for it's looks. She hadn't exactly needed a new car, but it had been one more task to take her thoughts away from the events at the museum. 

Loud, alternative music poured from the sound system. As the vehicle came to a stop, she leaned her head forward to rest against the leather-covered steering wheel, recalling that day. She had relived it several times in dreams and nightmares, watching the bodies fall, feeling the earth shake, and the violent explosion of a bullet in her shoulder. Her hand lifted, massaging the location of the wound. It had all been for...nothing. 

That, perhaps, was the most difficult to remember. The terribly sickening moment when Headmistress Pryde had announced without an ounce of remorse that it had all been a part of some morbid training. Even now, Rory couldn't help but to shake her head, as if revolted at the memory. What was it that disgusted her so? Knowing that she had revealed such inhuman parts of herself for no true purpose? Or the betrayal, that the institution she trusted had allowed her to? Had sent her to a false battle only to bring her back with scars.

Tears stung her eyes. She had experienced such fear and pain. She had confronted the darkest demons that day, all for the sake of 'training'. 

With a shout, nearly a growl, of frustration, she brought a fist down against the wheel - her good hand of course. Although Mender had done a super-human job of healing her wound, it was still a little tender. It wouldn't do her any good to go slamming it against inanimate objects. 

She took in a heavy breath, collecting herself as she switched off the kittenish car, the music and the engine dying together. 

---

She had intended to walk into the building. She really had. But nearly an hour later, Rory was still sitting in the parking lot. Only now, she sat cross legged on the roof of the black kitten-car, dragging every so often on some type of smoking stick. Its contents were a mystery, and better left that way. She didn't seem to mind the humid mist that teased her dark hair and hinted at the possibility of rain. 

Why had she come here, anyway? 

Numerous times she had revisited that question. It lead her in circles, hinting that perhaps she had come simply to enjoy herself. [i]Perhaps[/i] she should go inside, her own common sense whispered. But each time she met that conclusion, she felt strong reluctance at the idea of being surrounded by so many people she now knew she shouldn't trust. Still, she wouldn't have driven here and waited around in the parking lot without any sort of purpose. 

She pulled, and exhaled smoke. The answer was obvious. She didn't want it to be. The truth was that she could never stop being an orphan. She could buy countless houses - or cars - but she would never be able to go [i]home[/i]. Those truths, truths like death, were permanent. Even Mender couldn't heal those wounds. 

And this, an institution that she had so desperately wanted to belong to, was all she had. They could abuse her trust because she had no one else to give it to. That knowledge made her nauseous. And so, she continued searching for an answer that didn't feel so hopeless. Why had she come here? 

Why had she [i]ever[/i] come here?