[color=686892][CENTER][img]https://fontmeme.com/permalink/221217/67dfadc85678fa9bcfbd9d9fd278ce6e.png[/img][/CENTER]
[table][row][/row][row][cell][center][img]https://i.ibb.co/bKFPRRM/GC-SIrona-FC.jpg[/img]
[color=2E2C2C][sup]_______________________________________________[/sup][/color][/center][hider=Personal Data][indent][sub][b]D A T A[/b][/SUB]

[sup][COLOR=SILVER]
[b]Full Name[/b][COLOR=#807B84] - Sirona Laurier[/COLOR]
[b]Callsign[/b][COLOR=#807B84] - Surge Tide[/COLOR]
[B]Age[/B][COLOR=#807B84] - 16 (b. 2662)[/COLOR]
[B]Birthplace[/B][COLOR=#807B84] - Fairbanks[/COLOR]
[b]Pilot Type[/b][COLOR=#807B84] - Support (specializing in suppressive fire)[/COLOR]
[/color][/SUP]
[color=#2e2c2c]-[/color][/indent][/hider]
[hider=Psyche Analysis][indent][SUB][b]P S Y C H E[/b][/sub]

[sup][COLOR=SILVER][b]Fraught[/b]
[COLOR=#807B84]As a result of her past, Sirona is constantly anxious and on edge. Sleepless nights shivering under her covers unable to go to sleep and afraid to because of recurring nightmares, anxiety attacks that can be severe enough to move past fight or flight and straight into a dead freeze response, an [i]intense[/i] and unnecessary fear of anything coming out of related to Fairbanks; she's got them all and more.[/COLOR][/COLOR]

[COLOR=SILVER][b]Quiet[/b]
[COLOR=#807B84]The nail that sticks up gets pounded back down. Sirona has a fear of standing out from others around her, nursing a constant background worry that doing so will lead to...[i]something,[/i] she doesn't know what it is but she's afraid anyway. And as a result of this trauma response, she finds herself being a [i]very[/i] quiet individual. She much prefers other people talking over her, and when she does talk her voice tends to be soft and perhaps even tremulous.[/COLOR][/COLOR]

[COLOR=SILVER][b]Delicate[/b]
[COLOR=#807B84]Though she's certainly not physically strong, this doesn't [i]really[/i] apply to her physically. Rather, there are...fissures, you could call them, running all along her emotional state and mental well-being. And while she's usually stable, at least, if enough pressure is applied to one of those fissures, it cracks open and she finds herself [i]very[/i] upset. As a general rule, the easiest way to pry at one of those fractures is to order her—[i]harshly[/i]—to do something.[/COLOR][/COLOR]
[/SUP][/indent][/hider]
[hider=Gear][indent][SUB][b]G E A R[/b][/sub]

[sup][COLOR=SILVER][b]Steel Key[/b]
[COLOR=#807B84]When she was taken to the laboratory, all of Sirona's things—all the sentimental pieces from home that she'd somehow managed to slip past Fairbanks, the little money she had, everything—were taken from her under the rationalization she would never need them again. So her oldest keepsake is a nondescript metal key: the key to her tiny dog crate of a cage. She keeps it strung around her neck underneath her clothing as a constant reminder that she escaped and nobody can ever put her back there. She can often be seen unconsciously clutching at it wildly during her more severe Shift episodes, but it's always futile in the end.[/COLOR][/COLOR]

[COLOR=SILVER][b]Bug Out Bag[/b]
[COLOR=#807B84]Terrified of being found again and taken back, Sirona got into the habit of having a bag with a few necessities in it near her at all times. The current contents are a lighter, a long length of parachute cord, a spare power cell for a datatool, a few liters of water, some dense nutrient bricks, and a SMALL folding knife (she's very hesitant to carry anything that could meaningfully be a weapon, after she panicked and nearly shot someone during a Polaris shift). She'd like to put other stuff in there too, but the bag is already getting heavy for her weak constitution, and she doesn't have much spare money to get any more.[/COLOR][/COLOR]

[COLOR=SILVER][b]Shell Casing[/b]
[COLOR=#807B84]When she was serving in the military, a friend of hers—or, well, something almost like a friend—gave her the shell of a bullet, etched with swirling patterns cut into the brass and exposing the bright metal underneath. It's tarnished by now, and the patterns are barely visible anymore. But she still carries it in a bag or pocket wherever she goes, and as far as she's concerned, she always will.[/COLOR][/COLOR][/SUP][/indent][/hider]
[hider=Neural Combatant][indent][SUB][b]N E U R A L   C O M B A T A N T[/b][/sub]

[sup][COLOR=SILVER][b]Armor[/b]
[COLOR=#807B84]Surge Tide's sleek, aerodynamic armored shell is constructed of a tungsten-nickel-iron alloy ceramo-metallic composite stained a dull slate blue. The joints and other moving parts are shown in a dull matte gray. While durable, it's kept light enough for her to be able to move around the battlefield quickly enough to lay down supporting fire at any angle demanded. It's certainly not heavy enough to resemble a heavy, and not quite enough to look like a vanguard either. Enough to shrug off a few really bad hits, but any more than that is a definite cause for concern. Perhaps the most recognizable part of its silhouette are the specialized external—and internal, really—supports on its arms and shoulder to keep up with constant heavy machine gun fire. There are two rough patches on the shoulders, where she's hacked and ground off both the Fairbanks and Tartarus Squadron insignias.[/COLOR][/COLOR]

[COLOR=SILVER][b]Hands[/b]
[COLOR=#807B84]Surge Tide's principle weapons and the core of Sirona's combat role are a pair of Lone Star-made Godhammer MG2k5 heavy machine cannons, occupying both hands. Chain fed, firing devastating thirty millimeter antimaterial rounds at a blistering twenty five hundred rounds per minute, they are more than capable of shredding anything that stands in front of them for more than half a second. They may not be sniper rifles, they're obviously not the most precise weapons. But you don't need precision when you're putting more lead downrange than you really know what to do with.[/COLOR][/COLOR]

[COLOR=SILVER][b]Back[/b]
[COLOR=#807B84]Sirona's back has been retrofitted with a large power cell surmounted with a magnetic attachment point that serves as a combination charging terminal and landing pad for a small autonomous repair drone that she can dispatch at any time to a target, scanning for damage and repairing it as best and rapidly as it can. It's no substitute for a real hangar, but it can at least get an NC stable so it's no longer an imminent threat to the pilot, and given enough time, patch them up enough to get them back into the fight.[/COLOR][/COLOR]

[COLOR=SILVER][b]Auxiliaries[/b]
[COLOR=#807B84]Those Godhammers don't supply themselves, and 2,500 rounds per minute is a [i]lot[/i] to go through. In order to keep using them, both shoulders are occupied with large ammunition bins that feed chains directly into the cannons and allow Sirona, as long as she's not wasting anything, to lay down covering fire for minutes at a time.[/COLOR][/COLOR]

[/SUP][/indent][/hider]
[hider=Relations][indent][SUB][b]R E L A T I O N S[/b][/sub]

[sup][COLOR=SILVER][b]Doctor Andrea M. Thompson[/b]
[COLOR=#807B84]During her time in the laboratory—deeply painful and deeply scarring—Sirona became quite aware of the doctor that was chiefly in charge of her and whatever happened to her: the saccharine and cruel Doctor Thompson. Though Sirona hasn't seen her since she managed to escape, a few years now, she is still a looming specter that continues to hang above Sirona's head and haunt her every nightmare.[/COLOR][/COLOR]

[COLOR=SILVER][b]Donovan Thatcher[/b]
[COLOR=#807B84]The commander of Tartarus Squadron and initially just Sirona's commanding officer, he also became much more than that to her. Now she remembers him...well, not fondly, but as fondly as she can remember [i]anything[/i] in Fairbanks, given that he pretty much raised her. In such a brief time, he became almost like a father to her (though not really). Post-desertion, she is...genuinely terrified of ever seeing him again. She knows, deep down, that being told she disappointed him would cut deep.[/COLOR][/COLOR]

[COLOR=SILVER][b]Bella (Isabella) Laurier[/b]
[COLOR=#807B84]Sirona's sister, somewhere in the neighborhood of two and a half years younger than she is. The two of them were very close when they were young; Sirona doted on Bella, and Bella looked up to Sirona. But after their parents died and the two of them ended up on the streets, Sirona woke up one day and Isabella wasn't there. She looked frantically for days, but she hasn't seen her since. [/COLOR][/COLOR]
[/SUP][/indent][/hider]
[/cell][cell][b]Physical Details [color=WHITE]◢[/color][/b]
[color=#807B84][indent]Sirona was the runt of the proverbial litter, even before the lab. She started short, and never grew much at any one point. She's only five feet now, and she doesn't seem to be growing much right now. Maybe someday. Not today. Indeed, her build follows suit. At sixteen, she still looks like a thirteen or fourteen year old. Perhaps it's because of persistent malnutrition and poor treatment during her formative years; perhaps it's simply how she is. Her muscle mass is lacking, but it's quite a bit greater now than it was; while she never served as boots-on-the-ground, she was still member of the military, after all. Her skin is ghost-white and lined here and there with extremely fine, almost invisible lines of scar tissue.

A waterfall of dark brown hair cascades down her back. She probably has too much of it, but after it was chopped and kept short for an extended period of time, she's become rather protective of it, and has trouble letting it be cut. She has a round, heart-shaped face, set with chocolate brown eyes that betray both a deep-held sense of fundamental sadness, as well as a constant guarded caution against the world around her, always afraid that her past will come calling again.

And finally, a special mention goes to her grand coping mechanism, what keeps her from totally breaking down: the smile. The small, contented-looking smile that seems as though it's burned into her face. She's worn it for so long, she's almost forgotten how her face feels without it. If it's dropped for any reason, her emotional state is in such disarray that something very, very bad is happening or about to happen.

She has a relatively small wardrobe, but large enough that she can wear something different every day as long as she washes her clothes consistently. Overall, she prefers muted colors over bright ones; blacks, whites, shades of gray, navy blues, and such.
[/indent][/color]
[b]Background Information [color=WHITE]◢[/color][/b]
[color=#807B84][indent]

[hider=1-10 Years Old: Alone]
Jules and Anita Laurier hadn't had the easiest of lives.

Originally residents of Blackstone in a fairly comfortable section of the city, they had crept across the border in grave danger to be with Anita's ailing parents. But by the time they arrived in the horrifying megacity of Fairbanks, her parents had already passed. The city had repossessed their small apartment and all of their belongings. Penniless and with no way back, the Lauriers had nowhere to go but the slums. And along with them was their tiny daughter, only about a year old. A little child named Sirona.

She didn't start off as afraid as she is now.

Her life was hard, it was true. Her younger sister, born some time after the immigration to Fairbanks, was difficult to take care of for the entire family. Work was hard to come by for people like Jules and Anita, slum rats who didn't even have a resident card. The lowest possible rank on the lowest possible ladder. But despite that, as she aged, she revealed herself to be a bright and cheerful person, or at least as much of one as could be expected. Her life was hard, it was true. But she was at least..at least a little happy.

But in this world, happiness rarely lasts.

Sirona isn't exactly sure what happened to her parents when she was ten years old, at home taking care of her sister. [i]An accident,[/i] they said, and that was all she was told. What kind of accident? Where did it happen? Was it really an accident? There were no accidents in this city. Who caused it? Why would they do that? Why? Why? Why?

But regardless how it had happened, the consequences were the same. The Fairbanks tide rolled on. Even the tiny apartment that their parents had managed to find—the only one that was cheap enough for them to afford on their terrible wages and long hours—was closed out, and they were closed out [i]of[/i] it. At the behest of Fairbanks, all of their meager belongings, everything they had—keepsakes, credits, anything that wasn't the clothes on their backs—was unceremoniously torn from them and repossessed; Fairbanks already owned them to begin with, after all. And the two of them, small children in the hell of the Fairbanks slums, were kicked out on the street with...nothing.

Nothing.

Sirona, until that point, hadn't appreciated just how [i]empty[/i] nothing truly was. Even when her parents had stressed over having nothing, Anita pulling out her hair on the stained table—they still had enough to get by, if only just. Their jobs weren't [i]good[/i], but they were enough to put food on the table and lamps on in the apartment. This was something totally different. And Sirona realized just how much of a luxury it had been to come home to the same four walls and a roof every night. But...there was none of that now. Nothing.

Nothing.

Or, well...nothing Bella. Nothing but each other. And there was some comfort in that. At least she wasn't alone.

It was a hard life. A harder life. She begged for credits, and was laughed at. She panhandled in filthy gutters overflowing with trash and disgusting water, and was spat on. She hoped, and her hope was crushed time and again. And, when it came down to it, she stole. She didn't only need to feed herself, after all. Bella was hungry too. And at only seven years old, she had it far worse than Sirona did in the end. But one night—a faint rain was drizzling down on the box that the two of them crawled into, and the damp clung to their clothes as they curled up together—fate decided that she'd tempted it far too much. Bella vanished. The next morning, Sirona awoke, and...she was alone. [i]Alone.[/i] Bella was gone without a trace. She turned the city upside down as best she could, searching, looking desperately for her lost sister. Went to places that she wasn't allowed. Was hurt for her troubles. Anything was worth it, though, if she could find Bella.

But she never saw her again. And once again, she had...nothing. Less than nothing. The last dream she'd had—of the two of them playing together happily—shredded into mist before she could even touch it, and turned to ash.

Just like happiness, in this world, dreams rarely last.

Or, in Sirona's case...they become nightmares.

[/hider]
[hider=10-13 Years Old: L1]
Sirona was taken one night too, only a few days later. Plucked off the street and stuffed into a van before she could really understand what was happening. She remembers the rough fabric under her knees to this day. A sharp prick. And she had just enough time to wonder why everything was growing fuzzy, blurring together, she felt so slow, so weird, before—nothing.


[hider=L1 MEMO - 7-3-2672]
[quote=Doctor β]Doctor A, July 3rd, 2672.
Acquisition has been successful. One (1) subject has been acquired from a street corner in city section ██, parents dead through ██████████████ and separated from any other family. No suspicion or loose ends. It has been retrieved and placed in holding, and given the temporary designation of TS-3. Awaiting your go-ahead for initial examination and permanent placement.[/quote]
[/hider]
The next time she woke, she was in hell. Her own personal hell.

L1, a deniable medical black site funded in secret by the top brass of Fairbanks, was her new home. Her room became a cage—not wire, they weren't that cruel, but the flat metal wasn't comfortable by any stretch—so small she couldn't stand up in it, stacked on top of another cage, this one empty, and flanked with more stacks in various states of being filled. The burning-bright fluorescent lights above the rows of cages illuminated a sterile white room. There were two more walls of cages. She thought maybe she would be sick.

She was.

Her first few days in L1 were a waking nightmare that [i]just. Wouldn't. End.[/i] Needles. Scalpels. Cuts, scans, samples. [i]Pain.[/i] Pain on a level that she had never, in her short life, experienced. That she never could have imagined.


[hider=L1 MEMO - 7-5-2762]
[quote=Doctor A]Doctor β, July 5th, 2762.
TS-3 has been given its initial examination. No outstanding conditions. Bill of health is coming up clean. It has shown no immediate adverse reactions to ███████████, █████████████, █████████████████████████ or █████████████████. However, there was immediate and drastic immune system hyperactivity when exposed to ███████████████████████, requiring an immediate system flush and dialysis, so that one is firmly off the table. Additional tests will be performed as needed for any future experiments. It has been given a permanent designation as 11-S, in my section of the laboratory.
I will need you to go more into detail on ‘separated from family.’ What remaining family does 11-S have that it has been separated from? Why were they separated? In what circumstances? In future, please deliver all necessary details to me immediately, I shouldn’t need to ask you this.[/quote]
[/hider]
Her daily routine became cruel experimentation; injections with various neurochemicals and innumerable other horrible concoctions, leaving her lying completely drained of energy on the lab table, weak and frail. Introduction of nanomachines into her bloodstream followed by stimulation via a powerful electrical current that jolted lances of tingling, searing pain through her entire body. Inscrutable machines implanted into her, activated, left to run, then removed just before she was forced on a treadmill, to stumble forward until she collapsed. These and so many more became the order of the day. 

And looming above it all was the Doctor. Doctor Andrea. Or just Andrea, as she insisted she be called. She talked so sweet and nice. Like Sirona's mom used to. But after she spoke so nicely, she would inflict the most horrible agony imaginable upon little 11-S. And the whole time, she had that same self-satisfied, catlike smile. Like Sirona hadn't even known she'd been playing the game, and she'd already lost.

Eventually it all started to blur together. Torture, torment, day in, day out, nothing more, nothing less, nothing else. She couldn't sleep unless exhausted or sedated. She could barely eat, and combined with the poor foodstuffs she was given, grew malnourished quickly. She had no way to relieve the pain. Any of it. Nothing she could do to stop what was happening. No begging or pleading. Sometimes they even made it worse, drew attention to her, and that was the last thing she wanted. So all Sirona could do was curl up in the corner of her cage, drag the thin blanket over herself like a funeral shroud, stare at the wall, and quietly cry. Until one day, the smile came.

[hider=L1 MEMO - 1-11-2674]
[quote=Doctor β] Doctor A, January 11th, 2674.
Subject 11-S has begun to exhibit a strange reaction as a result of continued experimentation; it has started smiling, and seems to be unable to stop. It is distinctly possible that continuous intravenous administration of ████ and ███████, as well as implantation of ██████, have begun to have distinct effects on its brain chemistry, as observed both in the constant smile and the █████████████████, ██████, and ███████████. Will continue dosing—carefully—while taking regular scans of brain tissue, as well as thin section brain sample for further examination if its erratic symptoms worsen.[/quote]
[/hider]
After all, if she was smiling she was happy, right? Mama had always told her that if she smiled when she was in pain then it would feel better. And she was always in pain. And so she always smiled, until the smile became her face.

This went on for nearly three years. Three impossibly agonizing years. Until Sirona—in a rare act of rebellion and defiance against the quiet, quavering thing she'd become—managed to nick the key to her cage from the security guard whose job was to dump her back there after she'd collapsed from pain and strain. She hid it well, betrayed nothing. The guard probably figured he'd just lost it. And she started to plan. 

Then, a few days later—a Saturday night, when people were lazy and wanted off work—she made her move, quietly slipping out of the tiny cage that had become her home and, wearing only a hospital gown, weaving between the cages, finding the entrance against all odds, and disappearing off into the night of the megacity.

[hider=L1 MEMO - 3-21-2675]
[quote=Doctor A]Doctor β, March 21st, 2675.
Subject 11-S is not in its cage, and the door is hanging open. It has escaped.

Is this what happens when I leave for two days to attend to something? We have [i]never[/i] had a breach. Ever. When—not if, WHEN—you locate and retrieve 11-S, we are going to have a long, long talk about your continued employment at ███████████████. You cannot afford to be sloppy in this line of work. I expect better of my staff.[/quote]
[/hider]
[/hider]
[hider=13-16 Years Old: Due West]
At thirteen she became a street rat again. Just like old times: begging, panhandling, stealing when she needed to, running when she had to. But it was hollow now, without Isabella. Hollow, and alone. And unlike before, she could absolutely never sleep in the same place twice. After all, she was always desperately afraid that Doctor Andrea would find her again. Would pull her back into the lab. Stick her back into #11. Have it all start over. And early on, she saw the staff now and then; combing the streets, looking for something as she shrank away into the shadows. 

It was an entirely new variety of hellish existence, and though it certainly wasn't as bad as being back in the laboratory, it wasn't comfortable by any stretch. And then roundabout her fourteenth birthday, she considered something: if she joined the military, they'd never be able to get to her even if they did find her. Right? Well. It was pure luck for her that she had the necessary neuromarkers to pilot an NC. Because if not, then Fairbanks would have sent her right back.

[hider=L1 MEMO - 9-17-2676]
[quote=Doctor A]Doctor β, General Γ, September 17th, 2676.
Subject 11-S—the escapee—has shown itself, applying to join the military. We could retrieve it at any time. However, it has displayed the requisite neuromarkers for piloting an NC. Therefore, issued request to General Γ from ███████████████: put 11-S under observation, but take no action. Retrieval will only be undertaken on the occasion it leaves the military.[/quote]
[/hider]
The military was...it was an interesting experience for her. That's not to say she liked it. No, no no no, not at all. She was [i]not[/i] a fan. But what she was, was [i]very good at it[/i]. Suffice to say, she was a natural. With a pair of Tsaritsa TMG-3 thermal cannons, she distinguished herself on the battlefield with Blackstone more than she really had any right to, as young and inexperienced as she was. And so she caught the attention of the higher-ups, and was shifted into the elite task force of Tartarus Squadron.

[hider=L1 MEMO - 11-21-2676]
[quote=Doctor A]Liaison Δ, November 21st, 2676.
Subject 11-S has distinguished itself on the field of battle as an extremely effective pilot. This makes retrieval, should we feel it is necessary, extremely difficult. As such, we have devised a strategy to make this easier on all of us. Subject 11-S will be transferred into ███████████████████, under the command of █████████████. This serves a double purpose of honing its skill, as well as making retrieval much easier, should the situation call for it. Paperwork is already in the system, it just needs you to sign off.[/quote]
[/hider]
And in Tartarus Squadron, she met the only person since Isabella to give her even the faintest hint of affection: Donovan Thatcher, the CO and founder of the group. 

[hider=P3 ENCRYTPTION - ████████████████'s Voice Log, 11/24/2676]
Those fucks at ██. I swear they're just insulting me now.

We got the new transfer to replace Aimes as Melinoë. Would've been nice if they'd sent us someone decent who know how things worked instead of shoehorning this joke of a kid into fucking [i]Tartarus Squadron[/i] just because they want me to keep an eye on her.

Mia is fucking furious with me. She took Alice's death really hard; she's the last member of the original Furies left now. I obviously can't tell them why this rookie who's only been in the game two months, and a freaked out kid who can barely even meet anyone's eyes at that, is now a member of one of the most elite squads in Fairbanks. So I need to defend Doctor ████████'s dumbfuck decision. I mean, ███'s not wrong. The kid really is pretty good, not sure if I'd call her an ace but if not it's close. 

But that's not the [i]point[/i]. The point is the people in Tartarus need to work really closely alongside each other, so they need to trust each other. As far as I can tell, Jacqueline is the only one that can tolerate her, or even really look at her. Mia's fuming that [i]this[/i] is what replaced her last old squadmate, Marina's rapidly getting sick of how scared she looks at everything no matter what, and Anya can't even be in the same room without screaming at her for getting preferential treatment or some shit. 

So somehow I need to not only turn this stupid pathetic child into a Fury, I also need to convince the rest that they shouldn't just shoot her in the back as soon as they go out on an op.

Fucking wonderful. Thanks a lot, Doctor ████████. Like I needed more work.
[/hider]
Though he started out skeptical of her consistency and trustworthiness if not her skill and was initially hesitant to send her out—not the least because some of the other members certainly didn't trust her—she rapidly proved them wrong with a standout performance on her first operation. Though the rest of the Furies never grew to like her at all and their relationship was always cold, clinical and professional if not outright hostile, Donovan became almost like a kind of father to her soon afterwards. And while of course he could never be like her real father or really even come near that realm, they still grew close. She was even given a new name, a code name as part of Tartarus. Though she still took part in normal military operations and remained Surge Tide, whenever Tartarus started an op, she was [i]Melinoë.[/i]


[hider=P3 ENCRYTPTION - ████████████████'s Voice Log, 10/30/2677]
Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck, [i]fuck[/i], [b][i]fuck.[/i][/b]

██'s still breathing down my neck, won't leave me alone. Still wants me to keep an eye on her. Fuck. Bastards are all crazy, but Doctor ████████ is the worst of the lot by a mile. What a sadistic fuck. Yeah, she does her job, as she's so happy to remind everyone, but she doesn't need to [i]enjoy it[/i] so much. 

The kid. Okay. She's doing alright. Jacqueline is still the only one that can tolerate her, but they're at the very least starting to trust her now. She's surprisingly impressive. I didn't need to really do as much as I thought I'd have to to turn a dumb scared child into something like a Fury.

The worst part is that she's actually starting to open up to me of her own volition. God knows I wouldn't have asked her to, I don't need to hear firsthand. Won't tell me exactly what happened, obviously—not that she needs to, mind you—but at least that something real bad happened to her when she was a little kid and it scarred her for life. I more or less expected that. Anybody spends more than an hour in there and they're not coming out the same, let alone three years.

What I [i]didn't[/i] expect was for her to tell me that the worst part was she never knew what happened to her sister. Didn't talk much about her, she never talks much about anything really. But...god. Fuck. I can't tell her. Jesus Christ, I absolutely [i]cannot[/i] tell her, she can't know no matter what. The look in her eyes when she hits her Shift, fuck, if I told her it would destroy her. [i]Something[/i] would come out on the other side of it, I'm not sure what. But it damn sure wouldn't be her. Really hope I never have to make the call to send her back there. Would not be proud of that one. I—

Shit, Mia and Anya are yelling at her again and Jacqueline isn't there. Should probably go tell them to shut the fuck up or else she'll be out of commission for a while, and—I know I'm her CO and it's not really my responsibility, but I'd rather not see that look on her face again, even through the smile. Makes my blood run cold.

Fuck. Okay. I'm done. ANYA, MIA, WHAT DO YOU—
[/hider]
Time passed. She and Donovan grew closer. Tisiphone—Jacqueline Brake, the sniper of the squad—was the only member of Tartarus that even really tolerated her, and even then only just. The others—the support Marina "Alecto" Quince, the heavy Mia "Lyssa" Hartley, and the vanguard Anya "Megaera" Sykes—all looked on her with scorn, disappointment, or annoyance, and any combination thereof. Her thermal cannons were still a thing to behold.

But five months into her fifteenth year, she...wanted to leave the military. A part of her, some sixth sense of paranoia, didn't feel safe here, in a way that wasn't just a soldier's concern. And she didn't feel like she would [i]be[/i] safe, could get away forever, as long as she stayed in Fairbanks. But she would need to say goodbye to her new "father," and Fairbanks didn't take kindly to deserters. She would have exactly one chance. And she knew where she'd be going if she failed.

After a sortie with Blackstone that went south—general military, she never would've been able to cut it with Tartarus—she made her move. Faking damage to her NC, she lagged behind. Lagged far enough behind in evac that, in their rush to escape, the rest lost sight of her. Then she bunkered down and hoped desperately that Blackstone wouldn't sweep over her. 

And for once in her life, her luck held. 

Then, with no equipment or really any training, she dug into the guts of Surge Tide. She knew what she was looking for. She knew what the tracker looked like. Wires tore at her, gouging scratches into the skin as she plunged ever deeper. More than once, she was only an inch or two from a sudden death with no warning, scraping her hands along past electrical cables that carried absolutely staggering amounts of current. 

Minutes passed. Hours. Still she dug, working her way around the entire slate-blue chassis. Twice she received a nasty shock. But finally, she finally managed to find it, set deep, deep down against the core. And she pulled it out, threw it to the ground, and crushed it under her boot with a sudden and foreign violent fury that faded just as quickly as it had arose.

NC Pilot Sirona "Melinoë" Laurier: KIA.

[hider=L1 MEMO - 4-11-2678]
[quote=Liaison Δ]Doctor β, April 11th, 2678.
Report to Doctor ████████. [s]Si[/s]Subject 11-S has been killed in action.[/quote]
[/hider]
[hider=P3 ENCRYTPTION - ████████████████'s Voice Log, 04/13/2678]
God—

Godfuck—fucking—fucking god damnit. God fucking damn it all.

She just...god. I can't believe it. I just can't. She was so [i]good[/i], how did a basic sortie with Blackstone—fuck, the commander on that mission should be dragged into the street and shot for what he did. She should have been with the rest of the Furies. They wouldn't have left her. I wouldn't have left her.

Well...at least ██ can't ever have her back. That's a mercy, I guess. I get the feeling she would've preferred this anyway.

Despite the massive tectonic shift it is whenever a Fury burns out, it's mostly just...business as usual around here, somehow. Anya's bad tempered, yelling at everyone as usual. Marina is telling her to go fuck herself. Mia is trying to get them to chill out, even though anyone can see she's pretty upset, and Jacqueline is rolling her eyes in the background while she cleans her gun. All looks the same. Still. Something's different. Feels like everyone's just going through the motions. Maybe I'm just projecting, need to do my job still, be the same kind of man and CO that I've been to these women for a pretty long time now.

I've seen a lot of Furies burn out. The first Melinoë, the last couple Alectos, there have been a lot of Megaeras, and this Tisiphone seems to know that she's still obviously got big shoes to fill in the first and only Lyssa's eyes. This shouldn't be a new thing to me. It [i]isn't[/i] a new thing to me. 

Goddamnit, it's all fucking ██████'s fault, throwing that pathetic little kid my way. What else was I supposed to do with a traumatized child? This is a small, tight-knit squad by necessity, of [i]course[/i] she was going to latch on to me. I know the nickname and reputation and they're pretty useful, but I'm not actually a [i]demon[/i] you fucks, she acted like I was her fucking dad or something and even though I obviously wasn't I was still going to get attached. I just fucking...can't believe she burned out like that, she's—she was Melinoë goddamnit, she's—WAS supposed to be better than that, I thought I trained her up better, I...

I just—I can't believe it.

I can't believe that she's—that Melinoë is dead.

Or...she's not Melinoë anymore, huh. Fuck, just...

...Rest well, Sirona. 

You were a hell of a Fury.
[/hider]
For some months afterwards she roamed on her own, unaware that Fairbanks wouldn't be put off for long. And if they found her again, the laboratory staff was free to take her back and do whatever they wanted. All she knew was that she needed to go west. Due west. She needed to go as far west as she possibly could, because no matter how far she went she could never run away from Andrea, she would always look for her, and if she stayed in the east, she [i]would[/i] eventually find her.

With only that to guide her, Sirona kept wandering. Until at last, finally all the way near the west coast...she came to Last Hope. A place where, maybe, just maybe...she could be safe.


[hider=L1 MEMO - EXIGENT PRIORITY]
[quote=EXIGENT DOCTOR A]MESSAGE TO EXIGENT DOCTOR β
11-S status has been updated from KIA to AWOL. Reconnaissance and retrieval are being prepared. Check and clear #11, make sure it is ready to accept occupant.[/quote]
MESSAGE END MESSAGE END MESSAGE END
[/hider]
[/hider]

[/indent][/color]
[b]Polaris Shift [color=WHITE]◢[/color][/b]
[color=#807B84][indent]Sirona already has trouble with terrible memories coming up at random, and her Polaris Shift does [i]not[/i] help. It afflicts her with a kind of...temporal dissociation. Her awareness of time slips briefly, and memories blur together like smearing paint, sending her into a state of confusion and often panic as pieces of her past start to overlap both each other and her waking life. Memories that relate with strong emotional states are very much the most common to come back to her, and so a great majority of these moments are memories of pain and fear from her time in the laboratory. This has grown steadily worse; now instead of just isolated moments commonly occurring as a response to trauma triggers, she also occasionally has full-blown episodes that can last anywhere from five minutes to half an hour spent in absolute panic, sending her into long strings of begging and pleading to people that simply are not there.
[/indent][/color]
[b]Personal Mission [color=WHITE]◢[/color][/b]
[color=#807B84][indent]Above all else, Sirona wants desperately to be [i]safe[/i].

Trapped for so long in so many ways, literally or figuratively, Sirona feels constantly exposed. Like she's always being watched, always [i]been[/i] watched, and always deeply unsafe. Her past is full of shadows—the doctors from L1, the military of Fairbanks, the last look that she took at her sleeping sister—that loom over her like so many swords of Damocles. So her ultimate goal, even if she doesn't quite know it, is to lift those swords away, one by one. She may never be able to rid herself of them all. She may never feel completely comfortable. The past may always haunt her through her nightmares.

But it shouldn't need to control her any longer.
[/indent][/color]
[/cell][/row][/table][/COLOR]