Of course, there are several uncanny things about the sight on the camera feed. All might seem fine without the concrete-poured cell, its bolted, steel bed, its silver sink and toilet. But things become strange indeed when one looks at the woman. The least of the improbabilities is that one might never see again a woman sitting with such an iron-spined correctness, while also wearing white sweat-pants, a white long-sleeved shirt, and white t-shirt, and white crocs. Dwell upon her face and notice how pale it is. She is grey in hue, not pink, even with the green-tinge of the camera feed, the travelling screen tear that distorts its little inch of the monitor, and in the dim light. And lastly, of course, the fact that she is twice the height of the little doctor who sits in a chair opposite her on her bed. Subject AD01, the Countess Alcina Dimitrescu, is a terrible thing to try and contain. The blood stains on the floor are testament to that.
For weeks, she has stared at the flickering fluorescent light. The air is cool, and it makes her arthritis flare. She alternates her day between pacing while she massages her wrists and knuckles, lying on her bed watching the small nineties-era TV blare, and sitting, ramrod straight, staring at the door. She hardly blinks. When asked by staff if they can do anything for her, she simply answers: tell me where my daughters are.
The camera, an uninterrupted stream pointed in her direction with a blinking red light, watches always. It'd seen her, like some piteous, cancerous white tiger chuff and roar. Everyone, she imagines, has seen her by now. Come watch the giantess live on television. Her hair has grown out, and she can smell the stench of her skin again. Her hygiene had been designed so extremely specifically to mask the cold, earthen scent of decay. No pearls, no carmine lipstick, no family-crest brooch, and no heels. They had her in rubber shoes, damn it. Even the heat of her fire had been a balm to the heaviness of her own bones. The corsetry, too. She is fed blood from a medical grade juice-bag with a plastic straw. She needs more than this to live on, but she has not made mention to the guards. She has, after all, one priority.
They have her captured: they will not negotiate with a weak woman. They will not negotiate with her unless she exerts some sort of power. Like a caged animal. But unlike the animal, she plans. She spends hours each day, planning.
The last she'd eaten had been the young little researcher. He'd carelessly looked at the wrong place, and she'd taken her moment. The guns had gone off, and none of them had mattered a damn. She'd gorged on him while the other soldiers backed out, yelling about how she'd 'murdered our boy, Nate' and 'No, please, not Nate, no!' She had to laugh, the hot slick flesh of him in her mouth, bullet-holes opened up in her clothes, and dark red spilling down her front. She'd refused to relinquish the body, and she'd sat on her knees before the camera, peeling his viscera and sinew off of him, giggling and moaning with delight for the first time since she'd come to this god-forsaken place. She'd guzzled down the hideous raw flesh of his tongue from his open mouth. Not done, she pouted, whined in a rapt tone, orgasmic and taunting: "Nate. No! Nate. Please, no. Stop, please."
She loves to perform. No harm, she reckons, for them all to remember that.
Three days elapsed. His body had been dragged, trailing blood, to a spot near her bed. After all, who could retrieve him? Who would come in after him, already dead? His bones were bared to the environment, the meat eaten off of them. His muscle sinew went hard and oxidised into a hardened, brown colour, like mincemeat. She heaved his head from his shoulders, her knee on his chest, grunting with effort and the pain of her wrists, careful not to use her claws lest they are still unaware. When it was separated she held it at night. They can drug her, she expects, but they cannot reattach his savaged head. She began to ask the head if he reckoned if his family would mind his funeral being held with him in abstentia, or does he think they would manage a 'closed casket' funeral, with nothing in the coffin. On the wall, with his blood, she painted a wet vision of her daughters' forehead tattoo.
That night, she had been drugged. She's sure of it. The vents, probably. The next morning she's awoken, pained and groggy, the body stolen from her, all of his blood still dried to the floor. Her daughters' symbol, dark and large on the wall. She has not seen someone since. Her blood is shoved in the door beneath a grate, and they haven't troubled her for blood samples. The next person she sees is Rebecca Chambers.
It's three days since her kill was taken from her. She still wears the bullet-hole ridden clothes, blood dyed to her chest, and hair longer now, reaching her shoulders. On her bed, she leans one arm back, crosses one shapely leg over the other, ladylike, and places her dominant hand on her knee.
@drunivers had introduced herself. Explained herself to be a medical doctor, here to help. Isn't that precious? She's so glad for help to make her eternal damnation to this horrendous place a more fruitful partnership. At least she never pretended the coarse things in her dungeon were kept there for a noble reason.
The Lady leans back, blinking imperiously, assessing the woman. She explains that the BSAA needs her life-story, a complete list of her abilities. They are trying not to hurt her, but given her behaviour they must construct a steel and glass visor between her 'living area' and the 'visitation area'. They can see her through one-way glass on one of her cell walls, but they need to be assured that she won't attack them the next time they -- on, and on, and on it goes.
"We really have nothing to discuss unless we're alone." She cuts in. The image she'd drawn in Nate's blood backgrounds her, as if instead of a steel bed in a concrete cell, she sits upon a throne. Her yellowed eyes blink again. She tilts her head. Flicks her eyes to the armoured guards standing by, guns in hand and heavily armoured. "I won't be spoken to with a gun in my face. The manthings are of no real use to you in here. If I wanted you dead," She leans over her lap, "You would be."
She reclines again, and begins examining her nails. No gloves. Her delicate fingers, warped purple and dark at the nailbed, are suddenly of great fascination.
