@dcnttouchme  //  symbols for starters
Division Three had been her prison for quite some time, though she’d been saved (or an unplanned and unexpected rescue, rather). One second, everyone was in a panic, and in the next they were dead; some sucked into the floor, others just collapsing without reason. Her seclusion might have been her savoir—the moment she’d felt metal near, bracelets, earrings, belts, anything, she drew it near to break her bindings. Shoved into an environment of plastics all because of who she was, To them she wasn’t Lorna, her name didn’t matter but her heritage did.
She wanted to know what they knew, and of the group of them she’d come to sense that Sydney was the most observant. If any of them pieced her together, it would have been her. Or so she thought. Her biggest concern, her fear, was that they’d look down at her (reject her!) all for the blood that ran though her veins. At the sound of creaking floorboards Lorna knew she was caught. Red handed, without any kind of way to talk herself out of it. Her looking and snooping was useless, and if anything she’d just begun to dig herself into a hole she couldn’t emerge from without talking of what she so desired to hide.
“It’s not what it looks like...”
