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Character Quote: No one mourns the wicked
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Age: 18
Player: Mia
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Joined: 18-December 17
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Last Seen: May 21 2018, 01:13 PM
Local Time: May 23 2018, 06:32 AM
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Wicked

Brotherhood

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Apr 13 2018, 03:45 PM
In most cases, an eighteen year old girl coming home bloody and bruised would be cause for alarm. Not at Station M, though. That may be because it was Wicked. It wasn’t exactly a secret that she had an incredible talent for getting into fights. Be it picking them and starting fights herself or jumping in to an already ongoing skirmish, she was like a violence magnet. So, when she came back from her excursion outside the station, it was probably no surprise her knuckles were bruised and scraped. The right side of her bottom lip was split and swollen and her clothes were clearly stained.

Not that it seemed to faze her in the slightest. As Wicked had a giddy grin on her face as she practically skipped up to the living quarters. Her two shopping bags swinging back and forth as she made her way over to Kingtide’s door. She didn’t really know much about the redhead. Other than the fact that she controlled water, that was. Which had honestly been part of why she’d been avoiding the other girl even though she was the closest age peer she likely had. It wasn’t fair that she do that just because her memories of another water bender hurt like hell. But, Wicked was living proof life wasn’t fair.
That didn’t mean she didn’t feel bad about it. As far as Wicked could tell, the other girl seemed alright. So, when she’d been out hunting down the perfect fabric that she’d been looking for to make the sleeves on her hanbok and spotted some hand dyed cotton fabric with a ocean-y gradient, it’d made her think of the other girl. Even Wicked knew that the other girl had intensely blue eyes and seemed to like the color blue a lot. Plus, the fabric was soft and pretty. So, she’d gotten a few yards, which were now in folded up in one of her two bags.

So, when she knocked on the girl’s door, she wasn’t entirely sure how her gift would be received. Or if it’d be received at all. She could be out, for all Wicked knew. That didn’t stop her from knocking though. ”Hey, it’s Wicked. I have something for you.”
Apr 5 2018, 10:31 PM
It’d been over a decade since Wicked had made her hanbok for New Year’s with her grandmother. More than ten years had passed since she’d last laid eyes on the outfit which had become the memory she clung to as a life raft. One would think some of the details of it would have faded or become fuzzy. But Wicked could still recall every detail of the traditional garb. From the vibrant colors of the stripes on the sleeves to the bright red of the otgoreum and chima. She remembered carefully embroidering the geometric pattern along the hem of her chima. Taking every bit of care with every stitch to make it perfect as her grandmother watched. And the thrill that came when she had finally been gotten to put it on for the first time. Spinning around, watching her chima puff out. The striped sleeves had felt like wings which she’d dreamt of flying away from the camp by putting to use.

Determined to recreate her hanbok, to be able to touch it again, she’d begun working on making it when she’d first gotten her room set up with a sewing machine and dress form. At first, it’d been just drawing it out. Trying to remember how her grandmother had made the various pieces for the jeogori. Sketching out various pieces and putting them together on paper only to realize she couldn’t make a pattern solely from memory. So, she’d found one. It wasn’t perfect. But, Wicked could make adjustments.

The first mockup had been true to the pattern. It’d been practice for her to figure what she needed to adjust. Sleeves needed to be a bit longer. The body of the jeogori had to be lengthened so it’d cover the ties of her chima. So, the second mockup had been put together. All the adjustments she’d needed to do with the last one had been taken into account. Wicked had carefully examined it as she tried it on more than once. Scrutinizing for any little flaws she could see and finding no glaring errors.

It did sit differently on her as she hadn’t made a sokchima yet to wear under it and it was just muslin. Not to mention the fact that her body had changed since she’d last worn hanbok. Hell, her body had changed just since arriving in America. While by no means fat, she’d gained some weight. No longer did she seem to be tiptoeing around the line of being a bit bony looking. There was more of her around the bust and hip area, albeit still not a whole lot. But, it made her kind of uncomfortable seeing her body change like that. She wanted to cover it up. While she covered her scars and tattoo when out in the world to avoid the stares and possible questions, she wanted to hide her body from herself.

Acquiring the white and red fabric for the main portions of her hanbok hadn’t been too difficult. What had eluded her was the striped fabric for her sleeves. Yes, she knew she could just use the white for her body of her jeogori for the sleeves as well. She could embroider it with birds and dragons. But, that wasn’t what she wanted for this. Wicked was chasing a memory in an attempt to relive it. Even though she knew the girl who’d worn the original hanbok had died a long time ago. For just a moment or two, she’d like to pretend. Pretend to be that girl again. Even just for a second.

She’d gotten some various fabrics of the different colors she remembered her sleeves being. Cutting them into strips, she’d sewn them together. And the results were ok. It didn’t look bad at all. But, it also didn’t look right to her. Balling up one of the sleeves, she threw it across the room. ”Damn it!” There were tears in her eyes and she wanted to explode. Upset to the point she was shaking, ”God fucking damn it! Why can’t I get this right?” The other piece of sewn together strips of fabric sat on her desk where she glared at it. Green, purple, yellow, fuchsia, blue, white, and red were all sewn neatly together in a way that was honestly passable. But, to her, it wasn’t right. She couldn't pretend it was the same as the original.

Fed up with her everything, Wicked stormed out of her room grabbing her knife Creed had given her and flipping her own work the finger as she left. Stomping off to go take out her hurricane of emotions on something in the training room. Or else just go out and find something or someone to completely wreck.
Jan 27 2018, 04:00 AM
A black leather jacket had been the first thing Wicked had bought with the card Elle had given her. Why it’d been that and not a sewing machine like she’d planned boiled down to two things. One, she had no idea where to look for a sewing machine. Two, she’d seen the jacket and it’d called to her. Darkness always had. Black was her favorite color and one of the frew things the camp hadn’t taken from her. As soon as she’d put it on the first time, she’d known this was the direction she leaned in when it came to how she was going to dress herself.

Being able to wear whatever she wanted now, Wicked had gotten herself some basics. Almost all of them in black with a few in red or purple. She’d even managed to get her hands on some accessories like jewelry. She certainly had already developed a sense of her own style. Dark. Black. Hopefully a bit intimidating. That’s the look she was going for and felt comfortable in. It felt like she was that snake she’d seen once as it shed its old skin and looked far happier in its new one. That was Wicked as she walked on into the thrift store. Standing tall and happy in her new skin, well,
clothes.

Today, she had a mission. Not a Brotherhood mission, but a personal one. Technically, it was a couple of them. The first one being find where she could get herself a sewing machine. She’d been avoiding it because she didn’t know where to look. And also, it was nice to not have to sew all day, every day. But, her hands missed the work along with her mind. She’d gotten a book of blank pieces of paper which she’d drawn designs that came to mind in and tucked in her new bag. Designs she’d like to make for herself. That she would like to wear. Step one, find a sewing machine and buy it.

Step two was find the materials required for her first project. Out of all the designs she’d doodled or carefully sketched into her book so far, there was one that had a few variations of it but kept popping up. So far, the liberated Genoshan hadn’t seen anyone in New York wearing anything resembling it. But, this wasn’t a project for everyday wear. It wasn’t something she expected to see out on the crowded streets of the city. All that mattered was that she’d been dreaming of this one thing for years. Amidst the hell that was Genosha, when she was all alone, she’d clung to her memory of one garment. One hanbok with vivid multicolored so-mae, a white jeogori, and a red otgoreum that matched her chima. Not the crimson she’d become accustomed to seeing spilled, but that of a sunset as it began to fade to dusk. It was lively and infectiously joyous. She’d be damned if she wasn’t going to make it and spin around in it with her arms spread out wide, laughing, as her chima billowed out.

Could she have simply gone to a fabric store to find what she needed? Sure. But, one of the many shocking things about America was all the waste. Wasted food. Wasted items. People gave away perfectly good clothing because they didn’t like it anymore? Even gowns with yards of fabric in the skirt. Gowns which she knew she’d made a fair share of back in Genosha which she’d put such effort into making astounding. Someone had put work into sewing them and people just gave them away like it was nothing. Hence why she was looking through the racks of gowns at the thrift store in the hopes of a red that would catch her eye. And also be on a dress with lots and lots of fabric for her to work with. ”Why is there so much pink? And glitter? HAte this stuff. Gets everywhere. Never seems to fully go away. I’d rather do a bodice entirely covered in beading and embroidery than have one with glitter.” She grumbled to herself as she searched the racks.

Ion
Jan 8 2018, 07:27 PM
It hadn’t been a full day since Wicked had been liberated from the camp in Genosha by the Brotherhood and some fellow Genoshan mutants. They’d wanted to have her join the other mutants and go hide in Europe somewhere. But, Wicked had flat out refused to do so. The Brotherhood was fighting for their people. And if there was one thing Wicked was down for, it was fighting for her people. She’d refused to stand by and do nothing in the camp and that didn’t change. How could she just go hide after everything she’d seen? All she and everyone else held prisoner in that camp had been through? No, she’d joined on up without any hesitation. Wicked was going to do whatever it took to help her fellow mutants.

There was a lot to take in. Like the fact that she had a whole room to herself. Not a bunk which she may have to share if they got a bunch of females in the barracks. And it had an actual bed. Not the halfassed structures that had filled the barracks of that were made so they could cram as many of them into the long room as possible. But an honest to goodness bed with a mattress. It didn’t matter to her if it was top of the line or just your normal bed. Heck, even a sort of run down one was better than the hard wood she’d laid on for over a decade. There was a place to put her things, which consisted of the clothes she’d been wearing, the needle and thread she always kept on hand, and the energy whip and knife she’d taken from Ponytail and Stupid.

She hadn’t gone to sleep yet. Everything that had happened was still racing through her mind. Wicked had to remind herself it hadn’t been a dream. This was all real. At the break of day, there’d been no blaring to wake up. No having to fight to get fed something which would barely qualify as fit for consumption and wasn’t enough to fill anyone, but had all the nutrients packed into it to get through the day. There was no going off to work from sunup to sundown only to trudge back to the barracks, exhausted. There wasn’t the threat at any moment of having electricity sent through her body. It felt so weird. Wrong, even. As much as she’d hated the camp, it dawned on her very quickly that was all she really knew. She knew what to expect. She’d had a routine.

Wicked didn’t know what to do with herself. The others had seemed to have gone to bed. But not her. She couldn’t sleep. Not with everything sinking in. So, she’d found the laundry room, stripped down to her underwear, figured out how the washing machine and dryer worked (they were like tiny versions of the ones at the camp) and begun washing her clothes. It’d felt weird, pulling her undershirt over her head and not feeling her collar. Her fingers ran over the scarred area where it’d use to sit. The skin still a bit tender.

Her clothes were in the dryer now. Tumbling around and around, making Wicked feel a bit dizzy to watch them too long. She’d taken her needle and thread out before putting her clothes in and had brought the pillowcase on her pillow with her. There wasn’t much else to do but wait. And Wicked didn’t want to walk around in just her underwear. So, she sat there in the laundry room, embroidering flowers onto the edge of the pillowcase with her black thread. Her back to the wall, and facing the door, constantly looking at it and half expecting to have one of the guards throw it open at any time now. So, when the doorknob began to turn, she got to her feet, setting her shoulders back, bending a bit at the knees, ready to defend herself against whoever came in. Pillowcase and needle still in hand.
Dec 26 2017, 01:50 PM
Laid out to for all to see, Wicked found herself once more as the way to prove a point. That point being- What was it this time again? Do what we say? Don’t be a smartass? Stop being an obstinate lil shit? Kneel when we say? Keep your mouth shut? Speak up? The lessons all ran together and really didn’t make sense all together when she thought about it. She was pretty sure that she wasn’t supposed to be thinking about it at all. Just do whatever they tell her. Sit still, look pretty, as one of the other women said. Well, she’d always had trouble sitting still, so that wasn’t going to happen. Not Wicked. That’s why she’d slammed that guard’s head into the wall when he’d gone for the new girl. She looked like a bird with a beak like nose and as though too strong a wind would break her. Wicked didn’t know what they had her doing or what she could do, but she wasn’t going to let them break the little bird.

Blood dripped down her back, rolling down till it ended up in a free fall before plopping on the ground. Reopened scars and the tracks of new ones had been laid with an energy whip. To add insult to injury after whipping her till Wicked wondered if she’d have a back left after this, they’d left her there in a position they knew she hated. They’d made her kneel and attached weights to keep her there. Even if she wanted to and tried her damnedest, Wicked couldn't lift her arms or legs thanks to them. Not to mention, they’d had someone posted watching her with a finger on a button she was very accustomed to seeing. One touch of that and she’d be getting shocked. So she had to stay still and not make a sound. Seething silently as she heard various mocking comments thrown at her. She couldn’t raise her head even. The one good thing about having to stay still was it’d meant she got some time to heal, although it was probably not nearly enough as she’d need. It never was.

The sun had beat down on her, making her body want to scream out all the more in protest at this and drying the blood to her exposed flesh and staining any fabric within close enough proximity. But, Wicked could tell it was setting. It was getting darker. Which meant a few things, people were getting back from their day long work. Wicked could hear them, not all arriving at once. They were never allowed to all arrive at once. It went back and forth between females and males returning to their bunks. Bodies aching, some of them probably with that look she’d seen before. The one where all the life had been taken from them. Their bodies still managed to move, but they had no heart anymore. They’d all had fire in them at one point, but these peoples had been put out and stomped on so it would never come back.

Eventually it sounded like the mutants were back in their dorms, which meant shift change. Wicked wasn’t exactly sure what that meant other than they swapped the guards out. Where they went when they weren't here, she had no clue. And she didn’t really care. Wicked could swear she thought she heard footsteps nearby where she thought her guard was. With her button for this damn collar. But also on the other side of the fence. She desperately wanted to see who it was, knowing full well it could be a guard from over there. She didn’t care though. She was tired and her mouth was so dry. Her body ached while her mind buzzed.

It was a risk, summoning one of her manifestations. Just one, that was ok within the parameters set in her collar, however that worked. She couldn’t see it, but she saw through it as it pressed up against the fence and raised its transparent head. Gnarled fangs and sunken in face with a twisted mane and a body to match. For some reason, the guard watching her didn’t seem to notice it. Maybe because it was getting dark? Or cause they were distracted? Wicked didn’t care, cause she saw scales. And someone big. The cracked corners of her lips turned upwards in a motion no one could see given her face was so close to the ground. So, when her lips moved, the only evidence of it was her manifestations did too as it let out a hoarse whisper. ”Hey. Heyyy. Pssstt. Over here.” Wicked knew Seamus Mellencamp wasn’t a snitch. He’d been nice whenever she’d said hi through the fence before. She was more worried about the guards than him. Cause if they saw her manifestation by the fence, it’d be zapping time.
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skinned by missy at atf, caution, & shine.
cfs by black and code script by nicole.