Amelia Jones can only see her in two ways.
ONE: Draped in black silk, embroidered with archaic silver designs wrapping sensuously around her body, eyes streaked with the color of vengeance, honor, preternaturally skilled in the exotic arts of killing–always with poison or a delicate knife, for even a Dragon Lady must remain strictly feminine in the most archaic way
TWO: The automated voice behind armies, a brutal tech goddess, she has no body, only a voice and the surface of a porcelain face thinly veiling the mind crouched in its shadow, ready to spring and release her claws. She is never human, and the hushed words that speak of her refer to the shifting forms of wild carnivores or really, anything with sharp teeth as their defining feature
This girl was always something (oh, but never someone) crafted by the words of others, to be beautiful and sharp but paradoxically also tragic and delicate, never the star, always the loose end always brushed aside unceremoniously at the end of the movies, the audience whispering to each other she deserved it, she deserved it, before forgetting her name altogether.
So when the would-be villain tells her with a tired and exasperated voice, "You don't know me," it's a painfully needless gesture. Amelia, after all, was the one who had been trained to tackle hordes of henchmen for whom no one would morn when they went spilling over into the deathtraps, masked and mindless flesh drones who only served as steps on her way to victory, who could never shoot straight even at point blank range, could never lay a finger on her, since like everyone had always told her, she was just that damn good.
Still, Amelia was never taught how to respond to the girl standing before her now, the girl in slacks with hair that had been all done-up in buns for a fancy event that went all wrong, who plays the part of the villain because that's the one job she realized she could be good at, but Amelia doesn't know any of this yet, was never allowed to think of her in that way, because whenever she conjures up the image of her in her mind, she can only imagine the two variations on the same theme. The sketch formed of everything the higher-ups had cautioned her about, just light and vague enough to let anyone who glances upon it fill the blank spaces with their own personal fears and fantasies.
But this girl is not a sketch, she is not a pair of claws, or teeth, or any animal aspect attributed to her in hushed tones. She's a girl who still loves cheap food and movies and falling asleep on her side with one hand tucked under her pillow, who collects stuffed animals on the side even though she's probably too old for them, who has worked hard for any measure of skill that she possesses now, for she's never had anything come easily to her.
"You don't even know me."
It's not quite clear if she's being dismissive or defensive, but that doesn't matter. To Amelia, she is real and hearing her voice is disarming enough.
"No, I don't." says Amelia. "But I think I'd like to."