Aria 1.1

Taylor's sweatshirt clung to her belly, soaked through down to her rather thin t-shirt, both articles bound by a large orange stain of drying juice that discolored the dull, sickly green cotton blend making up her outermost layer. The girl's nose was permeated by a slightly sweet smell that seemed to be indistinct from any other kind of sugary, heavily processed drink. A scent that would quickly turn bad if she didn't get her top washed soon.

The universal law that wet clothing must be unbearable to wear unless you were completely submerged was very much in effect. It made Taylor cringe each time she moved and her slight paunch of a stomach brushed up against it, forcing her to awkwardly peel away her besmirched clothes in the hope of easing her discomfort.

Her mind wandered as she tried to avoid thinking about what had happened at lunch today while her foot tapped against the battered concrete at a quick staccato. She checked her watch with a cold look on her face, her disgust filed away behind a facade of apathy. The cold metal accessory drew the eye away from her olive brown skin that just barely echoed her mother's. She was lucky it hadn't been snatched by her tormentors, and grateful enough to take solace in that small mercy and not question it. Too much bad shit happened on the regular to the gangly teenager for her to be unappreciative when the worst case scenario didn't play out. The watch's ornate looking arms turned in their diligent cycle across the stained-glass background, telling her it was nearly three thirty.

If Taylor had any choice in the matter the bus would be here by now, or even better she wouldn't need to be standing here at the stop. That and Her clothes wouldn't be doused in juice, and finally, her mother would be at home, looking over the preparations for one of her exhibits, small as they were. Indeed, if she'd had any influence over the winds of fate then the past year and a half would be just a nightmare, the stain just another figment of her unconscious mind stirring up the worst possible turns life could throw at her.

Sadly, this wasn't the case. Her bullies were real, her clothes were still wet, sticky, and feeling absolutely appalling against her skin, and the bus out of town with the closest stop to Brockton correctional was still late. Still, she couldn't let it get to her, or at least let it show. "Stand strong and present your ideal self", just like her mother had taught her. Taylor could get a new shirt after getting off the bus; she knew for a fact that it stopped near a convenience store that sold souvenirs. Bright, loud looking things meant to draw the unattended children of tourists before they could be reined in. Managers hoping to clear out their inventory via temper tantrum. The teen might've been cutting it close. Her plan risked the possibility of missing visiting hours, but replacing the soiled clothing held priority. Better to be late than to bring up unwanted questions. Who knew how she'd react.

-

Annette stared at the clock on the wall with an intensity that could only be rivaled by the most detail-oriented sculptors. Each tick scraped away at her resolution as the arms waved back at her in that painful cyclic motion. Two piles of books were stacked neatly on the shelf to the right of her bed, more of a cot really. One stack had their backs pointed to the wall to indicate which ones she was finished with. The other pile pointed in the opposite direction for the ones she cared enough to reread. Prison had left her with plenty of free time to tear them apart word by word, separating the rubbish and drivel from those with true value.

Did she forget? Or is she just ashamed of me? The bitter thoughts ran through her mind as she counted down the seconds. Gritting her teeth beneath her lips, being careful to ensure no one could see how nervous she was, dreading that her worst fear had come true, despite what she'd sacrificed already to preserve what little sense of normalcy she had left.

The small hand of the standard issue wall clock pointed to the four and its taller brother had a spear prepared to strike a third of the way between the painted black nine and ten. Visiting hours ended at six so there was time yet, but that didn't put Annette at ease.

It'd been hard on her songbird. A family member in prison was tough on anyone, especially when it was the mother. The heart of the family, though Annette couldn't say she'd been the prime example of such a person. Danny had taken on that role well enough though. She'd worn the pants of their relationship and did so with the natural grace a monarch such as herself had been graced with since birth. Danny, he was much less refined, indicative of his humble origins. A kind, honest man. No wonder she always seemed to be able to sweep him away through will alone. Which wasn't to say he was easy to break if anything it was a source of pride she never made him angry enough to lose his wits, though seeing him finally break and unleash that carefully contained anger was a treat. Always there to remind her she didn't marry a pushover, at least when sh wasn't involved at least.

Excuses aside, doubt had managed to creep into the corners of her mind. Maybe she could've tried harder to be warmer. To leave aside the lessons her previous two lives had ingrained within her. To sit idly back and become just another suburban soccer mom. To let it all just drift away, until not a shred of her former self remained. It made the caged woman absolutely disgusted with herself that she might've wanted such a thing. Still, it was a comfort sometimes to fantasize.

Instead, Taylor got a monster like her. That little fact hadn't discouraged her, too much anyway. They were bound in blood, and Annette was still royalty in her own mind, determined to make her memory last through the gifts imparted upon her offspring. Taylor would know where she stood in the world, above all the other peons.

A buzzer blared, assaulting her sensitive ears and drowning out the sound of the sand singing to her from outside. Temporarily distracting her from the storm of anxiety brewing her stomach. She shamed herself into keeping her composure. She was better than that; Annette couldn't let the guards see her caught in the throes of something as mundane as her emotions.

She had to stay dignified, for Taylor, for her family. For all of their collective pride. The ringlike collar around her neck itched, sweat budding below its smooth metal surface, sitting skin tight to her flesh yet leaving her breathing unrestricted as though it were molded around her neck with clay and embedded into her body like some esoteric sensory organ. Tinkers truly were miracle workers to anybody not being held captive by their infernal contraptions. Many a night Annette thought about how she regretted not taking time out of her life to personally murder every one of them.

Heavy boots thunked down the tiled floor of the hallway, the sound resonating across the barren off-white walls. She resisted the urge to scratch at the device around her neck, no doubt one of Dragon's pet projects; the bitch was the go-to tinker for parahuman containment. So it wouldn't surprise Annette as she stood her ground and submitted herself to merely admiring the handiwork.

Her face eased back into a look of cold, disinterest. Stoking up an air of steadfast resolve for her approaching audience as she stood up from her bed, she crossed arms to punctuate her point, as though it were the guards who were at fault. Delaying her daughter, and angering their betters, namely her. Impression was everything. She prayed in the back of her mind that she hadn't been blown off by her own daughter, one of the few people left on earth whose opinion mattered.

The guards took ten seconds to make it to the entrance to her cell. The leader was unarmed, looking like your run of the mill prison guard carrying only a ring of labeled keys in hand. The three men behind him, in contrast, were loaded for bear, fully equipped tac-vests carrying the normal PRT kit, con-foam grenades, knives, radios, and a plethora of other less notable tools. Each man carried a submachine gun to defend himself. No doubt kicking themselves for getting such a boring detail.

The guard spoke over the clanking of the keys as he cycled through looking for the one that went with her cell, relaying the standard spiel that they spewed out whenever they escorted her out of it.

"Shatterbird, you have a visitor. Stand with your back facing us, your hands above your head and against the wall."