Disclaimer: No really, I don't own squat.
Summary: Define perfect… Genetic manipulation can create a supposedly perfect child. But to Magneto, perfect and destructive are one in the same. KurtOC, WarrenOC
She could be the missing half, or the straw that breaks the camel's back. Only time can tell what life she will lead. Perfect as though shaped from glass, childhood tossed her aside. Pieces are all that remain. Is there one who could fix her, or will she remain a broken, bloody doll?
A/N: Thoughts
Ah yes, one last thing. As you will probably notice, this is a re-write of my previous fic. (I didn't know where to go with the other one, and it made no sense.) Someone made a comment about the last fic being an allusion to the Holocaust—what with the experimentation and all. But, understand that even though Magneto is Jewish, his character was originally created to want to 'cleanse' the earth of normal humans. (Honestly, I think the writers were searching for an oxymoron.) So if you still have a problem…I'll be glad to e-mail you Marvel's address. Thank you!
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And Her Eyes Shone like Diamonds+China Doll
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Lensherr Estate: London, England: 1997
Rain danced down the window panes of the vine covered manor, mirroring the crystal flow down the cheeks of a young girl. The spring storm vanished as quickly as it had come, but the change of weather did not put a smile on the child's face. With the many lovely trinkets strewn about the mahogany floor, one might assume that no child would be unhappy. Yet staring aimlessly out the second-story window was a prim little lass with a frown set firmly upon her mouth. Brat was the word that probably came first to the minds of passersby.
"Angelique! Get away from that window!"
Deep Brown curls flew wildly as the girl jumped back from the glass, alarmed. Large hands towered over her head and hastily drew the forest green draperies shut.
"What is it Papa? Is there someone outside?"
Erik Lensherr looked down at his youngest child strangely. She was disarmingly innocent, which had been part of his plan from the beginning, but he had not prepared for it being so effective. He stooped and took her in his arms, carrying his daughter away from the playroom.
She was six years old now and fully susceptible to the genetic re-configuration he was planning. The girl that loved to run, laugh, and gather daisies was soon to become a memory. Erik almost felt as though he would miss that child…almost.
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He had turned against her. With her heightened intelligence she should have seen it coming. He had left Wanda in America amongst towering doctors clad in white. Pietro departed next, also to the United States, to be placed in the care of a foster family.
No, she had thought she was the special one, the chosen child. How wrong she had been. Nothing, not even her semblance to her late mother could have prevented her pain.
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She sat still and silent on a medical table located in one of the mansion's innermost rooms. It was a room she had not even thought existed. The walls were old; made of stone and laced with mold that provided a dank smell.
Sticky, crimson liquid pooled on the previously unmarred steel of the table. Her hair was drenched in red that had been gushing from a vicious head wound. Stains marked where her skull had been beaten uncaringly against the wall and floor. Every single bone in her body felt as though it was rattling from the cold.
Her right forearm ached worst, and she observed the white of the bone peering out from several compound fractures. However; she felt little pain, as her father had been kind enough to inject her with morphine after the assault.
The door suddenly creaked open, letting in a sliver of light. Heavy footsteps announced Erik's presence, along with the soft clinking of medical tools. He approached his daughter carefully and observed that she was still in a light haze.
A white bandage wrapped around her head was cautiously removed as Angel flinched in response. She obediently laid flat on the examining table and Erik surveyed the damage. Nothing serious in terms of reducing mental capacity, but there were several long deep cracks, and chinks of bone were missing.
The operation was going to take longer than he had first thought. A glass syringe was presented from his breast pocket, and soon Angel was thoroughly sedated.
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Rays of early morning sunlight reflected off the water-sheened navy orbs. Angel awoke in a slight stupor, surprised to see the familiar paisley walls of her own room. The translucent pink bed curtains waved with the gentle ebb and flow of the breeze. Lacy pillows were soft under her fractured skull.
Chubby fingers brushed across her ivory forehead, and came into contact with the stark white head wrappings. Fumbling slightly, she undid the metal clasps; watching as the blood-smeared cloth fell loosely about her neck. The surgical stitches were messy. Sections of her hair had been cut away carelessly to make room for the "X's" now mapping her scalp.
Pain shot through her chest as she sat up. The feeling was that of a knife lodged in her ribcage. With a muffled cry she threw her legs over one side of the bed and slid to the floor. Angel hobbled towards the bathroom, gritting her teeth determinedly. What she saw in the bathroom mirror startled her.
Dark circles ringed her eyes, and her hair was matted with dried blood. She raked a hairbrush though the tangled mess; clots of blood falling to the ground like scab snowflakes. Her hair was dry and brittle, and when drawn between her fingers, left a maroon residue. The air was filled with a rancid smell from the blood, and Angel felt herself becoming dizzy.
She gripped the silver taps and waited patiently for the water to warm. As steam rose above the shower curtains, she began to shed the lacy, pink nightgown worn night-after-night. Angel used great quantities of shampoos and soaps on her hair after stepping into the shower. The skunk-like smell gradually dissipated.
Water beating upon her head caused the stitches to throb with a blinding intensity. Angel pressed her head to the cold, tiled wall; groping blindly for the tap. The water cooled and ceased to flow; leaving her sopping wet and chilled to the bone. She snatched a green, fluffy towel off the rack, and gingerly stepped out of the shower. After drying herself, and wrapping her hair in the towel, she ventured outside the bathroom; clad in only her underwear.
Someone had been in her room. Angel prayed it had only been one of the maids. The bed was made up neatly; gossamer curtains tied back, and an outfit lay out atop the comforter. The outfit consisted of a plain black dress, silk black stockings, and shiny black Mary Janes. Angel slipped into the dress, her fingers trembling as she tied the white ribbon that crisscrossed up the front. Stockings were pulled up her skinny legs. Standing slowly, Angel slid her feet into the Mary Janes; bending briefly to tighten the straps.
Her shoes click clacked rapidly across the floor as she headed towards the door. Angel had to lean the entirety of her meager body weight against the towering entry in order to open it. Sunlight flooded in as the cherry oak slab swung open a foot. She managed to squirm through the opening with little difficulty.
On her way out, she tripped over an item placed directly in her path. It was her teddy bear Tau (1). The fuzzy brown plaything had been discarded during last night's turmoil. Blood specked the soft fur, and her own glaring red handprint was smeared across Tau's dress. Angel cradled the bear in her arms; holding it securely to her chest.
She rushed to the nearby balcony overlooking the stairwell. Her feet, though heavily shod, were noiseless and cat-like against the wood floor. Heart palpitating wildly, she crossed the threshold of her father's bedroom. Erik's frustrated pacing could be heard echoing from within.
Down the stairs she climbed; faster, faster! Now, if only she possessed grace as well as speed and prudence. The very tip of her shoe skid over the step and she tripped. "Uh!" Angel tumbled down the last three steps, and in the midst of her flight she noticed the noisy slam of a door upstairs. No! Why now? What was karma punishing her for? She scrambled to her feet and rushed through the nearest door.
Heavy footsteps pounded against the stairs with a quickening gait. Adrenalin surged through Angel's small body. The door leading to the garden gate was directly down this particular hallway. If only her legs would begin to work again! Suddenly, her wrist found itself enclosed in a vise-like grip.
Instinct lent her the power to voice her distress, and she did just that. High pitched shrieks pierced the air. Erik twisted her tiny arm and watched the tears pour from her eyes. He was finished with pity and regrets. She was meant to be a tool.
Angel, now silenced by a harsh shaking—almost a beating, was returned to that inner room. Light blinded her as an alien object was drawn smoothly along the length of her arm. Everything was numbed by narcotics. Though increasingly blurry, she managed to make out the form of a blood bag. There were several of them lying on the nearby tray.
She lay unmoving for what seemed like hours. Then somewhere in her morphine soaked mind, it clicked. Blood transfusions. Mutant blood transfusions. He has to have lost his mind to try anything this stupid. Unless… Erik knew fully what he was doing. Angel's DNA had been altered before birth to absorb and respond to the sequences in mutant blood. She was to be the ultimate weapon for him.
The moment Angel understood how little she meant as a child, her hope died.
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(1) German for "Dew"
A/N: I tried, really I did. Please review.