She wasn't special, really, at least in her opinion. She was tall for her age, lean with fair hair and eyes. But when she looked in the mirror, she never saw why her mother told her how special she was. All she saw was herself, what she had always been, and what she would always be: a freak. Her pallid skin was so light she had to wear sunscreen even in winter, moisturize twice everyday, and had long given up on finding a foundation that would match her skin tone. It wasn't an issue of her skin being too olive or too pink, rather it seemed the undertone was almost blue - just like her eyes, almost too blue. Her adoptive mother told her that they were a clear sky, a perfect day, like the rain held in the clouds before it fell. But to her, they seemed like painted buttons on a doll from some scary movie, more artificial than endearing. And her hair, her security blanket, her way to hide from on-looking, eyes was near as pale as her skin, with the same odd blue tinge. It was white on good days, and shimmered periwinkle in sunlight.

The doctors said it wasn't albinism, it was just an extremely uncommon genetic mutation probably carried down from her birth parents. They didn't have a name for it, and had never seen anything like it before. "A unique specimen," they called her, and she would never forget or forgive that. Strangers avoided her the older she grew. She had few friends, and fewer family. Her mother had adopted her as a baby, with no father figure, and no siblings, only an estranged aunt who only came to see them on holidays. It was rather hard for an already odd-looking outcast to find someone to give her the attention she craved, when those who should were either non-existent or not involved in her life. Her own parents had given her up, after all.

Kids would laugh at her on the playground. Ever since she could remember, they would call her names and single her out for her appearance, despite her best efforts at befriending them. It didn't matter how many times she changed schools, it was the same everywhere, at all ages in one way or another. The laughing and name-calling may have stopped, but the discriminatory whispers and note passing ensued. The odd looks in the locker room, the way everyone avoided her glance. By now she was used to it, being the white-blue spark in the sea of normality that surrounded her.

She had two options, and only two options: get tough or give up. Her mother told her that no matter how people treated her to keep her head up. To keep her dignity and her pride and never retaliate. The mean drawings stuffed into her locker, the biohazard stickers slapped all over her gym bag, the graffiti on her mailbox. She learned to steel herself to it, to ignore and move on. Her skin hardened into marble, and she became a goddess above all of the nonsense. She became stone and sapphire, unable to be touched by the words and actions of those around her. Her attitude shift inside began to affect her exterior behaviors; no longer did she blush when people stared, she eyed them right back, daring them to say something. She was sharp as obsidian and hard as alabaster. She was an Alantian princess sunk deep into the sea, an alien explorer left on earth. She was Clark Kent, the last unicorn: Amalthea; she was Rei Ayanami, pilot of an Evangelion. Books and movies were her friends, dreams were her lovers, she needed no one. She feared no one, no one would could or would touch her as long as she kept up the walls she built around herself. Her words became venom and a raging storm brewed in her eyes threatening white lightning to strike at her supposed enemies. She was a goddess, a warrior, a queen, and nothing less. But she was also a 17 year old girl.

When her mother died, one month before she was to start school at Domino High, Kisara, faltered. She stared at herself, naked as her name day in the mirror, criticizing every scar, each bruise, all the veins that stood out against translucent skin. Her ribs were too visible, her muscles too lean, her eyes too big with dark blue bags under them from lack of sleep. She wished they were puffy, she wished that they were red, but no matter what the tears wouldn't come. She felt hollow, empty, lost, and more alone than ever.

Mom couldn't really be gone, she deluded herself sometimes while drifting off to sleep. It just wasn't possible; she was the strongest woman that Kisara knew. She had raised her, a problematic child in more than one way all but alone. Mom juggled two jobs when Kisara was really young, and when her career took off and she was able to start her own business, she worked everyday at least eight hours into her mid sixties. There just wasn't a way that someone like her, someone as strong as mom could die. Minami Hayashi was a self-made woman, unstoppable, invincible. She was the one who had been Kisara's rock, her shoulder to cry on and her constant supporter. She whispered the soothing words into her ears when she had nightmares, held her hand while she taught her to cross the street safely, always reminding her not to look at her feet, to keep her head up. Keep your head up.

She was her mom, and moms' don't just die. They didn't leave their children. They don't abandon those who needed them still. It wasn't fair, it wasn't ok, it wasn't right. So anger filled the void of loss, and anger would not allow her tears as she stood staring in the mirror at herself.

Anger was an old friend, her default after years of learning to deal with the bullying. She became her heroines and heroes to avoid slipping deeper into depression, and when she couldn't be her own hero, it was her paperbacks or laptop that comforted her. Learning was intoxicatingly easy for her, and soothing, something to think of other than her miserable blue existence. That's what led her to creating, and what drew her at Domino High. They called her a prodigy, a visionary, or some other elaborate adjective that was more flattery than fact. It would have been easy for her to correct them on their usage of the words, but instead she smiled and accepted. The school wasn't too far, and their digital media production department was unrivaled in the east.

She wanted nothing more than to get into the field of game design, computer programs and 3D modeling made sense to her and comforted her creative side more than simply sketching. The tactile process of sculpting digitally soothed her unconscious longing for touch. She dreamed of working for a virtual reality company so she could escape into her creations. If she could get through school and build herself up, then she could hide behind the walls in her office for the rest of her career. In her hopeful future, she would have underlings to run errands and could possibly work from home eventually. She would be rich, famous and utterly above the ever-present bullying. No one bullied rich people, and when she had enough money she could live without the rest of the world.

But first she had to climb the metaphorical and real stairs, one by one. And each one was harder than the next, as trite as that sounded in her mind. Highschool, real highschool, started today. Not cram school, or testing out of classes like she was used to, but real actual seven-thirty am to two-thirty pm five days a week with required courses and obscene uniforms highschool. She shuddered at the thought, finally shaking herself out of her thoughts. She pulled on her undergarments before putting the aforementioned tragedy of an outfit on.

Minami, her adoptive mother, had been a fashion designer, which might have had an effect on her adopted daughter's love of design, or it could have been a mere was for sure is that despite her odd coloring, Kisara was always well dressed. And pink was not her color. The azure blue pleated skirt was too short for her liking but the bowtie seemed to be the most offensive object, adding a clown-like element to the pink jacket as she clipped it under her collar. A clip on bowtie, she smiled faintly, imagining her mother laughing at it. At least she could pick her own shoes, though it was hardly a saving grace for nothing could offset the bright white knee-high socks. Glaring at her reflection in the mirror and trying not to focus on how the pink made her skin seem to glow with unearthly light, she chose some simple silver earrings and began to brush out her hair, sighing and mentally preparing herself for the day.

Grabbing her bag and keys, she glanced down before heading out the door to catch the subway at this unholy hour of six in the morning, and caught sight of her mother's necklace out of the corner of her eye. She hesitantly ran a finger along the curved silver filigree dragon, wrapped around a shining blue stone. It rested where mom had left it, on the credenza near the door where they would unload mail and purses, and kick off shoes beneath. Her mom had had the necklace ever since before Kisara could remember. Whenever asked about it, mom simply responded it was a reminder of her daughter. Sure it could be said her temper was draconic, but an alien or ghost would have been more appropriate to how Kisara viewed herself. Kisara smiled weakly, pulling herself back to reality and out of her early morning day dreaming and closed the door to the flat that now belonged to her, making sure to replace the necklace and lock the doors. The walk to the elevator was quick, and she almost didn't feel the tears running down her face until the wind of the outside city struck her, chilling them instantly.

One step at a time, just like mother. Her knuckle wiped roughly at fragile skin under her eyelids as she forced the tears away, not wanting her eye makeup to run.

One step at a time.

Thanks for reading! this is an A/U set after battle city with the intent to create a strong unique Kisara.