Name: Celia / No. 37
Age: 19
Race: Diclonius
Gender: Female
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"How long have they kept you in this tank?
You think that you matter to them?
You're nothing more than an experiment,
a freak in a cage to be poked and prodded.
But I know your true purpose, we both do.
You were made for so much more.
Your birth heralds the dawn of a new era,
a new beginning.
You are the alpha and the omega,
the beginning and the end."
It's always the same: Always dark, and nobody's home. At nineteen years, it's been this way for as long as Celia can remember.
Beyond this prison, there are a hundred thousand man-made horrors waiting for her. She meets them on a bi-weekly basis and learns that while she may be of man, she is not one of them. They are her captors, her jailers, her Gods. They speak to her from the walls, encourage her and question her. They pretend to care, and when they bring her out, they hurt her.
"They seem mighty now but, soon, the mighty shall fall."
It comforts her to think that they might let her out for good one day, that she might be granted a chance to do to them as they have done to her - drive needles into their skin and spray them with a hail of bullets. Only, they won't pass her tests the way she's passed theirs. She can tell from their reactions to her that they are fragile toys. They make so many idle threats. They fear her like no other.
How many might she go through in a day? One? Ten? A Hundred? A thousand? In the darkness, with nothing to do but wait until her next set of tests, Celia wonders if they'd scream or cry as she did when she was younger, wonders how far she might bend their bones before they break, wonders if they would remain silent or beg for mercy under her careful ministrations, wonders if she is even capable of mercy. She knows that they aren't, but that is hardly surprising. They're only human, after all.