She sits in the cage they had to build for her and mutters to herself. She wants freedom. When they put her in the greenhouse she ripped her arm up punching through the glass. And oh, they'd regretted the time they'd simply put guards on her, hadn't they? Poor little angels, all in a row. One falls down, two falls down, three falls down. Then there were none.

Then there were none.

Well, their bodies and their spines, separate at last, but they don't count, do they? She couldn't find her way out after. She wrote on the walls in their blood, arcane invocations of God's help. Filled a wall before someone came to change her guard and called for help.

Then they built her a cage, and put Seraphim of Flowers as guards only, because those bitches render her hands useless, her wrath useless. They empty her of the will to fight. Rage, rage against the dying of the light. She thinks of needles in her arms, IV-dripping her life backwards.

She wants to fight. She wants to be allowed to be what she is. What she is. What is she?

She sits on the floor and runs her hands over the bars. Thinks of how often there's been metal in her hands. She wishes they'd let her have a knife. If not for the others, for herself. Her flesh longs to be parted. Her hands are designed for a weapon, her flesh to be scarred by one. It's what she is. What she is.

What is she?

Someone's coming. They tell her this well ahead, possibly concerned as to what she would do if startled. "You have a visitor." One who is seen.

She strokes the bars. They're smooth and cool in her hands.

"Um, hi, Cory!" It's him. It's him. "I was wondering... um, how you're doing?" He giggles nervously.

It's him, it's him, it's him, itshimitshimitshim...

She lunges at him through the bars, arms reaching, face pressed into them, feet digging into the dirt floor as she tries to push through the bars. The Seraphim move to restrain her, as if their auras aren't already in the way, but she ignores them.

"Help me," she croaks. "Help me!"