Titanium (Ti)
Atomic Number: 22
Atomic Weight: 47.867 amu
Solid at room temperature; strong metal resistant to sea water, chlorine, and aqua regia; easily oxidized; relatively abundant in the atmosphere
Warnings: Fire hazard, potentially explosive
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Control is an illusion.
What is control if not the idea of power to be wielded by one person—yourself? But does anyone truly have the power to control themselves when their mind has been reduced to a few syllables or a few numbers? Is control possible when your mind is not your own?
Soon enough, her mind won't be able to take it—it will dissolve to mush instead of mold to their will. She can fight it now, but at what cost? What is the point of control when she has already done unspeakable things without a clue? It appears as a distant memory, scratching against her skull when the person she is resurfaces beneath the spy they want.
All she ever hears about is death like her superiors have stopped seeing the girl she is, only acknowledging the thing they made. That is all she is now: a thing to be controlled by simple words in the right order.
She should have known better. Her father would be ashamed of what she has done, what she has let them do to that poor man. What she did to that poor man.
His screams often mix with hers. She can hear the activation program as they toy with her. Always second, always after the true soldier has been made. No human being should have such a vacant look in their eye, but she finds herself with the same gaze he has—staring ahead as if nothing is real.
He was her failure, yet she saved his life. Now, she is their improved failure, made for one purpose and one purpose only: destroy the powers that be and make way for the new regime.
If only that regime did not keep falling. Perhaps, then, she would have learned what loyalty means to them instead of her partner in crime. Maybe then she wouldn't spend every waking moment dreaming of escape.
✗ ✗ ✗
Malka has never liked lavish parties or events that warrant heels over combat boots. But, a job is a job, and she never backs down from a challenge.
She can't count the number of weapons currently hidden beneath the lengthy dress that clings to her skin. A dagger at her thigh, a needle pinning her hair up, a gun stashed uncomfortably against her waist, pointed earrings dangling against her neck, and so on. Enough time failing teaches more than passing.
She puts on that fake smile, though her fingers itch for knives as she weaves through the Europeans around her, laughing at men's jokes and running a hand down their arms to feign interest. The real prize lies in the dungeon beneath the mansion. Nothing else is worth it.
When she slips out of the ballroom, Malka's smile slips off her lips, her expression going blank as she makes her way through the dark hallways, down into the depths of the mansion as the sounds of the party drift away. The shadows embrace her warmly while she removes her necklace, straightening it into the garrote it really is.
