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          This was not her daughter.

          A once big eyed and rosy cheeked girl was taken from her. Sofia Lamb had met this sickly looking young woman that almost towered over her already tall frame here. Strapped by her wrists and ankles to a soggy hospital bed in Persephone’s Therapy wing. She was naked and feral – both her glowing, dim-yellow eyes that never slept each sat in a thick cloud of black rings.

          They darted around the narrow room, replacing any colour it may have had, long chipped away by time. All this aided by a relentless writhing and clawing at the bed—with each creak of its metal frame, something churned in Sofia’s stomach. As she saw her smooth young skin, perfect figure and unintentionally messy brown hair.

          There were no women Sofia had ever let the vain control of attraction and a selfish, human need for sexual gratification overpower her. Not since she was as young as the person before her. Not that she would ever let the silently screaming sirens of Rapture lure her into their lives – their ego and anarchy. But there was something about this one.

          Perhaps knowing it was pure once, free even. The Little Sister she had taken that New Years’ Eve, still wandering selflessly in The Family’s sunken security had not even returned to her mind until she heard Gilbert Alexander speak a name. One she would find he had harboured in guilt: Eleanor.

          This was not her daughter.

         Four flickering static of television sets, clinging to life as much as this city was, illuminated the sporadic movements of the young woman’s body. What a sad fate she had suffered – not like the rest of the grown Sisters they had rounded up like cattle and carted into grey, padded rooms barely able to hold their strength. Or their Plasmids. To have that same lack of free-will snuffed from her like a fading candlelight was tragic to Sofia.

         Yet, a part of her had to cut that heart. If only to see if she could. If only to find out if Alexander would continue his work. In that dark room alone with a young woman that was not her kin—the sound of her roars muffled by a cloth she bit down on with all her might replace what little air they shared.

          Now, sitting on the bed beside this thing, letting her long fingers, cold from the room, run down the sides of a body that were burning up. Sofia leaned in close to its face, wanting to remove the gag and trace her painted lips against its own. Maybe imagining that the creature’s breathing had slowed along with her own. Fingertips now trailing down her stomach that she knew held more than just fire and fear.

         Finally moving down past her thighs to finally grasp her behind with both palms. The mattress rubbing against her shirt and the back of her hands as the monster settled into her grip. Only then did the girl tied to the bed seem to stop moving, relax into her constraints, and look into Sofia’s eyes. She could almost see the familiar blue mix with the yellow.

          This was not her daughter.