<strong>Emily Fitzgerald</strong><br/><strong>Location</strong>:Paris, a public water fountain somewhere near a park<br/><strong>Tag</strong>: John<br/><hr/>Emily takes a quick drink from the fountain, her cool eyes scrutinizing John as a feral cat might size up a dog before deciding to flee or stand its ground to save face.  The gaze softens, as in John she still sees Robert, who's never been anything but kind to her.  Dropping the French for now, she says softly, "I wonder about my little brothers still..." her breasts still rise and fall with intensified breath, more from the struggle to explain than from the exhaustion of the run.<br/><br/>She forces her French back, seemingly the most singularly paranoid of their group when it comes to their fabricated past as murderers and cult-experimenting American teens.  Her accent isn't terrible for an American.  "I can trust you... you won't tell the others."  She looks at a passing cluster of people making their way toward the metro station, their ordinary determination like herd behavior.  "I know the dark ones... they're evil.  I believe that, I don't doubt it at all.  But... the others?  Our godmother?"  She shakes her head as if witnessing the failing of a beloved prodigy.  "Let's just say... I have little faith in a, ah, two-party system."<br/><br/>Shrugging, she shifts her weight purposefully, keeping the blood flowing through her sinewy legs.  "They needed someone to take care of them.  They were starving for love."  She watches as a street crew pressure-washes the grand, stone facade of a building she will never be able to name.  "If they went to new families, then they have a chance.  But as far as they know, to their eyes?  I left them."  She focuses her eyes on his again, intensely searching there now.  "We-- you, I, the others-- we can not abandon each other.  There's nothing worse."