The ship is cramped,  the air is stale.   Or so it seemed to Angela.   Of which none of it was quite true.   Who decidedly looked out of place aboard the ship.   Looking more like she belong to the Medellin drug cartel as one of their puta.   Not one of the gifted,  not one of those chosen to save humanity.    Currently finishing up and pulling on her shorts.   A meeting had been called.<br/><br/><div align="center">(http://ist1-2.filesor.com/pimpandhost.com/5/3/2/5/53250/w/q/T/J/wqTJ/NorcaSpace.jpg)</div><br/>What is true,  her type had been responsible for breaking the centuries old hold such notorious cartels had held sway over the populous of Latin America.    For she is special,  a literal living weapon that could go anywhere and still be armed.   Even if she did not bring a weapon literally, for she is the weapon.  In an instant her fingers that caress around a neck can become a garrote.   Or a hand into a deadly blade.    An in this her greatest gift, she is a chameleon.<br/><br/>Exiting the room,  looking like she did after she had been plucked from the Amazon and deposited onto the streets of Bogota.  Angela would make her way to the conference room one.     Entering the room she would look to the others already gathered.   Quietly take herself a seat.   She seems rather mousey in a quiet sort of way.   Timid introvert demeanor, as she made no eye contact with the others.    Or did grief still stricken her over the events that have played out tragically.   The knowledge that the worse is to come,   that what has happened has been nothing to compare to the real horrors out there in the aberrants.<br/><br/>Sure there is others  with skill and ability to destroy.   Yet hers was personal,  that required intimate up close contact.  It placed her dangerously on the edge,  as she holds secrets that can be walls to those around her.  She simply is a enigma of an harbinger of death.<br/><br/>