((Isha is a career criminal turn INTERPOL agent. She's charming, pretty much a genius... and pretty much a manipulator and hard to read. Her link will look like nothing but mirrors and reflective surfaces, but the further you go in, the more you'll see of cracked concrete, crystalline walls, and jungle overgrowth. She seems put together and judgmental. Really, she's unpredictable and at core a survivalist with an occasional penchant for violence and a definite need to prove herself constantly. Her power is an extension of her natural state called Hall of Mirrors, which misdirects people trying to push through, as well as have the capacity to trap them once it's strong enough.))
STATION 72 [Well it's all lovely when you're walking into a sci-fi movie as part of an experience.
Except this is not an experience Isha Devan remembers signing up for. Some part of her suspects this might be something playing with her system, attachments gone wrong from her brain to her synapses to her arm. Worse yet, a drug of some kind, giving her some grand illusion of a world she likely would have dreamed up of as a child.
She has no idea where to go, or what to do. Habit, nervous tic, call it whatever you'd like, has her flexing the fingers of her left prosthetic hand. Given that she's wearing a sweatshirt, it's hard to see just how far that prosthetic goes. Her dark round sunglasses obscure her searching expression, thankfully.]
Well if I didn't know any better I would've imagined I drank too much.
[She says it to no one in particular, forgetting, briefly that her trusted companion Q-11 is not with her at this moment.]
PENTARA PRIME [Places like these aren't all so common anymore. Not like this. Places like this in her home are all squared away and protected in perfection.
She might have snuck into places like those after hours, because she could.
It is beautiful, in its frenetic quiet. Isha reaches out to touch one of the flowers with her left hand... then pulls it back. One of the problems with her arm? It's still adjusting. It's not fully interfaced yet. The haptic feedback had never been automated, because she didn't want to be tracked via her arm.
Isha plays it off by flexing her fingers, forcing electricity to crackle between the tips as if she were making sure everything is in order.]
Something here must be off. No one can live like this without enterprise.
[She glances out, watching the pods come and go. Surely something is going on here to allow for such leisurely life.]
MASQUERADE [The cut Isha has is, to put it simply, elegant. It's only because she went through the pains of looking a little too elegant, a little too regal. Somewhere caught between an alluring mystery and nigh untouchable.
Except she's usually like that. The only difference is the dress and the mask, and not leather leggings, sweatshirt, and sunglasses. The backless dress reveals the prosthetic reaching all the way up to her shoulder. Gold and diamonds are inlaid in swirling henna patterns from fingers up.]
(You know, masquerades, balls, and parties generally have more theatrics happening among their patrons. There's nothing happening here and it's making for a boring time.)
[But she slowly makes rounds anyway, sipping her drink, sussing out everyone. There's a target to find, somewhere in the mess.]
Isha Devan | Original
STATION 72
[Well it's all lovely when you're walking into a sci-fi movie as part of an experience.
Except this is not an experience Isha Devan remembers signing up for. Some part of her suspects this might be something playing with her system, attachments gone wrong from her brain to her synapses to her arm. Worse yet, a drug of some kind, giving her some grand illusion of a world she likely would have dreamed up of as a child.
She has no idea where to go, or what to do. Habit, nervous tic, call it whatever you'd like, has her flexing the fingers of her left prosthetic hand. Given that she's wearing a sweatshirt, it's hard to see just how far that prosthetic goes. Her dark round sunglasses obscure her searching expression, thankfully.]
Well if I didn't know any better I would've imagined I drank too much.
[She says it to no one in particular, forgetting, briefly that her trusted companion Q-11 is not with her at this moment.]
PENTARA PRIME
[Places like these aren't all so common anymore. Not like this. Places like this in her home are all squared away and protected in perfection.
She might have snuck into places like those after hours, because she could.
It is beautiful, in its frenetic quiet. Isha reaches out to touch one of the flowers with her left hand... then pulls it back. One of the problems with her arm? It's still adjusting. It's not fully interfaced yet. The haptic feedback had never been automated, because she didn't want to be tracked via her arm.
Isha plays it off by flexing her fingers, forcing electricity to crackle between the tips as if she were making sure everything is in order.]
Something here must be off. No one can live like this without enterprise.
[She glances out, watching the pods come and go. Surely something is going on here to allow for such leisurely life.]
MASQUERADE
[The cut Isha has is, to put it simply, elegant. It's only because she went through the pains of looking a little too elegant, a little too regal. Somewhere caught between an alluring mystery and nigh untouchable.
Except she's usually like that. The only difference is the dress and the mask, and not leather leggings, sweatshirt, and sunglasses. The backless dress reveals the prosthetic reaching all the way up to her shoulder. Gold and diamonds are inlaid in swirling henna patterns from fingers up.]
( You know, masquerades, balls, and parties generally have more theatrics happening among their patrons. There's nothing happening here and it's making for a boring time. )
[But she slowly makes rounds anyway, sipping her drink, sussing out everyone. There's a target to find, somewhere in the mess.]