Bibiki

Hibiki Satou.

When she logged onto the archive (password guessed from the pattern of wear on her handler’s keyboard), that was what she found next to a picture of her face: two words, typed at the top of a file that was every bit as cold and clinical as the blank white walls around her.

It was her name, she realized with a start. She had a name. Their instructors might call them hand-me-downs and disposable tools, but once upon a time, someone had cared enough about her to give her a name. It must’ve been the same for her brothers as well, because when she looked through the other files, she found two more Satous. Souta. Ren. They were all here together and, staring at their faces on the screen, she couldn’t decide whether to be delighted or sorry.

Then a hand clamped down on her shoulder and she was yanked away from the computer. Her back wept for weeks after that, but Hibiki shed no tears at all, because—

Hibiki. Hibiki Satou. Hibiki, Hibiki, Hibiki.

Night after night, she pulled her covers over her head and whispered her name to herself, delighting in the sound of it over and over again until she feared she would wear it out entirely. Days later, when she crossed paths with her brothers in a training room, she whispered their names to them in between blows. That they were family. That they could still be, even in this stifling place.

And they were, for a time. They cared about each other, you see, as well as children who never knew the meaning of family could. They might have grown to learn what it meant if a bullet hadn’t sent her dropping like a stone into a river.

Or maybe they did. Hibiki didn’t know — couldn’t know, because she woke up in a hospital with bandages wrapped around her upper body and a policeman waiting just outside the room. Fortunately, she looked young for her age. Teary eyes and trembling lips were all that it took for the nurse to drag the man outside to scold him for terrifying a child. By the time they came back, she’d already torn out the window screen and ran.

It hurt. God, it hurt, and she could tell that her wound had reopened from the feeling of blood dripping down her leg. That was good. It would heal irregularly that way, and the resulting scar would look less like a bullet wound. What was not good was the fact that she had absolutely no idea how to get back. They didn’t trust her with the location of the facility yet, so every time she left, she spent the car ride there and back blindfolded. Great for security. Not so great for someone who had been presumed dead.

That night, she fell asleep curled up on a decrepit bench, the thin hospital gown pulled down over her knees. The next day, she woke up in yet another unfamiliar bed.

(She blamed the exhaustion; normally, she woke up at the slightest touch.)

At least it wasn’t a hospital this time. The man with the scraggly hair said it was a back-alley clinic, but the room? It looked like it was scheduled for demolition with how ragged and dusty it was. Yet her leg had been cleaned and rebandaged far too neatly for her to dismiss his claims as an outright lie. Luckily for her, it wasn’t. Especially because the doctor introduced her to an employer that was perfectly fine with overlooking her age because, as she quickly learned, people were all too willing to pay for her services.

Some days, she thought that she should be more upset, that maybe she should feel more hurt when she passed by students on their way home as she headed home, jacket wrapped tightly around her to hide the blood splattered on her clothes. But they were ordinary teenagers. She was a monster, all teeth and claws, and while there were things that monsters excelled at, being normal wasn’t one of them.

So Hibiki kept killing, monotonously, like a broken doll. Really, despite all the upheaval that she experienced, the only real change in her life was that a different person was telling her who to kill. Even here, in an entirely new place, she could still feel the cold white walls closing in.

That has since changed. An expensive apartment, a bank account stuffed with money, a never ending stream of clients — she lacks for nothing, now, except she lacks everything, because despite searching for all these years, she still can’t find her brothers.

She won't stop until she does. She made a promise with them, after all, so no matter what it takes, she'll find them. Even if it means razing the world to the ground.

how do you love? like a fist. like a knife.

Identifying Scars
Has three main wounds that correspond with that one hospital visit that's on record: 1) on the back of her left shoulder, 2) near the middle of her chest, and 3) on her left leg that. All three are relatively old. The last one does not look like it was caused by a bullet, as it was reopened and healed irregularly.

Short Tempered...?
Though her constant scowling might suggest otherwise, Hibiki actually very rarely gets genuinely angry. Irritated? Often and easily, but it leave as quickly as it comes, like a burst of spring rain. Her anger, on the other hand? Oh, it's as cold as the smile she wears, and she'll hold onto it for years, only letting go after it stabs you through.

Like, nya~
Loves cute things, especially cats. Adorably defensive over her love for them as well, because isn't it a little too typical for someone with her appearance to like them?