January 1, 2000; 3:45am

Noelle let out a soft groan, blinking in the darkness, unsure why she was having trouble moving until she noticed the soft feminine body draped over her hips, shapely arms clinging tightly to her. Lips curved into a crooked grin, she gently and carefully moved the girl onto the other side of the bed, swinging her own long angular legs off the edge and stretching her body, loud pops issuing from her neck and spine.

She stood slowly, the moonlight slicing across her slender figure, making her ghostly pale complexion almost transparent as she paced the room. One graceful hand ran up and down her nude torso, the other idly tugging at tousled raven hair; what was once a fauxhawk having broken down into a hot mess while she slept. The young woman heaved a huge sigh, ruffling her bangs, and began to slowly dress herself in her suit from the night before; Gucci, well tailored to fit her body, colored dark grey with lighter pinstripes, it gave the illusion of increased height. Leaving her shirt on the floor, she simply fastened the two buttons on her jacket and wandered downstairs and out the front door of the house she’d woken up in.

Her mind was being assualted by old memories, events brought back to the surface after sharing a small piece of her past with her New Year’s playmate. Sitting on the curb near her bike, she closed tired violet eyes, giving in to the swarm of her past, slamming around inside her head like a criminal desperate to escape.

A piercing shriek filled the small room, a young girl clinging desperately to sheets tied to each post at the head of her bed. She was naked from the waist down, knees pushed tightly together, toes curled in the clean white towels which protected the mattress beneath her. On either side of her two women struggled to pull her legs apart, yelling at her and each other over the rise of her belly.

“Foolish girl, this is NOT the way to make the pain stop. Are you trying to kill that baby?”

Noelle could do nothing but cry, having been at this for hours now, her chest heaved as her weakened body was once again wracked with pain, both women ordering her to push now. She threw herself back against the headboard, gritting her teeth and doing as she was asked, stars exploding on the insides of her eyelids. Finally, with one last intense effort, her child slithered free, rewarding them all with a whining hiccupping cry, his tiny little lungs protesting the cold air and strange hands, fists flailing about as the midwife held him up for the girl to see.

The headlights of a passing car shining on her melancholy face viciously snapped her back to reality; she stood, brushing herself off and staring at the carved wooden door of the house, not bothering to brush away the single tear that ran down her cheek. “Happy New Year, son….”

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Lt. Noelle Gravier – Detailed Description

Lt. Noelle Gravier, born Alexandria Jean Valdoma, stands at 5’5″, her posture casual and loose, svelte limbs often crossed over each other, apathetic of her surroundings. Violet orbs flecked with the deepest azure are shielded by a pair of shining silver and black Oakley’s set low on her dainty button nose to make room for thick dark lashes, an intense contrast to her ghostly pale complexion. Those charcoal tinted shades hide her piercing gaze, a scrutinizing examination of what’s in front of her that seems to go right to the core, searching for secrets to use to her advantage. Her mouth curves into an arrogant yet crooked smile, teeth straight and white, two titanium rings pierced through either side of her full bottom lip, the little spikes glinting, giving her face a wickedly sensual look. Each ear is pierced multiple times, the brightly colored bars and rings generally hidden by thick waves of curly raven hair, lightly frizzing at her temples, which cascades down her back to her waist when not piled in a messy bun at the nape of her neck. She wears no make-up at all, the structure of her face naturally appealing and pleasing to the eye. A lithe, almost androgynous figure is both slender and muscular, small shoulders and well-toned arms complimenting a smooth, flat belly, her slender hips framing long, coltish lower limbs. Her body is covered in decorative ink, various personally meaningful designs spread over her torso and extremities, the most prominent of which being two small Super Mario ghosts, shaded in blue and white and making silly faces just under her collarbone on either side of her chest, a sleeve covering her right arm from shoulder to wrist which depicts several sections of torn away flesh, revealing rods and robotics beneath the surface, and a name scrawled on the back of her neck which reads “Christopher” upon closer inspection.

Her dress is casual,  a thin black wife beater layered over a white one of the same style and black men’s dickies, covered in pockets and held up by a metallic pink studded belt, the only splash of color on her clothing aside from the jewelry in her ears. On her feet are well worn combat boots, covered in scuffs and terribly dirty, though it seems they might have once been a particularly repulsive shade of military green. When she’s carrying, a regulation black leather shoulder holster holds one of a pair of identical colt .45s, the pieces showing no outward signs of being unique. It’s twin rests in a second holster slung low over her hips, her long thin fingers constantly twitching as though she’s perpetually ready to fire. Strapped over her arm is a double barreled hunting shot gun, shined and cleaned, obviously well loved and cared for.