"Power to the women who are venom."
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A rivalry between a secret anti-government organization and its deviant counterpart; will seven boys and a girl lead justice to be served?
2034 has brought upon the presidency of Allison Diggory, a woman both l...
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Allison watches with dreary eyes as the main doctor strolls around cheerfully. He circles about like a great white shark to his prey, smiling at her as he scribbles on a clipboard—She's dazed, as always, but she can at least discern that whatever atrocity they mutated her daughter with, Allison is next.
The thin, pasty scent of sterilization and cleaning supplies suppresses Allison's senses, but not in a way she likes. The Doctor, who's name she cannot recall (if he even has one at all; she can no longer recall names and faces anymore), has an assistant, a woman who stands next to him, tall with billowing black tresses. The Doctor's accomplice is a gorgeous woman in outward appearance, with an angular facial structure and plump, pink lips, clean, silky hair as black as a deviant crow under the harvest moon and alluring eyes just as dark; but Allison does notice her long hair is always tangled and unkempt. Her cheeks are rather pudgy, but that does not steal from her overall beauty. A pair of thin silver glasses sit at the tip of her nose.
"Dr. L," the Doctor calls with a sickenly sweet smile, staring at his assistant with endless admiration and respect; even though he's the one in charge, he seems to bow down to her in some weird, creepy way. Allison's skin crawls at his echoing voice in the blinding room. The Doctor hands her the clipboard. "Take notes, please, would you?"
Another thing Allison can tell (but never acknowledges it enough to give it much thought): the Doctor's accomplice never speaks to her subjects. Dr. L nods, her small head bobbing once.
"Thank you." The first time Allison, or any of the other patients for that matter, have heard Dr. L's voice. It's different this time now that the Doctor is in the room with her.
Allison's head feels heavy, as if a thousand pound weight is pressing on her skull. Her brain feels fried, like bouncy red Jello. She smacks her lips. Her mouth is unnaturally dry, like a barren desert.
It's just now when Dr. L takes the clipboard with dancing pale skeleton fingers, proceeding to then step into Allison's vision, that Allison recognizes what's ahead of her: a line of trembling, heaving women with tears pricking their pretty eyes, matted hair and the same matching hospital gowns who can all barely reach Dr. L's petrifying gaze.
"It appears we only have five of you left." The sentence itself is horrifying, but Dr. L speaks it with uncanny indifference. "When I call your name, raise your hand."
The women do not nod, just stare. Stare, stare, stare.
"Kim Lia."
The woman, looking a bit older than the rest, raises her hand.
"Kim Jihyo."
No hands are raised.
Dr. L clicks her tongued, scribbling on the clipboard while muttering, ". . . Deceased." She looks up again, twirling the pen in her hand. "Kim Hana?"
