Perfect | Tim Drake Fan fiction

Chapter Thirty | The Real Introduction

---Vivienne's P.o.V.---

To say that I didn't fit in would be a major understatement. Ever since the little incident with the beetle, the teenagers gave me worried or scared glances my way, not daring to speak. If I were to be completely honest, I would feel the same way. To have an extremely dangerous fifteen year old girl threatening an entire gender of your species was frightening.

I hated Isabella with a passion, ever since she was the cause of my father's overly-cruel murder. It was another case in which I had forgotten myself at the age of two, trying desperately to remember my name. Seeing a Spanish soap opera poster and the cast names, I dubbed myself as Isabella Rodriguez, speaking the language mainly. I soon remembered my biological father and his misdeeds towards my mother, and I vowed for blood. Killing him was the most sickeningly satisfying thing I had ever witnessed. I recalled the memory in fragments, smiling crazily to myself.

Isabella pulled out a katana.

She stabbed through both of his lungs, but avoided the heart.

She punched him repeatedly in the chest, making him cough out the crimson liquid harshly.

She placed three long needles into the back of his shirt along the spine, facing inwards but not protruding the skin

He stumbled to the floor, shouting out as the points pierced through his torso.

He begged for mercy.

She slit under his lower lip, silencing his words, but not his screams of agony.

She ran her blade down his four limbs, making him bleed in all directions.

She skipped around his mangled body while laughing insanely, splashing red onto her legs and feet.

She jumped into the air, crushing his windpipe.

"Goodbye, father."

I shuddered at scene in my head, realizing how much torture I had put the man through. It was true, I didn't regret killing him at all, nor did I mourn his death when I returned as Vivienne. However, Isabella's thirst for anarchy and violence truly shone through, being her main trait from myself.

That was the real catch to all of this, how my personality traits increased immensely when I separate. Phan Min, always obsessively loyal and manipulative. Katherine Hope, naive and youthful. Isabella Rodriguez, violent and flirtatious.

I ran my hand through my snow white hair, breathing deeply. I hated this feeling, knowing what was to happen, and dreading every second of the eerily calm peace. I knew I would break eventually, but not this soon. I was already showing the signs: not being able to overtake my personas, constantly being aware of languages. It was a pain, really. Every word I read or heard ran through my personal dictionary. Definitions, translations, synonyms, antonyms, language of origin. Every detail of every sound flew through my thoughts whenever I communicated.

I loathed the silence, the calm before the storm. I now truly believed in the saying that ignorance is bliss, aware that there were somethings I would've rather kept from my knowledge.

This game, this gamble. My stomach churned at the thought. I knew as well as my mother that when I snapped, I wouldn't be the same. I wouldn't be perfect.

My thoughts were interrupted by Timothy calling my name to the lounge of the team's base. It was impressive, yes, but hiding in plain sight against the enemy wasn't really my favorite strategy.

"Yes?" I questioned once I reached the correct area. I raised an eyebrow at the group, which was sitting in a circle on the floor, facing each other. There was a gap between Barbra and Richard, who patted the space on the floor with his hand. I sat down with my legs folded over one another, my posture rigid.