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Born: 25 June 1996
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ALIAS: Zaya
QUOTE: "He who makes a beast of himself removes himself from the pain of being human,"
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BIOGRAPHY: http://liewithyourbones.jcink.net/index.php?showtopic=690
OCCUPATION: The Ball Basher
FACTION: Savages
TITLE: Crazy knows crazy.
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Joined: 18-October 15
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Last Seen: Nov 14 2016, 01:19 PM
Local Time: Nov 18 2017, 02:38 PM
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JEMMA

RAIDER

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Oct 24 2015, 08:41 PM
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<center><div style="width:450px;height:450px; background-image: url(http://proxy12.media.online.ua/news/r3-6c6c05b944/54a14013613c2.jpg);"><br><br><br><br><br><br><br><br><div class="title"><div style="font-family: oswald; color: #8B795E; opacity: 1; text-transform: uppercase; font-weight: 400; font-size: 25px; text-align:center;">Jemma Kyre</div><br><div style="line-height: 60%; text-align: center; font-weight: normal; font-family: arial; font-size: 9px; letter-spacing: 0px; color: #6E6E6E;">Zaya, 19, (OOC)He/Him, EST, PM for skype.</div></div></div></center></div></div>

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<br><br>She struck the wooden match along the strike strip side of her match box. The match roared to life as the small fire briefly illuminated the dimly lighted room she stood in. The end of her cigarette met the flame as she took a deep drag, inhaling it’s toxic fumes. Shaking the match out, she tossed the small piece of wood toward the distant dripping sound that echoed through the room.

<br><br><i>Drip...Drip...Drip</i>

<br><br>Exhaling, the teenage girl pressed her back against the cold stone wall.

<br><br>Jemma had always found comfort in smoking a cigarette. It wasn’t just the nicotine that brought her back, but the memories that flooded her mind every time she would light one up. Her father was a smoker, as well as a scavenger. She remembered how he would come back to the small hovel they called home and lay out all the “treasures” he had salvaged throughout the day. Cursing under his breath, he would light his cigarette and begin inspecting his finds.

<br><br><b>“See anything you like?”</b> He would ask as he gestured to the array of objects that littered the only table they owned in their feeble shack. She would then slowly browse the small selection of goods: charred Books, old toys, shiny pieces of metal, and occasionally stray pieces of battered jewelry were all laid before her. Whichever she chose she got to keep, so it was always a careful selection. It was one of the things her father did to try to make up for the shitty circumstances that was their life.

<br><br>Jemma removed the cigarette from her mouth for a moment, examining her dainty hands in the process, dirty from her day’s work. Dirt resided under her nails, and blood was flecked along the back of her hands. A small grin creeped along her face as she formed her hands into fists, ash falling from the cigarette she still held.

<br><br>Her father had always told her she had hands like her mother, not that she would know. To Jemma, her mother only existed in stories told to her by her father. <b>“I remember the day I met your mother,”</b> Jemma’s father would start.
<b>“She socked me right in the face, with a fist so tiny, but so strong it knocked me back a few steps.”</b> Jemma would giggle at the thought. <b>“You have hands just like your mother yah’ know? So dainty… But she’d never let that stop her, no sir…”</b> His voice would trail off, and that’s when Jemma knew the story was over.

<br><br>She took another drag of her cigarette, shifting her position on the wall. With her arms crossed in front of her, she exhaled with a faint sigh. It had been 5 years without her father, and recently it had been dawning on her how alone she really was. But Jemma expected no pity from anyone, just like she would show none for them. In fact, she would rather be alone..

<br><br>A muffled groaning began in the room, followed by a panicked heavy breathing . <b>“Well goodmorning, sleepyhead!”</b> Jemma exclaimed with false enthusiasm, a wicked grin spreading across her face. Her eyes fixed on the huddled figure, like a lioness spotting a wild boar. Taking a drag of her cigarette, she sauntered over to the man who sat gagged and bound to a wooden chair. Blood and sweat trickled down his forehead and from his nose; Bruises covered his body like a leopard with it’s spots; only this man was no predator- no, not anymore- <i>He was prey</i>.

<br><br>The man thrashed and squirmed about, trying to break free, but all his attempts were in vain. Her orders were clear, <i>“Make him pay for what he stole”</i>. Couldn’t get anymore cut and dry than that, and Jemma wasn’t one to disobey orders. Business was business. She flicked the cigarette into the emptiness of the room before driving her fist into the man’s face.

<br><br><i>Pow!</i>

<br><br>A new gash developed as blood began to seep from the wound.

<br><br><b>“You know, life just isn’t fair,”</b> she spoke softly as the man writhed in pain. Her fingers groomed through the captive’s sweat ridden brown hair before yanking his head back. Her voice was soft as she leaned over, and whispered into his ear. <b>“Answer me this, are you scared of dying?”</b>
The captive’s muffled groans grew louder and more intense. Tears and blood ran down his terrorized face, to which Jemma felt nothing. Her heart did not ache for this poor unfortunate soul, for he was a victim of fate, just like she was.

<br><br>She made her way in front of the man, unholstering her rusted 10mm Revolver. Smiling, she said <b>“let’s play a game.”</b> The gun clicked as she removed the ammunition, and loaded in only one bullet. She spun the chamber before clicking it back into place. <b>“You know, I never thought i’d end up here,”</b> She started, looking over the weapon she held in her hand. <b>“I had so much planned for myself. So much I looked forward to doing,”</b> she paused.

<br><br>The man’s muffled squeals continued. <b>“But sometimes.. sometimes life just has other plans I guess.”</b> Her sadistic countenance faltered for a moment, as the memories of her father flooded her mind. The stories he told, the jokes they shared, the last look he gave her before he... Her countenance hardened once more. Glaring at the man, she pressed the barrel between his eyes. He thrashed about, squeals trying desperately to escape his mouth. <b>“But that doesn’t matter now, doesn’t it? What’s done is done.”</b>

<br><br>Her finger squeezed the trigger and a <i>click</i> sounded from the gun. Her face contorted into a wicked grin. <b>“Well isn’t it your lucky day?”</b> She exclaimed, her tone dripping with sarcasm. Holstering her gun, Jemma strolled into the emptiness of the room, her voice echoing as she spoke. <b>“You know,”</b> she started <b>“I read somewhere in one of these books that when you let anger get the best of you, it brings out the worst in people, or some shit like that.”</b> The captive squirmed desperately, tugging away at his bindings, before Jemma’s dainty hand firmly fixed him back into his chair. <b>“And you know, I just don’t see it.”</b>

<br><br>The smell of gasoline quickly filled the air as she began to empty the liquid on her victim. She walked around him, ensuring he was covered entirely, before stopping in front of him. Setting the gasoline container down, she fished around her jacket pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes, followed by her box of matches. <b>“It’s a dog eat dog world out there,”</b> she explained, placing a cigarette in her mouth. The match roared to life as the cigarette met the flame, her face expressionless as she inhaled the cancerous smoke. <b><i>“And if only my father could see me now,”</b></i> she exhaled softly as she tossed the match on the man.

<br><br>She stood and watched as the flames engulfed him, his shrieks echoing around the room before eventually dying out. A tear formed in her eye before rolling down her cheek. Not for the man she just set ablaze, But because of the memories that came flooding back as she took each drag of her cigarette.

<br><br><b>“I’m so sorry, daddy…”</b>

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<center><div style="margin-left: 0px;"><table cellspacing="0" cellpadding="1"><tr><td><div class="biotag">Raider</div></td><td><div class="biotag">The Savages</div></td></tr><tr><td><div class="biotag">The Ball Basher</div></td><td><div class="biotag">October 25 (19)</div></td></tr><tr><td><div class="biotag">Heterosexual</div></td><td><div class="biotag">Emma Roberts</div></td></tr></table></div></center><br><br><div style="width:352px; height:262px; overflow:auto;"><div style="width:326px; font-size: 10px; text-align:justify; padding-right: 7px;">

<i><b>“Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned”</i></b>

<br><br>If you were to describe Jemma in one word, angry would suit best.

<br><br>Like many others out in the wastes, Jemma has been wronged by fate, forcing her to make some hard decisions on her own. Never having a mother, and having to raise herself at the age of 14, Jemma has struggled to drag her hollow body to where she is today. Life just isn’t fair, and she knows this. But just because she accepts this fact, does not mean she has to like it.

<br><br>Matter of fact, merciless, self-sufficient: All words suitable for this twisted soul. The wastes are no place to wander alone, and after 3 years of doing so, it’s sculpted her into a product of it’s own. In a world full of pain and death, it’s better to be the one who inflicts it, and with her lack of empathy, she’s become pretty good at it.

<br><br>That’s how she found her way to the savages. Though she is used to being alone (and in some cases prefers it) she appreciates the company of those she can relate to. People she can learn from. Those who have found the joy in their misfortune. Since the death of her father, they’re the closest thing she’s had to a family. They accept her twisted ways of coping, and she accepts theirs.

<br><br><i><b>Friends:</i></b> It’s pretty black and white for Jemma, she either likes you or she doesn’t. With her affection comes loyalty, and if she doesn’t like you, you’ll know it. At first, before Jemma met the savages, friends were something foreign to her. Of course she had acquaintances, but never did they last long. Usually she used them for self benefit, and left the next day. She’s never really opened up to anyone besides her father, so her relationships never involved much investment from her, and frankly she preferred it that way.

<br><br><i><b>Lovers:</i></b> The last bit of love had dwindled from Jemma’s heart years ago, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t require affection. Her intimate relationships have never been more than physical. Her lack of empathy makes it difficult to emotionally invest herself, but that doesn’t mean she can’t pretend. Relationships are purely self-beneficial for Jemma, and she has no plans on changing anytime soon.

<br><br><i><b>Enemies:</i></b> It would be no surprise if someone had a bone to pick with her. Jemma has stepped on a lot of people to get to where she is today, so goes the game of survival. Sometimes you have to break a few noses, or slit a few throats to get your point across.

<br><br><b><i>Occupation:</i></b> You think the savages just welcome anyone into their family? <i>Fuck no.</i> Sure, they have they're connections they use from time to time, and there will always be those dumb-asses who are just there for the drugs and chaos, but to be a true savage, you must be broken in. You must prove that you can laugh in the face of death and make it your bitch! Savages don't take kindly to weakness or betrayal, and that's where Jemma comes in. Some call her position "the interrogator", though the more popular title seems to be "The ball basher", whichever title you choose, Jemma's damn good at it. Over the few years Jemma has wreaked havoc along side her savage family, they noticed her unique-and surprisingly creative- ruthlessness and her ability to pick out the good from the bad. The savages need loyal people among their ranks, people they know won't bail in their more serious times. Whether you're a new recruit, serious about devoting yourself to the savages, or a double crosser who betrayed the savages one way or another, an hour alone with this crazy bitch is enough to know whether you're savage material or not. And if you can't handle it, well then you just might not survive.

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Oct 22 2015, 01:26 AM
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<center><div style="width:450px;height:450px; background-image: url(http://proxy12.media.online.ua/news/r3-6c6c05b944/54a14013613c2.jpg);"><br><br><br><br><br><br><br><br><div class="title"><div style="font-family: oswald; color: #8B795E; opacity: 1; text-transform: uppercase; font-weight: 400; font-size: 25px; text-align:center;">Jemma Kyre</div><br><div style="line-height: 60%; text-align: center; font-weight: normal; font-family: arial; font-size: 9px; letter-spacing: 0px; color: #6E6E6E;">Zaya, 19, (OOC)He/Him, EST, PM for skype.</div></div></div></center></div></div>

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<br><br>She struck the wooden match along the strike strip side of her match box. The match roared to life as the small fire briefly illuminated the dimly lighted room she stood in. The end of her cigarette met the flame as she took a deep drag, inhaling it’s toxic fumes. Shaking the match out, she tossed the small piece of wood toward the distant dripping sound that echoed through the room.

<br><br><i>Drip...Drip...Drip</i>

<br><br>Exhaling, the teenage girl pressed her back against the cold stone wall.

<br><br>Jemma had always found comfort in smoking a cigarette. It wasn’t just the nicotine that brought her back, but the memories that flooded her mind every time she would light one up. Her father was a smoker, as well as a scavenger. She remembered how he would come back to the small hovel they called home and lay out all the “treasures” he had salvaged throughout the day. Cursing under his breath, he would light his cigarette and begin inspecting his finds.

<br><br><b>“See anything you like?”</b> He would ask as he gestured to the array of objects that littered the only table they owned in their feeble shack. She would then slowly browse the small selection of goods: charred Books, old toys, shiny pieces of metal, and occasionally stray pieces of battered jewelry were all laid before her. Whichever she chose she got to keep, so it was always a careful selection. It was one of the things her father did to try to make up for the shitty circumstances that was their life.

<br><br>Jemma removed the cigarette from her mouth for a moment, examining her dainty hands in the process, dirty from her day’s work. Dirt resided under her nails, and blood was flecked along the back of her hands. A small grin creeped along her face as she formed her hands into fists, ash falling from the cigarette she still held.

<br><br>Her father had always told her she had hands like her mother, not that she would know. To Jemma, her mother only existed in stories told to her by her father. <b>“I remember the day I met your mother,”</b> Jemma’s father would start.
<b>“She socked me right in the face, with a fist so tiny, but so strong it knocked me back a few steps.”</b> Jemma would giggle at the thought. <b>“You have hands just like your mother yah’ know? So dainty… But she’d never let that stop her, no sir…”</b> His voice would trail off, and that’s when Jemma knew the story was over.

<br><br>She took another drag of her cigarette, shifting her position on the wall. With her arms crossed in front of her, she exhaled with a faint sigh. It had been 5 years without her father, and recently it had been dawning on her how alone she really was. But Jemma expected no pity from anyone, just like she would show none for them. In fact, she would rather be alone..

<br><br>A muffled groaning began in the room, followed by a panicked heavy breathing . <b>“Well goodmorning, sleepyhead!”</b> Jemma exclaimed with false enthusiasm, a wicked grin spreading across her face. Her eyes fixed on the huddled figure, like a lioness spotting a wild boar. Taking a drag of her cigarette, she sauntered over to the man who sat gagged and bound to a wooden chair. Blood and sweat trickled down his forehead and from his nose; Bruises covered his body like a leopard with it’s spots; only this man was no predator- no, not anymore- <i>He was prey</i>.

<br><br>The man thrashed and squirmed about, trying to break free, but all his attempts were in vain. Her orders were clear, <i>“Make him pay for what he stole”</i>. Couldn’t get anymore cut and dry than that, and Jemma wasn’t one to disobey orders. Business was business. She flicked the cigarette into the emptiness of the room before driving her fist into the man’s face.

<br><br><i>Pow!</i>

<br><br>A new gash developed as blood began to seep from the wound.

<br><br><b>“You know, life just isn’t fair,”</b> she spoke softly as the man writhed in pain. Her fingers groomed through the captive’s sweat ridden brown hair before yanking his head back. Her voice was soft as she leaned over, and whispered into his ear. <b>“Answer me this, are you scared of dying?”</b>
The captive’s muffled groans grew louder and more intense. Tears and blood ran down his terrorized face, to which Jemma felt nothing. Her heart did not ache for this poor unfortunate soul, for he was a victim of fate, just like she was.

<br><br>She made her way in front of the man, unholstering her rusted 10mm Revolver. Smiling, she said <b>“let’s play a game.”</b> The gun clicked as she removed the ammunition, and loaded in only one bullet. She spun the chamber before clicking it back into place. <b>“You know, I never thought i’d end up here,”</b> She started, looking over the weapon she held in her hand. <b>“I had so much planned for myself. So much I looked forward to doing,”</b> she paused.

<br><br>The man’s muffled squeals continued. <b>“But sometimes.. sometimes life just has other plans I guess.”</b> Her sadistic countenance faltered for a moment, as the memories of her father flooded her mind. The stories he told, the jokes they shared, the last look he gave her before he... Her countenance hardened once more. Glaring at the man, she pressed the barrel between his eyes. He thrashed about, squeals trying desperately to escape his mouth. <b>“But that doesn’t matter now, doesn’t it? What’s done is done.”</b>

<br><br>Her finger squeezed the trigger and a <i>click</i> sounded from the gun. Her face contorted into a wicked grin. <b>“Well isn’t it your lucky day?”</b> She exclaimed, her tone dripping with sarcasm. Holstering her gun, Jemma strolled into the emptiness of the room, her voice echoing as she spoke. <b>“You know,”</b> she started <b>“I read somewhere in one of these books that when you let anger get the best of you, it brings out the worst in people, or some shit like that.”</b> The captive squirmed desperately, tugging away at his bindings, before Jemma’s dainty hand firmly fixed him back into his chair. <b>“And you know, I just don’t see it.”</b>

<br><br>The smell of gasoline quickly filled the air as she began to empty the liquid on her victim. She walked around him, ensuring he was covered entirely, before stopping in front of him. Setting the gasoline container down, she fished around her jacket pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes, followed by her box of matches. <b>“It’s a dog eat dog world out there,”</b> she explained, placing a cigarette in her mouth. The match roared to life as the cigarette met the flame, her face expressionless as she inhaled the cancerous smoke. <b><i>“And if only my father could see me now,”</b></i> she exhaled softly as she tossed the match on the man.

<br><br>She stood and watched as the flames engulfed him, his shrieks echoing around the room before eventually dying out. A tear formed in her eye before rolling down her cheek. Not for the man she just set ablaze, But because of the memories that came flooding back as she took each drag of her cigarette.

<br><br><b>“I’m so sorry, daddy…”</b>

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<center><div style="margin-left: 0px;"><table cellspacing="0" cellpadding="1"><tr><td><div class="biotag">Raider</div></td><td><div class="biotag">The Savages</div></td></tr><tr><td><div class="biotag">The Ball Basher</div></td><td><div class="biotag">October 25 (19)</div></td></tr><tr><td><div class="biotag">Heterosexual</div></td><td><div class="biotag">Emma Roberts</div></td></tr></table></div></center><br><br><div style="width:352px; height:262px; overflow:auto;"><div style="width:326px; font-size: 10px; text-align:justify; padding-right: 7px;">

<i><b>“Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned”</i></b>

<br><br>If you were to describe Jemma in one word, angry would suit best.

<br><br>Like many others out in the wastes, Jemma has been wronged by fate, forcing her to make some hard decisions on her own. Never having a mother, and having to raise herself at the age of 14, Jemma has struggled to drag her hollow body to where she is today. Life just isn’t fair, and she knows this. But just because she accepts this fact, does not mean she has to like it.

<br><br>Matter of fact, merciless, self-sufficient: All words suitable for this twisted soul. The wastes are no place to wander alone, and after 3 years of doing so, it’s sculpted her into a product of it’s own. In a world full of pain and death, it’s better to be the one who inflicts it, and with her lack of empathy, she’s become pretty good at it.

<br><br>That’s how she found her way to the savages. Though she is used to being alone (and in some cases prefers it) she appreciates the company of those she can relate to. People she can learn from. Those who have found the joy in their misfortune. Since the death of her father, they’re the closest thing she’s had to a family. They accept her twisted ways of coping, and she accepts theirs.

<br><br><i><b>Friends:</i></b> It’s pretty black and white for Jemma, she either likes you or she doesn’t. With her affection comes loyalty, and if she doesn’t like you, you’ll know it. At first, before Jemma met the savages, friends were something foreign to her. Of course she had acquaintances, but never did they last long. Usually she used them for self benefit, and left the next day. She’s never really opened up to anyone besides her father, so her relationships never involved much investment from her, and frankly she preferred it that way.

<br><br><i><b>Lovers:</i></b> The last bit of love had dwindled from Jemma’s heart years ago, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t require affection. Her intimate relationships have never been more than physical. Her lack of empathy makes it difficult to emotionally invest herself, but that doesn’t mean she can’t pretend. Relationships are purely self-beneficial for Jemma, and she has no plans on changing anytime soon.

<br><br><i><b>Enemies:</i></b> It would be no surprise if someone had a bone to pick with her. Jemma has stepped on a lot of people to get to where she is today, so goes the game of survival. Sometimes you have to break a few noses, or slit a few throats to get your point across.

<br><br><b><i>Occupation:</i></b> You think the savages just welcome anyone into their family? <i>Fuck no.</i> Sure, they have they're connections they use from time to time, and there will always be those dumb-asses who are just there for the drugs and chaos, but to be a true savage, you must be broken in. You must prove that you can laugh in the face of death and make it your bitch! Savages don't take kindly to weakness or betrayal, and that's where Jemma comes in. Some call her position "the interrogator", though the more popular title seems to be "The ball basher", whichever title you choose, Jemma's damn good at it. Over the few years Jemma has wreaked havoc along side her savage family, they noticed her unique-and surprisingly creative- ruthlessness and her ability to pick out the good from the bad. The savages need loyal people among their ranks, people they know won't bail in their more serious times. Whether you're a new recruit, serious about devoting yourself to the savages, or a double crosser who betrayed the savages one way or another, an hour alone with this crazy bitch is enough to know whether you're savage material or not. And if you can't handle it, well then you just might not survive.

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Oct 18 2015, 06:11 PM
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<center><div style="width:450px;height:450px; background-image: url(http://proxy12.media.online.ua/news/r3-6c6c05b944/54a14013613c2.jpg);"><br><br><br><br><br><br><br><br><div class="title"><div style="font-family: oswald; color: #8B795E; opacity: 1; text-transform: uppercase; font-weight: 400; font-size: 25px; text-align:center;">Jemma Kyre</div><br><div style="line-height: 60%; text-align: center; font-weight: normal; font-family: arial; font-size: 9px; letter-spacing: 0px; color: #6E6E6E;">Zaya, 19, (OOC)He/Him, EST, PM for skype.</div></div></div></center></div></div>

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<br><br>She struck the wooden match along the strike strip side of her match box. The match roared to life as the small fire briefly illuminated the dimly lighted room she stood in. The end of her cigarette met the flame as she took a deep drag, inhaling it’s toxic fumes. Shaking the match out, she tossed the small piece of wood toward the distant dripping sound that echoed through the room.

<br><br><i>Drip...Drip...Drip</i>

<br><br>Exhaling, the teenage girl pressed her back against the cold stone wall.

<br><br>Jemma had always found comfort in smoking a cigarette. It wasn’t just the nicotine that brought her back, but the memories that flooded her mind every time she would light one up. Her father was a smoker, as well as a scavenger. She remembered how he would come back to the small hovel they called home and lay out all the “treasures” he had salvaged throughout the day. Cursing under his breath, he would light his cigarette and begin inspecting his finds.

<br><br><b>“See anything you like?”</b> He would ask as he gestured to the array of objects that littered the only table they owned in their feeble shack. She would then slowly browse the small selection of goods: charred Books, old toys, shiny pieces of metal, and occasionally stray pieces of battered jewelry were all laid before her. Whichever she chose she got to keep, so it was always a careful selection. It was one of the things her father did to try to make up for the shitty circumstances that was their life.

<br><br>Jemma removed the cigarette from her mouth for a moment, examining her dainty hands in the process, dirty from her day’s work. Dirt resided under her nails, and blood was flecked along the back of her hands. A small grin creeped along her face as she formed her hands into fists, ash falling from the cigarette she still held.

<br><br>Her father had always told her she had hands like her mother, not that she would know. To Jemma, her mother only existed in stories told to her by her father. <b>“I remember the day I met your mother,”</b> Jemma’s father would start.
<b>“She socked me right in the face, with a fist so tiny, but so strong it knocked me back a few steps.”</b> Jemma would giggle at the thought. <b>“You have hands just like your mother yah’ know? So dainty… But she’d never let that stop her, no sir…”</b> His voice would trail off, and that’s when Jemma knew the story was over.

<br><br>She took another drag of her cigarette, shifting her position on the wall. With her arms crossed in front of her, she exhaled with a faint sigh. It had been 5 years without her father, and recently it had been dawning on her how alone she really was. But Jemma expected no pity from anyone, just like she would show none for them. In fact, she would rather be alone..

<br><br>A muffled groaning began in the room, followed by a panicked heavy breathing . <b>“Well goodmorning, sleepyhead!”</b> Jemma exclaimed with false enthusiasm, a wicked grin spreading across her face. Her eyes fixed on the huddled figure, like a lioness spotting a wild boar. Taking a drag of her cigarette, she sauntered over to the man who sat gagged and bound to a wooden chair. Blood and sweat trickled down his forehead and from his nose; Bruises covered his body like a leopard with it’s spots; only this man was no predator- no, not anymore- <i>He was prey</i>.

<br><br>The man thrashed and squirmed about, trying to break free, but all his attempts were in vain. Her orders were clear, <i>“Make him pay for what he stole”</i>. Couldn’t get anymore cut and dry than that, and Jemma wasn’t one to disobey orders. Business was business. She flicked the cigarette into the emptiness of the room before driving her fist into the man’s face.

<br><br><i>Pow!</i>

<br><br>A new gash developed as blood began to seep from the wound.

<br><br><b>“You know, life just isn’t fair,”</b> she spoke softly as the man writhed in pain. Her fingers groomed through the captive’s sweat ridden brown hair before yanking his head back. Her voice was soft as she leaned over, and whispered into his ear. <b>“Answer me this, are you scared of dying?”</b>
The captive’s muffled groans grew louder and more intense. Tears and blood ran down his terrorized face, to which Jemma felt nothing. Her heart did not ache for this poor unfortunate soul, for he was a victim of fate, just like she was.

<br><br>She made her way in front of the man, unholstering her rusted 10mm Revolver. Smiling, she said <b>“let’s play a game.”</b> The gun clicked as she removed the ammunition, and loaded in only one bullet. She spun the chamber before clicking it back into place. <b>“You know, I never thought i’d end up here,”</b> She started, looking over the weapon she held in her hand. <b>“I had so much planned for myself. So much I looked forward to doing,”</b> she paused.

<br><br>The man’s muffled squeals continued. <b>“But sometimes.. sometimes life just has other plans I guess.”</b> Her sadistic countenance faltered for a moment, as the memories of her father flooded her mind. The stories he told, the jokes they shared, the last look he gave her before he... Her countenance hardened once more. Glaring at the man, she pressed the barrel between his eyes. He thrashed about, squeals trying desperately to escape his mouth. <b>“But that doesn’t matter now, doesn’t it? What’s done is done.”</b>

<br><br>Her finger squeezed the trigger and a <i>click</i> sounded from the gun. Her face contorted into a wicked grin. <b>“Well isn’t it your lucky day?”</b> She exclaimed, her tone dripping with sarcasm. Holstering her gun, Jemma strolled into the emptiness of the room, her voice echoing as she spoke. <b>“You know,”</b> she started <b>“I read somewhere in one of these books that when you let anger get the best of you, it brings out the worst in people, or some shit like that.”</b> The captive squirmed desperately, tugging away at his bindings, before Jemma’s dainty hand firmly fixed him back into his chair. <b>“And you know, I just don’t see it.”</b>

<br><br>The smell of gasoline quickly filled the air as she began to empty the liquid on her victim. She walked around him, ensuring he was covered entirely, before stopping in front of him. Setting the gasoline container down, she fished around her jacket pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes, followed by her box of matches. <b>“It’s a dog eat dog world out there,”</b> she explained, placing a cigarette in her mouth. The match roared to life as the cigarette met the flame, her face expressionless as she inhaled the cancerous smoke. <b><i>“And if only my father could see me now,”</b></i> she exhaled softly as she tossed the match on the man.

<br><br>She stood and watched as the flames engulfed him, his shrieks echoing around the room before eventually dying out. A tear formed in her eye before rolling down her cheek. Not for the man she just set ablaze, But because of the memories that came flooding back as she took each drag of her cigarette.

<br><br><b>“I’m so sorry, daddy…”</b>

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<center><div style="margin-left: 0px;"><table cellspacing="0" cellpadding="1"><tr><td><div class="biotag">Raider</div></td><td><div class="biotag">The Savages</div></td></tr><tr><td><div class="biotag">N/A</div></td><td><div class="biotag">October 25 (19)</div></td></tr><tr><td><div class="biotag">Heterosexual</div></td><td><div class="biotag">Emma Roberts</div></td></tr></table></div></center><br><br><div style="width:352px; height:262px; overflow:auto;"><div style="width:326px; font-size: 10px; text-align:justify; padding-right: 7px;">

<i><b>“Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned”</i></b>

<br><br>If you were to describe Jemma in one word, angry would suit best.

<br><br>Like many others out in the wastes, Jemma has been wronged by fate, forcing her to make some hard decisions on her own. Never having a mother, and having to raise herself at the age of 14, Jemma has struggled to drag her hollow body to where she is today. Life just isn’t fair, and she knows this. But just because she accepts this fact, does not mean she has to like it.

<br><br>Matter of fact, merciless, self-sufficient: All words suitable for this twisted soul. The wastes are no place to wander alone, and after 3 years of doing so, it’s sculpted her into a product of it’s own. In a world full of pain and death, it’s better to be the one who inflicts it, and with her lack of empathy, she’s become pretty good at it.

<br><br>That’s how she found her way to the savages. Though she is used to being alone (and in some cases prefers it) she appreciates the company of those she can relate to. People she can learn from. Those who have found the joy in their misfortune. Since the death of her father, they’re the closest thing she’s had to a family. They accept her twisted ways of coping, and she accepts theirs.

<br><br><i><b>Friends:</i></b> It’s pretty black and white for Jemma, she either likes you or she doesn’t. With her affection comes loyalty, and if she doesn’t like you, you’ll know it. At first, before Jemma met the savages, friends were something foreign to her. Of course she had acquaintances, but never did they last long. Usually she used them for self benefit, and left the next day. She’s never really opened up to anyone besides her father, so her relationships never involved much investment from her, and frankly she preferred it that way.

<br><br><i><b>Lovers:</i></b> The last bit of love had dwindled from Jemma’s heart years ago, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t require affection. Her intimate relationships have never been more than physical. Her lack of empathy makes it difficult to emotionally invest herself, but that doesn’t mean she can’t pretend. Relationships are purely self-beneficial for Jemma, and she has no plans on changing anytime soon.

<br><br><i><b>Enemies:</i></b> It would be no surprise if someone had a bone to pick with her. Jemma has stepped on a lot of people to get to where she is today, so goes the game of survival. Sometimes you have to break a few noses, or slit a few throats to get your point across.

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