Julie Annabel Mortensen, cloned daughter of a demigod and a random Italian woman hid in an alley. She hugged her legs tightly against her bare chest. She had to abandon her vest when some creep tried to grab her. All she had left to wear was the tattered and torn scraps tied around her waist. Anger flooded her, and her brown eyes narrowed. She was painfully thin, hungry, and now her chest and back were cold. Eventually, her lower lip began to tremble and slip forward. She began to cry, her tears wetting the useless pince-nez on the bridge of her nose.
All alone, cold, hungry, and missing one of the gifts Mr. Callway gave her– she felt miserable. Her sobbing of misery masked the approach of a stranger with heavy boots.
Finally, she noticed his presence and looked up. A hobo was gripping her vest with limp arms. He walked past her, as though she was invisible, and laid down against a heap of garbage at the back. He began to snore, his hand slowly opening.
Julie’s eyes locked onto her beloved vest, and she dashed forward and snatched it. She glared at the man, then pulled it on and fastened the single button at the bottom. It was wrinkled and dirty now, but it was hers again. It was the same vest that hung from her form, far too large for her young body– made for an adult as it was.
The child stared for several moments at the aged, drooling homeless man. As thanks, she had nothing to give him. She thought for several moments, then decided she would simply let him live. As she left the alley, he smiled and opened one eye.
Once Julie was gone, he stood up and stretched. Those knives were rusted, and might have had some blood. He headed to the hospital. Slamming his bloody back into the garbage had been stupid, but orders were orders.
Julie continued on her aimless way. As time went on, she began to grow into her vest, and by thirteen, she was a decent technologically-advanced thug, using a ray gun to scare people into parting with their money despite her size. She worked with a woman who had blue skin and powers over ice and snow, and the two were successful at not only gathering money, but also kidnapping small children.
Several times, Julie and Morticea raided preschools, day cares, and even homes to gather children who were very young. Most children were taken from homeless mothers. Some were from high-income neighborhoods.
Little Julie Annabel Mortensen, who had no public record of her existence, was called a terrorist and a supervillain.
Several times, she was found in abandoned warehouses, but Morticea always whisked away the children, and Julie, now called Biocybera, escaped prison using technology that should have been found at the door.
The entire east coast was alive with terror at the idea of a thirteen year old girl who couldn’t be stopped by local law enforcement, state enforcement, or even the army. Assassins were sent to deal with her, and each was found dead at a warehouse that was recently re-abandoned.
Suddenly, on May 10, 2004, Biocybera and Morticea disappeared. There was neither sign of either of the two, nor of the children they stole away over the course of a year.
Families grieved as their children seemed to fade entirely from their grasp. Washington D.C. gave press conferences often, demanding the return of the children from their mysterious captor.
However, they heard nothing from her. It was as though she simply disappeared, children and all.
Two years later, an army of children, aged from three to eight, took over Sweden in a single strike. It was so well-planned and the army so well-trained, that the Swedes were bowled over. They refused to fight children, and lost quickly. The world reeled as a press conference was called. Two six year old boys, one with dark skin and hair, and the other pale and glaring, stood on either side of the podium, their stances protective. Unlike the rest of the child army, these two wore blue uniforms that were not jumpsuits, but pants and coats, perfectly tailored.
The world watched as a face not seen in exactly two years mounted the podium. It was Biocybera. She was fully dressed now, and her vest didn’t hang so loosely from her. She wore shoes, and her skirt came from a store rather than a dumpster. She took a deep breath and looked out at the gathered reporters. “I am Biocybera. These two in blue uniforms are my generals. Sweden is under my martial law until I decide it is safe enough for me to walk the streets.” She looked around. “I will gather taxes, a set amount, but allow the native government to continue as though nothing has happened, save that I will have the ability to do as I wish!” She looked around and adjusted her pince-nez, then smiled. “Any questions?” She crossed her arms and leaned to one side, head tilted.
It was several moments before a man raised his hand. He spoke with a French accent. “What shall we call you by?”
Biocybera raised an eyebrow. “I am called Mistress Biocybera.”
A female reporter raised her hand. “What are your plans should the UN take action against you?”
The new Mistress of Sweden narrowed her eyes. “This.”
The female reporter rubbed her head. “What?” Her nose began to bleed. She covered it and tried to quell the bleeding. “A nosebleed? It’s not that dry in here, is-“
Her head was suddenly gone, and bloody brains spattered on the other reporters.
“Any further questions?” Biocybera glanced around and waited, then turned and walked away, her two generals watching the frightened crowd.
Only the Frenchman remained calm by the violent explosion, with only the barest of surprise in his expression. So, this was the path she chose. He thought he spotted a slight limp and frowned with concern in his eyes as he walked away. He was thankful that the reporters between him and the woman prevented splatter.
With a sigh, he shook his head and departed. She no longer needed any intervention from him. It was regrettably time to report in.