A hypothetical situation, and a representation of my internalized emotions of entrapment, an older version of Nikita sits helplessly with her hands impaled and bound to the ground. Watching as the world moves on without her, she cries desperately for help, all in vain. She would never have her wings, and she would never soar among her avian counterparts. Never again would she see the smiling faces of her closest friends, nor what she knew as her family. This time, she was all on her own with nothing but time and a fierce burning pain to reflect upon.
She was no hero, she was a murderer. A psychotic, selfish killer.