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Description
The first time she saw Eve completely lose it, Michiko felt a flicker of doubt overshadow her devotion.  From the moment they met, she knew the young man was unstable and violent, but she had honestly believed that he would learn control and become the heir Wutai needed.  Seeing the deposed prince of her nation covered head to toe in blood and gore, and tearing out a man's throat with his bare hands, she began to question if she wasn't merely being optimistic and willfully ignoring reality in hopes that Wutai would be restored one day.

What Eve never ever told anyone was that some days, he frightened himself.  Before Morgan had joined with them and dubbed him Eve, he hadn't had a fixed name for himself.  Sometimes, on his bad days – ones where he just couldn't contain it, and found himself running off just to find something living to maim just to get rid of some of his anger – he couldn't remember the name he was trying so hard to hide from everyone.  Worse still, were the days he had to rely on the photo he stole off of Mrs. Strife's bar wall just to remember the faces of his parents.

She'd been in a craft that had gone down once, years ago.  The weather had been less than perfect, and the turbulence had caused something in the engines to conk out.  It was absolutely terrifying, the sensation of her stomach rising into her throat as the craft descended in free-fall.  Sometimes, in the middle of aerial fights, or even rough patches of wind, she finds herself gripping the old-fashioned wheel so hard she knows her knuckles are white.  Those moments make her feel especially glad she wears gloves, since it prevents the others from noticing.

Contrary to what everyone believes, Edge doesn't hate his father.  Sure, he had had to grow up without the man, but it wasn't always the elder Cordona's fault; and the man honestly tried making up for it.  Edge would never admit it to Morgan, but he's actually kind of glad when she turns up missing around the time of his birthday.  In some sick way, it's flattering to know that his father is desperate enough for his love to go to all the trouble of kidnapping a dangerous mercenary.

Sometimes, Jia wonders what it would be like to have grown up with normal parents.  It wasn't that she didn't love her mother and father, or even her bitter old grandmother; but sometimes, once in a while, she'd like to be able to read her harlequin romances without someone finding it to be oddly out of character or for her PHS to be used more for texting her friends than for espionage.  She wonders what it's like for other girls her age, to have never grown up being trained in encryption and weapons proficiency, to never have had to dodge bullets, or suffer through those horrifying moments between seeing a close comrade fall and someone finding a Phoenix Down.

Morgan hated it when the others complained.  Poor Jia, with her loving parents, oh how hard for her to have to grow up in the shadows of two of the most skilled Turks, poor her for feeling pressured at times to follow in their footsteps.  Poor Louisa May, how awful it must be to have such a large, closely-knit family, how terrible it must be to have so many brilliant and caring brothers to have to worry about standing out from their successes, the simpering daddy's girl.  They never knew how wonderful they had it, and it burned her up inside.  Some nights, she'd find herself outside of Louisa May's door, fingering one of her punching daggers.  Those nights she didn't mind – irrational anger and unthinking violence had been her shelters in the past.  What terrified her were the nights she would hop on her bike and just ride only to find herself parked across the street from the surprisingly modest apartment of the red-headed ex-Turk.

Rishi would, when healing his teammates in battle, see flashes of what could have been.  Instead of treating Michiko for a burn, he would be setting the leg of one of his tribe's precious few children, ensuring that their dwindling numbers would never decrease their strength.  At times when he was trying to lose himself in easy women and cheap liquor, he would see himself in his mind's eye, in the traditional garb of a shaman, praying to the Planet for aid in restoring his people, and protecting the Canyon.  The worst, however, were the times where he would visualize pride instead of disappointment in the single piercing eye of the Guardian.

Description
The first time she saw Eve completely lose it, Michiko felt a flicker of doubt overshadow her devotion.  From the moment they met, she knew the young man was unstable and violent, but she had honestly believed that he would learn control and become the heir Wutai needed.  Seeing the deposed prince of her nation covered head to toe in blood and gore, and tearing out a man's throat with his bare hands, she began to question if she wasn't merely being optimistic and willfully ignoring reality in hopes that Wutai would be restored one day.

What Eve never ever told anyone was that some days, he frightened himself.  Before Morgan had joined with them and dubbed him Eve, he hadn't had a fixed name for himself.  Sometimes, on his bad days – ones where he just couldn't contain it, and found himself running off just to find something living to maim just to get rid of some of his anger – he couldn't remember the name he was trying so hard to hide from everyone.  Worse still, were the days he had to rely on the photo he stole off of Mrs. Strife's bar wall just to remember the faces of his parents.

She'd been in a craft that had gone down once, years ago.  The weather had been less than perfect, and the turbulence had caused something in the engines to conk out.  It was absolutely terrifying, the sensation of her stomach rising into her throat as the craft descended in free-fall.  Sometimes, in the middle of aerial fights, or even rough patches of wind, she finds herself gripping the old-fashioned wheel so hard she knows her knuckles are white.  Those moments make her feel especially glad she wears gloves, since it prevents the others from noticing.

Contrary to what everyone believes, Edge doesn't hate his father.  Sure, he had had to grow up without the man, but it wasn't always the elder Cordona's fault; and the man honestly tried making up for it.  Edge would never admit it to Morgan, but he's actually kind of glad when she turns up missing around the time of his birthday.  In some sick way, it's flattering to know that his father is desperate enough for his love to go to all the trouble of kidnapping a dangerous mercenary.

Sometimes, Jia wonders what it would be like to have grown up with normal parents.  It wasn't that she didn't love her mother and father, or even her bitter old grandmother; but sometimes, once in a while, she'd like to be able to read her harlequin romances without someone finding it to be oddly out of character or for her PHS to be used more for texting her friends than for espionage.  She wonders what it's like for other girls her age, to have never grown up being trained in encryption and weapons proficiency, to never have had to dodge bullets, or suffer through those horrifying moments between seeing a close comrade fall and someone finding a Phoenix Down.

Morgan hated it when the others complained.  Poor Jia, with her loving parents, oh how hard for her to have to grow up in the shadows of two of the most skilled Turks, poor her for feeling pressured at times to follow in their footsteps.  Poor Louisa May, how awful it must be to have such a large, closely-knit family, how terrible it must be to have so many brilliant and caring brothers to have to worry about standing out from their successes, the simpering daddy's girl.  They never knew how wonderful they had it, and it burned her up inside.  Some nights, she'd find herself outside of Louisa May's door, fingering one of her punching daggers.  Those nights she didn't mind – irrational anger and unthinking violence had been her shelters in the past.  What terrified her were the nights she would hop on her bike and just ride only to find herself parked across the street from the surprisingly modest apartment of the red-headed ex-Turk.

Rishi would, when healing his teammates in battle, see flashes of what could have been.  Instead of treating Michiko for a burn, he would be setting the leg of one of his tribe's precious few children, ensuring that their dwindling numbers would never decrease their strength.  At times when he was trying to lose himself in easy women and cheap liquor, he would see himself in his mind's eye, in the traditional garb of a shaman, praying to the Planet for aid in restoring his people, and protecting the Canyon.  The worst, however, were the times where he would visualize pride instead of disappointment in the single piercing eye of the Guardian.