Background

[Intricate or emotional detailing may be lacking / missing due to character limit.] Born in the spring of 1968, the life that Maeve- and likewise her twin sister, Leena -entered was for a time, gentle. They lived in stability for the first six years of their life. Stability ended early. Their dad succumbed to an ischemic stroke. Not yet old enough to understand why he was gone, the shape of his absence was regardless undeniable. Her mother would never truly recover. Grief hollowed out who she had once been, and by the fall of that year, drugs became the answer. First an escape, and later a necessity. The years that followed were a slow erosion of what little remained. Early on came lessons: make yourself small, read the room, and to shoulder responsibility not meant for her. Her mother was as kind as she could manage- apologetic, in loving fragments -but addiction reduced her into a person neither twin knew. By late August of 1978 the spiral was complete: she lost her job, debts accrued, and strangers began to knock. December 6ᵗʰ of 1979, the strangers didn't leave. The memory morphed into an amalgamation of soft pleads, unrecognizable voices, and the echoed ring of a gunshot trembling throughout the once-called-home. The twins escaped on instinct alone, clambering out their bedside window into the trees outside and vanishing into the streets. Whatever remained of childhood died within the apartment they left behind, save for one another. By the summer of 1982, scavenging through their usual alleyways for trash-turned-treasure, lucky coupons, or tossed-out clothes, Maeve gasped as a clean, smooth twenty-dollar bill lay against the concrete. She raised it in triumph- until a voice echoed down the alleyway. Two youths, older than them but not by much, faces half-hidden behind loose bandanas, demanded the money. Maeve refused. Too afraid to run. Too angry to yield. The scuffle was brief, ending with a call from none of the four. At the far end of the alley stood a man wearing an odd leather jacket, a crow patch stitched into its shoulder, and the dim glimmer of a gun in his belt loop. The two punks fled. Iskul. Stubborn and desperate, they understood the choice presented: stay near something dangerous, or die alone. Thus, they followed. Despite threats and dismissals, they remained. There was nowhere else to go. In time, the Crows noticed. They never softened, but they stopped pushing them away. Iskul kept them from abuse, and they learned to be useful in their own ways. A myriad of small feats earned them a quiet corner among the Crows. In search of connection, Maeve later took interest in learning Norwegian from the Scandinavian members. Those Maeve could call family were few, Diana Morlett among them- though another joined through unusual circumstances -a bar brawl, cooled by her intervention, ended with the man involved, Leopold, welcomed into the ranks. As years passed, Leo earned his place openly. Maeve deliberately remained unranked and overlooked. Still, he did not leave her side. Downtime became quiet reprieve between the two- seldom murmured Norwegian, shared silence. He often refused advancement when it could have benefited him most. Maeve chastised him bluntly for it. He never listened. February of 1993 waned. Maeve watched her friends leave for a Treasury-funded “vacation” to Meridian. She stayed behind, uneasy and watchful. Rightfully so. As on March 9th, Chicago broke. The city was loud, but this was something else. Maeve froze as the air itself split, distortion tearing open half a block away. Witnessing as a man stumbled too close and vanished without a sound. Something clawed its way out in his place. That was enough. Years of noticing patterns took hold as instinct whispered a single truth: staying will get you killed. She slinked into the shadows and returned to her bike. Whisping home to gather what, and who she could, as she witnessed the turmoil outside cascade in. She fled toward the city’s edge, stopping only at a worn clinic with an apartment above - Diana’s home. By then, the city was tearing itself apart: rifts flaring without pattern, disgorging restless dead. No questions were asked. They had no answers. They left together, uncertain where they were going- only that out was safer than in. Radios whispered of emergency safe zones. One name repeated often enough to stick. Knox. The train was meant to stop at Knox. By some miracle, maybe they would still be there. Afraid, but not alone, Maeve and company began in that direction. Their numbers would be viscerally thinned on the ride to a hardened but wary four- Ash, Diana, Rain, and Maeve.