From Unofficial Handbook of the Virtue Universe
Opal was very frustrated with the world around her, and everyone in it. She saw so much more clearly than everyone with whom she came into any contact: how the world was, how it ought to be, how to get from this point to that one.
People simply wouldn't go along with the simple requirements she laid out, not even when she took the time to painstakingly explain them. Everyone would be happier, everything would work better, if only they would cooperate! But no one did. To make matters worse, when she concentrated all of her considerable will, all her thoughts, on wanting a specific target to take a specific action ... ... the person she was trying to help usually did exactly the opposite!
Opal felt like an unappreciated gemstone jammed into a poorly-constructed setting.
She was interviewing for a prestigious position with an international corporation, and that image of herself as a badly-set gemstone kept popping back into her mind with every noncommital hum from the human resources representative. Opal was perfect for the job, and she knew it, even if her resume could not adequately show how exactly right a fit she would be. The questions got more inane with every effort, until Opal realized she was being stalled -- being toyed with, the rest of the appointment time wasted on silly amusements to see whether Opal's will would crumble and she would slink away trailing defeat.
She became so angry that she blacked out.
When Opal awoke, she was strapped to some sort of very high-tech medical gurney, and strange lights were pointed at her. On a nearby monitor, a white-haired old man in a crisp linen suit studied a clipboard, then looked up at his camera. Opal felt as though the old man were looking directly at her, into her, like a jeweller studying the luster of a perfect raw stone.
"She will be poetry," the old man said to someone. "Her innate psionic potential is misrouted, and that is why it keeps generating the opposite of her will. Reconfigure it completely. Use batches seventy-two and ninety-six. Include all of the command routines."
Then, looking at her face again, he seemed to address Opal herself: "Forget what you were. I will carve it away. I will free your true self. You are now a poem, written by me in fire and precise control: you are Brigid's Verse."
Brigid's Verse still possesses a smug assurance that she knows better than everyone else in the world how everything ought to be. She resents the fact that, as a Hybrid, she must obey the whims of all Corporation employees at Infinity, Inc. She resents the fact that her "peers", the other Deltas, don't follow her guidance in most matters. She adores, however, the way the Hybrid Alphas cower away from her burning constructs, and obey her carefully-delivered commandments without hesitation.
Well, most of them do. About fifteen have yet to learn the nature of things, how selflessly Brigid's Verse takes care of them by telling them what they must do and understand and accept. She will wear their obstinacy down, one or two at a time, until she is unquestioned.
And then she will lead the other Hybrid Deltas by her natural example.
And then the Owner will see her work, and elevate her above the other artwork in his collection, making her a fully-vested Employee.
It should not take more than ten years, at the outside.
Gang aft agley
Brigid's Verse ran into a somewhat pesky Alpha during a few jobs in the summer of 2012. Much to her dismay, he turned out to be an escapee from the earliest days: the allegedly unstable, vicious Red Klaw prototype. He offered her a chance to be the first subject in a get-away-from-I.I. experiment he and his allies were setting up.
Opal wants power. She was never so devoted to one plan that she will stick with it when it is advancing at a glacial pace. Opal abandoned everything on the spot: her position in the company, her flunky Iceberia, her identity as Brigid's Verse, her few treasured personal effects.
The company thinks she was killed and eaten during Captain Mako's weeks of rage. Arachnos, of course, did not even make politely sympathetic noises to the charge. They certainly were not going to pay for damaged property!
Part of the experiment required her to stay hidden in one of Red Klaw's safehouses for a few months. That was her undoing. After six weeks, she ran out of every self-improvement exercise or intellectual pastime available in that hovel. She radically changed her appearance. She learned to change the color of her energy emanations. She bleached her hair, cut it in a much softer style, even arranged for replacement clothing to be delivered to the building across the street.
Everything would have still been fine, if a group of Carnival of Shadows hoodlums had not taken such exception to the white-haired fire-maker demanding that they hold their robbery until she was done with her grocery shopping. Opal conveniently forgot how much of any given fight she spent in the background, while an ally bore the brunt of the violence. By the time she realized she might be in trouble, it was far too late to run.
According to the neighborhood snitch, some of the Facemaker's minions cut up the body for parts while it was still fresh. Red Klaw found plenty of blood, a few chunks of singed white hair, and Opal's mangled finger in the alley.
Surely she was not taken by the Carnies as a new recruit!