Editing TangenT (section)

=The Mysterious=
These are those unfortunates who have awoken without memory and have begun on their search of discovery, both to find their pasts and, perhaps, to learn new things that didn't exist before in themselves...

'''Mlindeli''' means 'Guardian'. I know this. It is an honorable name, a righteous name. I think it is my name. This face in the mirror does not look like my face, though. It is too old, holds too many years, and my hands are too wrinkled. Strong hands; a worker's hands, with the callouses of a laborer. But I have the long, sensitive fingers of an artist. I'm skinny, but not from hunger. I have honest, black skin; close-cropped, tightly curled grey hair; an old burn scar on my left cheek that I can't remember the cause of. I look like I'm in my sixties, but I feel like I'm in my forties, and my body is used to activity.


'''Vincent Tubor'''. Is it an odd name? Part of me says yes, but when I interrogate that instinct I come back with... nothing. Is it my name? It sounds like a slick name and I look like a slick man. Not tall, but thin in a way that makes me seem taller, with smooth, long fingers and aquiline features. It's a bit like if you took a regular person and rolled them out thinner. My hair is dark and curly and reaches down to my shoulders. My eyes are blue-gray and inconstant. I don't have very many scars, aside from what looks like a nasty surgery scar on my abdomen. I might be in my thirties, or maybe in my forties or fifties if I take care of myself. I don't feel old, but then I don't feel like a liar, either. And I certainly don't have a trustworthy face.


'''Lily'''. It is a name, but it's also a delicate flower. Delicate is a very kind word for how I look, though fragile would be more accurate. I'm small of stature, pretty and brittle like a porcelain doll, and my skin is tan but more pale than it should be. There is an old surgery scar above my heart, never a good thing. I think I could be in my late twenties, and I think I should consider myself lucky for getting to be that old. I have hazel eyes, and dark, straight hair cut in a jaw-length bob. My slender fingers are surprisingly callused, at odds with the rest of my appearance.


The tall woman with long, nearly-white blonde hair whispered a single word to herself - '''Ciara'''. A tear ran down her cheek, but why she cried, or for whom, she cannot say.


He looks down at himself. He's wearing a blue, short-sleeve sport uniform top, with a number 7 in white emblazoned on the front. Black shorts, with a little shield crest on them reading SCUFC. Proper studded soccer boots.
He himself is lean, not muscular, but fit. Feeling the top of his head reveals he’s got a marine-style buzz cut. He has some eerily straight scars going across both knees, another more jagged one from his middle knuckle running down the back of his hand. He's young, he knows that, 20 max, but this isn't his first time in a hospital.
That's when the last bit comes into place. What's his name? Who is he?
The name... or something... jumps into his head. '''Spike'''.