Regina Beaker was a shriveled onion of a woman with the light-hearted disposition of a sack of bricks. Her cheeks looked as if they were trying to touch each other inside of her mouth while her sharp, excessively prominent cheekbones were said to cut anyone who touched them. That is assuming anyone ever dared get that close to her. Her entire body was cold as a corpse with barely a suggestion of color. Her wrinkled lips sported a grotesque off-white. Her eyes were a cloudy gray. If one looked closely enough they could see memories of blue haunting them, but those days were long gone. Regina’s dark but slowly graying hair was pulled back in an intense bun on the back of her head. Each hair was pulled very straight. She did not believe in extraneous movement of any kind. Everything had a purpose. It is said that once she did not move for an entire day for she had no reason to. She sat perfectly still and stared at the wall. Her heart only pumped enough blood to keep her alive and allow her to proficiently do her required duties. With regimented control such as that, keeping her hair in place was hardly an unimaginable feat.