this mist, she has learned quickly, can be as unforgiving as the sharpest blade against unprotected skin. skeletons had been most of what she’s dealt with and though they unnerved her, she never showed it outwardly. she was a daughter of the Animusphere’s: she had to be perfect and unflinching in the face of danger. she had to prove that she was worthy no matter what it took. skeletons were easy to remain strong in the face of. this, however, sickens her to her core and Olga cannot halt the horror that morphs once steadfast features.
“ What-- there’s no way-- it can’t--”
it’s impossible to tell just what ‘it’ was supposed to be. amid the mess of splattered and smeared blood, she could vageuly make out chunks of...flesh? (it looked as if it were flesh, human flesh, and the nausea festers without mercy.) littered between broken bones and torn remains of organs, all sitting in a pool of blood. it was if someone had been torn to shreds from the inside out and despite how horrifying of a sight that was alone, it was what rested on a piece of bloodied fabric half-sunken in the crimson liquid.
a silver logo. the logo of the Chaldean Security Organization. her father’s organization.
