[The Slayer's laughter is chilling down to her very core. PM is not one to feel fear, but she can readily feel an icy horror that seems to freeze her insides around that permanent stab wound the prototyping offers. Yet another friendly, fresh reminder that she can never let him lay a finger on WV or AR.]
[She pulls a scarf out of her mail bag and winds it hastily around her neck, ignoring how the red stains the white-on-blue suns.]