Erin turned off the faucets, dried her hands on her uniform, and stared at the mirror. Her own face stared back at her, deathly pale and framed by a halo of orange hair. Her red-rimmed gray eyes looked dull and listless, and the fire that once burned brightly behind those eyes was reduced to dying embers. There were dark circles under her eyes, and the thin scar on right cheekbone was striking against her colorless face. Erin's Raptor uniform hung loose on her frame, making her look small and oddly frail. She studied her reflection, troubled. A sudden fear gripped her chest, as she realized that she was slowly wasting away, and she didn't even care. Fingers spidered along her right shoulder, tracing the shape of the triangular patch. Commander. Erin didn't know if she wanted to laugh to cry. She tried to pry the insignia off the fabric, failing miserably. A sudden hatred for the IF and their standard-issue indestructible uniforms blackened her heart. She didn't know why, but she felt that it was imperative to get that patch off. She had to. And it wouldn't come off. Panic came in a heady rush, making her chest thump and her head spin. Erin clawed at it with frustration, and yet the seams held fast. They were doing it to spite her. All of them. She hated them. Wanted them to die, slowly, painfully, excruciatingly. Her fist flew to thud harmlessly against the steel- reinforced mirror. Shoving down the realization that she could not break it, Erin punched the mirror again and again and again. The blows pulsated with a steady rhythm as they rained unrelenting upon the mirror. Bruises began to form unusually quickly on Erin's fists, marring the immaculate white. When she ran out of strength, the blows slowly subsided until they stopped, completely. She hunched over the sink, looking broken and small. Tears pooled in her eyes, but there they stayed. For she would not let them fall.