There's a gloss of red across her lips, a ghost of forbidden lipstick applied lightly in the morning and never touched up. The peevish wind is dragging loose hair across her face, to be pushed back with the heel of a gloved hand. She's intent and focused, frowning, as she tells Wells that nobody's going anywhere.
And she's at her most beautiful like this, fighting her war, her weapons, her way.
Terrible as an army with banners...
Then the blast hits her, sends her to her back in the scattered leaves and she's not beautiful anymore.
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