>> Now playing Mission Log #62
The footage opens to a skittering, off-kilter visual as the camera slides and tumbles across uneven ground.
It finally smacks into something and skids to a stop, catching on a divot in the floor.
The visual reveals a long room stretching out ahead, closed stalls off to the right and a pair of wall-mounted sinks to the left. A flashlight sits on the floor not far away, illuminating what it can of the space. With the angle that the camera has landed, most of the frame is silent and still.
On the right wall a clock sits and watches from on high, surveying the room. Though its hands never move, a subtle but unmistakable ticking permeates the silence of the audio.
The light reflects off of white-tile walls and floors, eerily pristine and untouched — much in contrast to the lone figure in the room, hunched in the very left corner of the feed.
Her hair is long and down, a ragged black curtain draped over her shoulders and obscuring her face. Though she wears a black Ebonhand suit, the side closest to the camera has partially escaped it, exposing the fair skin of her arm and the white-knuckle grip of her hands on the basin of the sink.
The woman’s form shudders with her labored breathing, adjusting her tense fingers as she looks up and uses her gloved right hand to clear the hair out of her eyes.
Between her unkempt appearance and the heavy film of sweat on her face, she’s only barely recognizable. Despite the distress in her eyes, they are still a lifeless, familiar shade of grey.
Wendy stares at her own disheveled face in the mirror, sucking in air between her teeth as a snarl tugs at her upper lip.
Blood drips from her nose, a stream of red dripping into the sink.
Her eyes run over her loose hair with equal parts disgust and stinging recognition.
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