It was strange, almost unnatural. Her eyes played the scene she had just lived through. Though it was still from her point of view, she could see her horrid smirk, hear her cold, yet apologetic words as if they were not her own. She then played the memory of her standing before the door with her suicide bomb primed and ready in her hands. She remembered replying to turbulence, once again in a voice that she didn't register as her own. They were her words, but not her voice. 

She was quiet as she gazed into the endless expanse of the floor beneath them. It wasn't her, she reminded herself. She tried playing those memories again, and they were the same, but she noticed another difference. Something about them was wrong. Something about them wasn't her. 

What had these ages of being cooped up in Iacon really done to her?