Errant stops running. Head feet drag heavily against the ground, digging a full inch into the tiling across several feet of stopping distance. Every breath looks like it's costing her a lot. She's not doing the controlled breaths through her nose like she taught you, Sara, it's all coming loudly and raggedly out of her mouth. Her chest heaves, her shoulders rise and fall with every greedy suck of air, and she's slouching pretty badly. 

She's a mess. She's drenched with sweat, her face is stained with oils, fresh burns, cuts, blood, sweat, and yes, also tears. Her uniform is covered with flecks of hardened foam. It's also bright, gaudy, criminal red. It's not a good color for her. All across her chest there's a bunch of little cuts, so it's easy to look past it to the filthy undershirt that's supposed to keep all that heavy armor off her skin. Even her hair, the gorgeously long hair she says Princess Alina helped give her looks limp and bedraggled.

She stares across the lobby through her visor. Then she reaches up and snatches it off her face. For a moment, there's something like elation there, tired as it is. And then it shifts to confusion. Disbelief. Horror. 

She drops into a combat stance, coiled so tense and so ready for a fight her limbs are whining. 

"Tell me..." she croaks, "It's not the same. T-tell me it's not what I think it is. TELL ME! Sara, I swear to god I'm gonna... I'm gonna... even if it's you!"

Not like this. Oh no, please tell her it's not happening again.