It didn’t matter how she looked. She was not a dumb animal, to be broken and ridden. She was a major in the ISMU. Her list of dead was much longer than eleven. “Go… to… hell,” Olivia croaked into the microphone, her voice shaking. It was reproduced outside almost as booming as Celestia’s, though there was no Forerunner to process away all the sounds of her weakness. It would come through exactly as she spoke it.