Donovan offered the pale-eyes woman a ghost of a smile, raising his hand to his forehead in a gesture of greeting - like tipping a hat or tugging a forelock. Dawn was tough, fire-forged and ready, and he'd never known her to fail in her duty. The corps needed more people like her. It had them in droves - past, present, future - each wave breaking and giving way to the soft white underbelly of youth, ready to be stripped bare and reforged into the killing machines that humanity needed. He would train them. He'd be there in the end-times, Edmund and Dawn at his sides, with the last of the old guard and the ranks of the young. They'd be the ones to see the war through, however long as it took.<br/><br/>As she pulled back, Donovan gave Dawn a passing glance out of the corner of his eye. She had a chilling gaze, but she had an unusual grace about her. She looked good, that much was blatantly obvious, but she was unapproachable in ways that made her even more desirable. Granted, he'd never made a move on her - but if he'd had the chance, he would have taken it. Maybe it was just him, but she seemed to carry herself with a sort of dignity that was at once cold and ironic, self-aware and confident even as she consciously unnerved others with a mere glance. It could just have been his opinion, or a misinterpretation of what he was seeing, but he had respect for a person who chose that path in life. Right or wrong, it almost made her seem like a greater prize - unattainable, desirable, and flaunting both without moving a muscle. Truth or fiction, he liked what he saw.<div class="messageTextEndMarker"> </div>