The prototype girl looked worn down when retrieved from that cruel cell; but now that the suit is off her body, what remains of her is a wraith, skin blue-pale, eyes sunken deep into skull, shadows between them no longer a metaphor, but crescent bruises impressed into her face. Sweat, cold and sticky, covers her head to toe, making for a sickly sheen in the station's dim lights. Olwen looks for blood, for some kind of a wound, but finds none: just a body dragged far past the point of exhaustion. Only Sophia's eyes still burn bright and vivid, their strange glow almost fevered. She sways on her feet, hand finding support on one of the screens, but only barely enough to hold her up.