She watches, eventually making the shift from the Gloom into the reflective surface of the display nearest his chair. The place isn't what one would call warm and inviting, but even still, it's more hospitable than the chill void of the Twilight.

She makes a slow circuit of the rooms he calls his offices, tracking the scent of his skin and his blood, moving from mirrored plane to mirrored plane, the humans and -- not-humans -- around her utterly oblivious to her presence.

A pretty brunette comes through wearing a ridiculously short skirt (they are all wearing such ridiculously short skirts, Olga notices) but she addresses McCoy in a familiar tone.




Too familiar a tone. Olga shifts back to the display behind his desk, watching the two of them, trying to still an aching fury behind her breastbone.