It had been too long since Constance had been awakened by sunlight on her face and opening her eyes, she found the Duke had not lied about the magnificent view. Through the rays streaming in the open window, the entire valley was spread out in idyllic greens, browns and blues to rival the poetry the Battle Sister had become fond of over the course of her career.

Abigail Winters sat at her desk and contemplated the frozen image of the Palatine she had dispatched against her better judgment, standing ghostly, and transparent in holographic pause before her desk. There had been many fears to cloud her mind that she had ignored in an effort to save the careers of two sisters she felt had been dealt unjust hands at the game of life.

Constance floated, nude, in the recovery gel, listening to her breathing in the respirator strapped to her face, and remembered. The nutrient rich, not quite non-Newtonian fluid supported her as it fed the synth-skin that had been applied over eighty percent of her body. It covered seven holes in her torso that traitor small arms had managed to penetrate the ceramite of her armor, due to it's weakened state. Both legs, that had been badly burned in the explosion that had weakened her armor enough for small arms to penetrate it, were now as shapely and fulsome as they had been before she'd started the battle.