Charles waded through... ghosts. Souls. Darkened spirits, clawing at his legs, his armour, which could with luck totally negate small-calibre bullets, tearing itself off like tissue paper, useless against these ethereal abominations.
Every twisted, contorted face was a memory. A victim. Some were murderers, rapists, slave traders. Others were innocent scientists, politicians... children. They all glared at Charles, their eyes filled with hate, vengeance, despair...
But at the end of this row, there stood a solitary figure. Her.
She only looked on with a world-shattering sadness, her long, impossibly dark hair flowing in an invisible breeze, as she stared right through Charles's helmet.
She did not look with hate, vengeance, or despair.
She looked with understanding.