Hoshor Plains I Wear My Sins On My Sleeves

Sasha. A traitor. Some stranger with blood on her hands. Colin knits his brow; she would've looked so similar to Ruth. She was blonde and blue-eyed too, and just the memory of her rolls in his stomach like acid. 

He considers the implications of Donovan's story. The implications of terror, the pain of being betrayed by those closest to you, the certain and suffocating sensation of guilt. To have a hand in the genocide of your own people was the stuff of nightmares. Standing helpless as bullets pierce through the body of someone you've known since birth. He had counseled someone with survivor's guilt once. They had killed themselves soon after. 

Clearly, Donovan was skilled in compartmentalizing. The grimness on his wolfdog face bleeds away into apathy as if conjured by a flicked switch or a pressed button. It reminds him of himself. "We will make certain that such a thing never has to happen again."