Kerrigan isn't particularly enjoying the replay of her greatest hits, and when something goes off-script, she whirls on the source, bloody combat knife at the ready, looking like death itself for a heartbeat before the glassy look in her green eyes clears.

"Who the hell are you?" The anger in Kerrigan's voice isn't much more reassuring than her brutally efficient slaughter had been, but it immediately gives way to an expression of nearly comical confusion. This isn't a recovered memory. She can't break the rhythm in those. The targets always die.