Herr Kommandant

Good Lord.

Whoever packed this folder in did it in such a fashion that it hid the sheer volume of paperwork.
The metal fasteners holding stacks together have rusted considerably over time, leaving distinct divots and dark stains against most of the papers they help contain. A flick through each itemized stack betrays the nature of the beast.

Old contracts for jobs only an accomplished soldier could perform.
Accounting for payments of aforementioned contracts and business expenses (a fair few being attributed to extensive property damage).
Health records.
Professional observations and mission debriefs.
A brief record of progress written in some sort of sprawling shorthand and chock full of acronyms and terminologies foreign to any reader not 'in' with the recorder.
Everything is signed and notarized by an unknown entity, the scrawl of a signature making it hard to read.

Some of the pages look chewed on, as if by dog's teeth. Punctures, grooves, a few stains that can only be dried and crusted drooling. But everything is still fairly legible and easy to read should one want to look through all of it. There's a few polaroids snapped and added to just about every stack, pictures taken of locations, blurred people, aforementioned destruction (likely for insurance purposes). Dead bodies. Like something out of a forensics office, there are the occasional snapshots of mutilated bodies of every sort imaginable and a few severed heads. It's fairly gruesome to flick through, but apparently necessary.

Clipped to the inside front of the folder with a jaw clamp is a small group of photos. More polaroids, stained more by exposure on those parts not stained with the rusty orange of the clamp that holds them to the black manila. Clearly, given the subject of the photos, this is the face of the subject in question...

There are a good number of words to describe Herr Kommandant.
Tall...
Intimidating...
Dominating...
...though the one that seems to fit the most is undoubtedly Unsettling.

She gives off the impression of being an androgynous human woman at first glances, an imposing presence of six-foot-four that makes it hard for her to not look down on those around her. At that height though, there are very few people she has to crane her neck to look up at. She sports no noticeable feminine curve or any of the expected bulk of one labelled a supersoldier or a mercenary, slender and beanpole-ish at best with all the bulk in her stance; though relaxed, her posturing still screams of the ingrained training of a commander and a soldier with squared shoulders and straight sturdy lines from her back to her feet. Her skin is pale, warm ivory that shows her labyrinth of scars very well. The most noticeable rends continuously across the left side of her face, cutting through her eyebrow and into the left corner of her lips to her chin. Compared to the little lines and occasional clawmarks visible on the right side of her face and her neck, it is a gnarled chasm she displays with the pride of a survivor.

And that is where the human ends.

It is subtle, noticing on further inspection just how inhuman this mockery is. It has mimicked perfectly the imagery it wants to use. No, almost perfectly. The limbs and torso are just a smidgen too long and a little too thin. It breaks some sort of anatomical barrier just enough to raise hairs on the back of the neck, because it is simply wrong when it is focused on for too long. The shadows of the pallid ivory skin are a little off as well, curved into the slender sharpness of the build with dark muted green.