[ His answer is sobering. Maybe Andy's nobler instincts have been dulled by centuries of cynicism — all those wars she's fought, all the good people she's outlived — but they're there, and she understands, even if some weary part of her might prefer not to. There's an ease akin to relief in having made the choice, despite choosing the harder path, and it loosens a little something in her chest, some small fragment of all that weight she carries around inside of her.
Sometimes she's so tired of fighting — sometimes it feels like the same repeating patterns, over and over again, no ground gained for all the blood spilt — and sometimes it feels like there's no point to all her strength, all her skill if she doesn't fight to make some kind of difference. Doing it for money, for the thrill, for an end in flames — it's a high that fades faster than she can chase it. But the small, steady quietness inside her right now...
She won't argue. Instead, a bit dryly: ]
You keep saying that. We. Us. [ She glances away again. ] Like it's going to be you, me, and him against the galaxy or something.
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Sometimes she's so tired of fighting — sometimes it feels like the same repeating patterns, over and over again, no ground gained for all the blood spilt — and sometimes it feels like there's no point to all her strength, all her skill if she doesn't fight to make some kind of difference. Doing it for money, for the thrill, for an end in flames — it's a high that fades faster than she can chase it. But the small, steady quietness inside her right now...
She won't argue. Instead, a bit dryly: ]
You keep saying that. We. Us. [ She glances away again. ] Like it's going to be you, me, and him against the galaxy or something.