[She looks away. Not because it hurts, exactly. It's just so big. It's like looking at a sun straight-on: not actually painful, but dazzling, a poor tactical decision. She thinks about confessing. I hurt Captain Bush, I killed a little girl who couldn't fight me. Not to push Iris away; she's comfortable in the knowledge that it wouldn't work. But it would hurt her a little, push her back, the equivalent of tossing on sunglasses. It would also, she realizes, be selfish, a prompt for reassurance, rolling in the warmth. In the end, she doesn't, not because it would hurt Iris, and not even because she's ashamed, but because keeping her missions secret is too deeply ingrained a habit. It wasn't a mission. But it still feels like one. ]

It would be okay, if you couldn't.

I mean. I know you'd try. But if it comes to it. I like the idea of being remembered.