Protect. Obey. [It's wry, a veil of humor worn thin over anger. Her voice drops a little.] Fight, kill. What do you think something like me would be for?

[Though that almost makes her smile, thinking of Hilshire. His awkward determination to give her a life beyond protect, obey, fight, kill, his fantastic failure to communicate it.] There's no one to order me to do that, here. People will only get hurt if I don't have it.

[Unless she leaves the city, which is always a possibility. But not until she's really losing it, not until she hits the edge. Until then, she's going to hang on to hope.]