"Can you?" OA's voice is uncharacteristically flat, almost cold. She doesn't doubt Sniper's conviction. She doesn't even necessarily doubt that they're right, that this much at least they can carry. She just wonders how long it takes until something new shakes that conviction. How long it will take, for instance, that in coming to her they're making her complicit in this too.
She can't really claim a moral high ground. Even before she came to believe absolutely in the strange transmigration her own soul has already undertaken, to believe that death is a transition rather than an absolute termination, she had already attempted murder twice.
That's the source of the chill. She's well aware that the fact she's never successfully committed that particular crime is a matter of luck -- whose she still isn't sure.
"Can both of you?" This one sounds tender. There's a rush of profound sadness. OA has to wonder if it's really necessary, any of this, though she holds no illusions: whichever version of her friend (companion, confidant) she spares, the other will suffer. Both, in fact, will suffer if she doesn't do this. Ojiro's fear is still fresh with her.
OA closes her eyes and lets out a long sigh, tongue darting out to wet her lips.
"I'll help you. Just--" Her brow furrows; she shakes her head. "Is this what the world needs?"
It's an unanswerable question. She can't feel whether or not they're saving or breaking it. Maybe both. Maybe neither. "I need you to tell me what it is you want. Both of you. One is a contract, the other one's a courtesy. I deserve to know what I'm going to be stealing."
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She can't really claim a moral high ground. Even before she came to believe absolutely in the strange transmigration her own soul has already undertaken, to believe that death is a transition rather than an absolute termination, she had already attempted murder twice.
That's the source of the chill. She's well aware that the fact she's never successfully committed that particular crime is a matter of luck -- whose she still isn't sure.
"Can both of you?" This one sounds tender. There's a rush of profound sadness. OA has to wonder if it's really necessary, any of this, though she holds no illusions: whichever version of her friend (companion, confidant) she spares, the other will suffer. Both, in fact, will suffer if she doesn't do this. Ojiro's fear is still fresh with her.
OA closes her eyes and lets out a long sigh, tongue darting out to wet her lips.
"I'll help you. Just--" Her brow furrows; she shakes her head. "Is this what the world needs?"
It's an unanswerable question. She can't feel whether or not they're saving or breaking it. Maybe both. Maybe neither. "I need you to tell me what it is you want. Both of you. One is a contract, the other one's a courtesy. I deserve to know what I'm going to be stealing."