[Somehow, she wasn't expecting that. She should have been, for she knows his nature and she knows that he is too... good, she would say, not to try to remember someone. But she is too used to being forgotten, too used to feeling certain that she is not of any consequence to anyone, to anticipate the same treatment that she would expect him to give someone else. It feels odd - bittersweet.]
[But no matter the case, she regrets having caused him to have to try. If she'd known a few minutes ago what she knows now, she would have - should have - responded differently, she thinks. Would it have been right for her to engage him at all, knowing he wouldn't remember her and that it would trouble him so? Would she still have done it? She isn't sure, and if she were to think consciously of it, it would give her one more reason on top of many others to feel conflicted about her own morality.]
[There are more pressing concerns. He's asked the question without really asking the question, and she can fill in the blanks without batting an eyelash.]
[Less easy is deciding exactly how to go about explaining the answer to him. She must answer, that much is certain, because she will not leave him in limbo any longer than she has to; he has nothing to fear from her, and she wants him to know that. (She wants to know that, wants to believe that. She would never willingly hurt him, would never really willingly hurt anyone, but circumstances have been circumstances before, and--)]
I used to serve them, once.
[Her voice is somber, measured, eyes politely - guiltily? - on the floor by his feet. This particular aspect of the situation is one she didn't have the chance (or the bravery) to confess to him the last time they were introduced. Apprehensive though she is given her lack of information on the state of his memories, that's one thing she won't keep from him; she can only hope that his memory has not degraded so far that he's forgotten his less than amicable departure from that particular group. It's a weight off her chest, being able to tell him even that small portion of the truth, but it also makes that same part of her chest twist anxiously, for fear of his reaction. That's why her next words are,]
I no longer do.
[And she has grown to be the sort of girl who doesn't like to cast off blame, doesn't like to make excuses, but she doesn't dare hold her tongue on the subject in this particular context. He needs to know what her intentions are, that she has no loyalty to the Organization or any inclination to give him trouble on their behalf.]
It wasn't because I wanted to. At the time, I... didn't-- [-- think that she had any choice. That isn't quite it, though, is it? She was young. She was lonely. She was afraid. She hardly had the capacity to know better, hadn't had anyone to help her or protect or guide her, probably would have disappeared if she hadn't cooperated. None of those things, however, excuse it in her mind, and thus she does not claim them as her reasons. Her brows draw together, frown darkening her carefully maintained calm. There's something tight in the set of her mouth, eyes sad. To her, the reality of it is,] I thought things would be easier for me if I helped them.
But I... couldn't. [There's an unnerving sense of unbalance that she experiences as she tries to explain this, something that she wasn't prepared for even having foreseen the subject coming up. It's all the worse attempting to describe it to Roxas, of all people - but he probably deserves to hear it more than most anyone else.] They wanted me to hurt someone who-- [Her fingers curl, regret a moment too late for admitting to it, but the thought fights its way out all the same.] -- who didn't deserve it. ... Someone who was important to me. And I couldn't do that.
no subject
[Somehow, she wasn't expecting that. She should have been, for she knows his nature and she knows that he is too... good, she would say, not to try to remember someone. But she is too used to being forgotten, too used to feeling certain that she is not of any consequence to anyone, to anticipate the same treatment that she would expect him to give someone else. It feels odd - bittersweet.]
[But no matter the case, she regrets having caused him to have to try. If she'd known a few minutes ago what she knows now, she would have - should have - responded differently, she thinks. Would it have been right for her to engage him at all, knowing he wouldn't remember her and that it would trouble him so? Would she still have done it? She isn't sure, and if she were to think consciously of it, it would give her one more reason on top of many others to feel conflicted about her own morality.]
[There are more pressing concerns. He's asked the question without really asking the question, and she can fill in the blanks without batting an eyelash.]
[Less easy is deciding exactly how to go about explaining the answer to him. She must answer, that much is certain, because she will not leave him in limbo any longer than she has to; he has nothing to fear from her, and she wants him to know that. (She wants to know that, wants to believe that. She would never willingly hurt him, would never really willingly hurt anyone, but circumstances have been circumstances before, and--)]
I used to serve them, once.
[Her voice is somber, measured, eyes politely - guiltily? - on the floor by his feet. This particular aspect of the situation is one she didn't have the chance (or the bravery) to confess to him the last time they were introduced. Apprehensive though she is given her lack of information on the state of his memories, that's one thing she won't keep from him; she can only hope that his memory has not degraded so far that he's forgotten his less than amicable departure from that particular group. It's a weight off her chest, being able to tell him even that small portion of the truth, but it also makes that same part of her chest twist anxiously, for fear of his reaction. That's why her next words are,]
I no longer do.
[And she has grown to be the sort of girl who doesn't like to cast off blame, doesn't like to make excuses, but she doesn't dare hold her tongue on the subject in this particular context. He needs to know what her intentions are, that she has no loyalty to the Organization or any inclination to give him trouble on their behalf.]
It wasn't because I wanted to. At the time, I... didn't-- [-- think that she had any choice. That isn't quite it, though, is it? She was young. She was lonely. She was afraid. She hardly had the capacity to know better, hadn't had anyone to help her or protect or guide her, probably would have disappeared if she hadn't cooperated. None of those things, however, excuse it in her mind, and thus she does not claim them as her reasons. Her brows draw together, frown darkening her carefully maintained calm. There's something tight in the set of her mouth, eyes sad. To her, the reality of it is,] I thought things would be easier for me if I helped them.
But I... couldn't. [There's an unnerving sense of unbalance that she experiences as she tries to explain this, something that she wasn't prepared for even having foreseen the subject coming up. It's all the worse attempting to describe it to Roxas, of all people - but he probably deserves to hear it more than most anyone else.] They wanted me to hurt someone who-- [Her fingers curl, regret a moment too late for admitting to it, but the thought fights its way out all the same.] -- who didn't deserve it. ... Someone who was important to me. And I couldn't do that.
[Not anymore.]