[The longer the stretch between his demand and her producing the weapon stretches the more displeased he grows, anger tempered only by the first signs she's shown of something other than a strange apathy. He knows she is from some dark place, although he had not seen it nor pried to learn more himself, and it buys her some measure of patience where very little would, just then.

And eventually she does obey, handing him a blade that was small and unimpressive and no less dangerous for it, the hand that holds it stained red along her nail beds, an unattractive marring of hands that had the chance to be clean. He takes it by the blade and holds it in his hand, the tacky feeling sinking into the ridges of his fingertips.]

You chose not to heed Cathaway's words. You chose not to use the weapon provided to you for defense. I see no mark on you that warranted such a reaction nor do I see a single sign of remorse in you. You will no longer be allowed in this place.

[More for her own safety than the safety of the locals, although were it up to him he would return her to the station until something could be done with her to impress upon her the incorrectness of her behavior. The thought of placing her again in the field after this left a taste in his mouth as sour as blood.]

You have placed us at risk with your choice. You have ended a life. This is not our purpose here.

[Their purpose here had been simple. It had not required them to kill, something that would not always be true. At times it was the cost in accomplishing some greater good. There was no greater good here, and her appearance, whole and unmarred except by the blood she spilled with her own hands, leaves him quite certain this was not even an unfortunate necessity.] We do not come as a blight, bringing death. Do you understand this?