[ If she has learned anything, it's that sudden silence in the middle of conversation heralds an ambush. She hasn't been wrong yet, though the chosen topic takes her by surprise. She huffs, displeased but unhurt. ]

You — [ Read: we. ] — should stop picking fights.

[ She shakes her head, at Clarke, at herself. These wounds quickly grow old, scab over and scar. She crosses her arms over her chest and leans back against the side of the pool. There are two sets of words she must choose between: that of an admission of guilt for harm caused, which would mollify but which would be untrue. Then there's the callousness, her merciless stance toward her past mistakes. What's done is done. She takes every responsibility for her actions and punishes herself accordingly, but gives nobody else the right to hear her apologies. She is her own judge and executioner. The choice is clear. ]

Sending a few children to war was worth saving three billion lives. But I was wrong from the start. Nobody's saved.