( "Then we might've turned out like you," right? Twisted to the core, weaned on a mother's milk of violence and hatred, millions of years spent drowning in guilt and self-loathing until she decided to close her eyes and force herself to become numb to it. Act like it didn't matter, that no one did except her and her goals alone.

Angela's hand reaches for the cup he's given for her without thinking. She stops before it reaches her lips, knuckles white around the handle.

...She is a little thirsty, though. She's trying to ignore that, too. )

I've known children like you. ( Carmen knew children like them. The distinction is there, ever present in her mind. ) They didn't turn out half as off-kilter as you did.

( Lisa never forgave her— Carmen. Tipereth still spends lonely moments staring at the window, the color reminding her of Enoch.

But they never... )

I also turned out well, considering my circumstances. The fruit of my labors are easier to see here than in that City. ( Sort of. She's working on it. She's struggling with it. ) Did you two become Colors at the same time?