Don't be her conscience. How many times had they had this conversation, and how many times had Morag ignored him, ignored anyone who tried to tell her not to let her perverse clusterfuck of philosophical and ethical guidelines be her own personal light-tower. She was sailing on very rocky waters these days, and if she didn't get her shit together, and soon, there was a strong chance that she wasn't going to survive the crash to shore. But Morag had always flirted with danger -- embraced it, even -- and though she knew he was right, and that getting attached (especially to a mad purist woman) was a stupid pursuit, she couldn't help but feel something for another human being. Not when she was right there, in the flesh, an amalgam of memories and wishes and hopes, and not just another name on a warrant. She needed to know why this woman had committed the crime, not just whether she had. She needed to attach an emotion to the face. It was ironic, she thought, or typical that she, so desperate to hide from her own emotions, latched so firmly onto those of others.
"Guilty. Aye. Of what though? A pre-meditated but rage-filled murder? An assassination attempt on an anti-purist? The murder of a lover's ex-husband? Of vengeance for an unspeakable crime we can't imagine? It matters Roger. It bloody matters!" Her tone ascended into angry heights and then fell again as quickly, dragged down by an anchor of weariness and frustration from which she could not escape.
She palmed at her face, as though the exhaustion was simply a smear she could rub away with enough effort.
"Maybe. Obliviation team's in to do some tests in the morning. But I think she knew." She moaned slightly as his fingers found her spine, a much abused pretzel from hours of legwork and even more hours hunched over that damned desk. "I can see it in her eyes." It was a grim, subjective assessment, but Morag could feel it in her bones. Or maybe she just wanted to.
"I'm saying it's late and you deserve some sleep." Typical Morag, indeed. Typical non-answer.