As with Mason's and the peacocks' admonishments about the Keeper and minding him, the beast's cold countenance stirs rebellion in her. He represents something she cannot abide, though what that is, she can't say. Service is a noble calling. There is no shame in it.

Even if his loyalties do not align with hers, she can sense a fellow soldier, a fellow fighter. It is little comfort, though. This talk of stations makes her bristle. Who is he to tell her where her station is? He is not her commander, her general. Their only camaraderie was likely forced when they were both insensible to it.

"A gun's made to kill, sir," she replies. "Not many folk'd appreciate me shootin' 'em full of holes without cause. And runnin' off from where they woke ain't cause enough." She squares her jaw before continuing. "No delusions about my importance, though, sir. I'm nothin' but a gun. Might not turn the tides of history, but I can change the course of a few lives. I mean to do that if I can.

"And tell me, sir, what were you made for before you were this?" She gestures to his body rigidly. "Keeper crafted us for his needs, not the ones we mighta been meant for, near as I can tell."