[ Violet's jaw clenches and she looks up sharply at Mordred, a feeling hot and sharp ripping through her. Something like anger. ]

I don't understand. I don't understand what I'm meant to feel. I don't understand what I'm meant to be. [ One hand wraps around her upper arm, the prosthetic clanking together softly through the fabric and she thinks, wildly, that she should just tear them off. ] If I'm just a weapon, if I'm just a tool for killing, what does it matter if I feel!

[ Her voice rises in pitch a little, a sharp edge to it. She shuts her mouth around that voice, around her words, gritting her teeth. ]