"Is it weird that I don't hate this?"

Dyssia's face doesn't quite know which expression it's trying to make, and the way it's being pressed against the glass isn't helping any.

"Because on the one hand, I've spent my whole life raging against anyone being put into a place, right? Into a slot, into a role, against their will. Being told by someone else, thus far and no further. And this looks like that, but on a massive scale.

"But it doesn't [i]feel[/i] like it."

Binoculars. Telescopes. Something better than the ship has. She [i]has[/i] to see closer, her mind can't rest until she sees closer. 

Almost without thinking, she peels the metal rim off a pot-lid and starts polishing the lid into the shape of a parabola.

"What it feels like is--

"See, this is pre-[i]everything,[/i] right? Pre-Atlas, Pre-Knights, Pre-ELF. A nascent culture, reaching for the stars, and thinking, even now, of how to perfect society."

She considers herself in the mirror of the potlid.

"No, no, that's wrong. How to perfect [i]people.[/i] How to coax them away from greed and ambition and power, and towards kindness, caring, not because they have a role to fit into to make some magos' project work, but because they're. They [i]are[/i] society, and society is worse off for having people who are not kind, are not generous, are evil selfish little shits."

She looks up, seemingly remembering.

"Sorry, we were. We were discussing something else, I think, and I've gone and derailed the conversation. What were you saying?"