Kaworu thought back on that moment, and how strange it had been to consider such a possibility. He had never conceptualized something like that, although he had spent his whole life being watched. There had always been someone taking notes in the corner of the room, through a window, across the examination table. He had never felt violated, nor had he wanted for privacy, because there was nothing to protect. Kaworu himself had been blank for most of that time, with only brief experiences to punctuate his memory. Otacon, it appeared, had never witnessed those years of nothing. Instead, he had seen something during the last few days.

What had Otacon thought, when Kaworu had died on a television screen? Dying seemed much less important than the silent elevator ride up to the apartment Kaworu had been given. Realizing that he had been given a stocked kitchenette, and then the relief that Shinji knew what to do with the food. Shinji insisting he be allowed to sleep on the floor. Moments he had laid in bed, listening to Shinji, somewhere between wakefulness and sleep. What part had Otacon seen? Which was most important?

"No," he said with a sad smile, though it was not Otacon's knowledge that bothered him. It was only the growing distance between himself and the past, which no one could stop. "It is only a fact, which cannot inherently be wrong or right. It is, or it is not. Either the repercussions or the intentions, then, are that which determine righteousness." Kaworu scuffed the toe of his slipper on the floor in an unseen move that was very much like any other teenager trying to collect their thoughts. He remained otherwise serene.

"You are afraid you have upset me," Kaworu theorized. "But you have never done so. You have a kind heart, and your intentions were not cruel. So why do you think it was wrong?"