[ The civil war was no glamorous garden party. He's not denying that. Nor will he deny that many of those corpses were people Korra had known most of her childhood. But that's exactly what puzzles him. How, when faced with such a wealth of bleak evidence, can she clutch at such an infinite and convoluted idea of goodness and badness? ]

[ Unblinking, he looks at her lovely, stubborn face, set into lines that suggest the crystalline inviolability of raw diamond. ]

Did you notice the corpses of the 'good guys' glowed? That they smelled like roses? [ Of course not. Everywhere you go, death has the same putrid stench. ] The good men and the bad -- they all looked about the same, right? They always have to me.

[ He pauses, his gaze that blank cipher he's worn so often with enemies and allies alike. Neutral. Calm. Proving his worth as a soldier and a Contractor and a spy. ]

I've seen good people, who did the right thing every day of their lives. Who built things to be proud of so bastards like me could destroy them in a blink. And they made sure to say thank you kindly each time I kicked the guts out of them. Do you think when they died, and they were put in the ground, they turned into fairydust? [ Again: of course not. ] They turn to shit like the rest of us. And they leave behind nothing but things not done. Unsaid. Unfinished. Family and friends never protected. Hopes rotted down to nothing.

[ His gaze dulls then, as he tries to dial down the vitriol. But he can feel it leaking out, crackling at his edges. ]

I'd like to be a good man. I'd like nothing to do with criminals and killers. But if something happens to you -- to the friends I've brought here -- a defenseless do-gooder's chatter won't keep them safe.