Adonis left out a soft chuckle at that. He'd seen the faint disappointment that had settled onto her features, and had been genuinely pleased when she'd managed to find at least something to withhold from him. From her reaction, it hadn't seemed like the kind of stomach twisting guilt or embarrassment that some of her peers had expressed while reading over their own files, but the what didn't really matter. What did matter was the trust exercise: the fact that instead of Adonis seeming like some all-knowing intelligence officer who should be regarded with reluctance and hesitation, Kiimiti now felt as if she had at least some small amount of control over the secrets that were known.

"Back on Alderaan," Adonis began to explain, flipping the folder closed before returning it to his desk. "There was a saying: to undo the mistakes of the past, all you require is a historian and a pen."

It seemed strange hearing the words in his own voice rather than his fathers; the phrase had been uttered by the Admiral more than once to assuage Adonis' guilt over actions that could no longer be altered. It had always seemed so comforting back then, such an optimistic notion. As Adonis had grown older however, he'd begun to understand the darker side of that truth; he'd even seen it, executed as a core concept of Imperial strategy, rewriting Palpatine's atrocities into acts of heroism and mercy.

"If that's true, then congratulations are in order, Miss Taassaurra: you just rewrote the past."

A subtle, mischievous glint crept into the corner of Adonis' smile.

"You're practically a politician."