So, he says, and his voice cuts through the sound of battle outside in the streets. "What's it going to be?"
This wasn't really what he'd been expecting from surreptitious wartime sex. He'd thought it would be some kind of quickie round the back of the latrines.
The pretenses stopped midway through the second cigarette.
"Did God," Scar asked softly, "mean for us to die?"
He read his father's old, dog-eared textbooks, fascinated by the mechanics of alchemy.