He read his father's old, dog-eared textbooks, fascinated by the mechanics of alchemy.
"Did God," Scar asked softly, "mean for us to die?"
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.
So, he says, and his voice cuts through the sound of battle outside in the streets. "What's it going to be?"
The pretenses stopped midway through the second cigarette.