YOU - Wait, the pale is human made? INSULINDIAN PHASMID - It is a nervous shadow cast into the world by you, eating away at reality. A great, unnatural territory. Its advent coincides with the arrival of the human mind.

“What, you've never seen a man getting a panic attack before?” (Try to keep breathing.)

VOLITION - In honour of your will, lieutenant-yefreitor. That you kept from falling apart, in the face of sheer terror. Day after day. Second by second. INLAND EMPIRE - DETECTIVE ESPRIT DE CORPS - ARRIVING AUTHORITY - ON THE SCENE

We don’t have anything to talk about anymore. Every combination of words has been played out. The atoms don’t form us anymore: us, our love, our unborn daughters...

SHIVERS - Revachol is the capital of the world. Jamrock is the capital of Revachol. Droplets form on your eyelashes. INLAND EMPIRE - It's home.

Still, there's something inherently violent even about dice rolls. It's like every time you cast a die, something disappears. Some alternative ending, or an entirely different world...

NO, YOU DON'T, YOU NEED TO GET ANOTHER DRINK; OCCIDENTAL HAPLOGROUP B4 IS DONE GIVING ORDERS AROUND HERE. THE INFLUENCE OF THE *HAM SANDWICH RACE* IS WANING.

Every so often, you might hear a gunshot pierce the air somewhere in Jamrock. But in Martinaise? No gunshots, no sirens. The people are languishing in boredom and complacency. This place is a sepulcher. We'll paint it red. We bring the raucous -- you bring the sirens.

KIM KITSURAGI - “Precinct 41 said they were sending their most seasoned detective. And you certainly look... seasoned.”

YOU - …I don't want to masturbate on the street, okay? ELECTROCHEMISTRY - Whatever, coward.