"Maybe both," he agrees quietly, and turns to look out over the city. "Maybe just the death throes of a man with nothing much left to lose. We won't know till the end, I guess, whatever end that is." His smile is thin and bitter, his eyes distant. He stares at the horizon for most of a minute, while the cigarette in his hand burns slowly down, then turns back to her. "What's asked of us has not been so different, Emily. Not over the course of all our lives. We've both been drawn into the fighting too young, and had to draw younger fighters still along with us. I know I'm not of this world, and there's much I don't know. But I know how it is to go through hell, and to turn around and guide others into it. I know how it is to watch children die when it was your duty to keep them alive. It's not something you can carry alone. Or should."