Trivial · Esprit de Corps ≥ 0
It's the only home you have now. But you can't go back. Not like this.
Psyche
Before thought effects; other dialogue conditions may apply.
623 · Voice lines
It's the only home you have now. But you can't go back. Not like this.
"Only a month later, when I got a chance to properly thank him, did I find out that he had no recollection of the event -- that's Gottlieb for ya. In league with some devil, he is, I'm sure of it. Cheers!" The clinking of beer glasses is drowned in group conversation...
"...and so he removed my appendix on the spot, while the party was still on in the other room. And I was delirious with pain and all the schnapps I'd had, but I remember thinking -- man, that Gottlieb can stitch..."
One needs tending to right now, he thinks, looking around the room. God, these apes...
"And then that motherfucker Gottlieb -- reeking of schnapps -- ordered me into his butcher's room..." Officer Fischer is in a storytelling mood -- he continues: "And I ask him, 'You sure, doc?' and he's cool as can be, 'Yeah, if you're in pain, we've gotta get that baby out...'"
Your half-brother is proud to stand beside you.
He is your half-brother and you're driving him away. For what?
No. You can see it. This young man has junior officer material in him. In another life, where he trusts you.
The next time you make statements like this I suggest you first change into something a bit less promiscuous than those sleazy robes, officer.
Should we ever face a totally unrealistic scenario like this, you would make a much more convincing hooker, officer.
Not only his name, but his address... You are a goddamn menace.
"You seen Apricot -- old Pidieu's daughter?" asks Lieutentant McCoy. "Uh-huh," replies Torson. "The ass on that one..." McCoy shakes his head in appreciation. "A bit strange the old man named her Apricot, but, I mean -- who am I to judge? Wanna hit the kebab joint?"
He is grateful to have that gun back on his belt right now.
Sure, he thinks. It's about transparency.
It is not my flag, he thinks -- my flag is the signal blue of the Zone of Control.
It's meant in earnest. Please don't mistake it for a jab.
"What's it feel like to kill a man, Mr. McCoy?" a young woman asks the man across the desk from her...
"Honestly, babe," says John McCoy, crossing his ankles over said desk, "I don't feel anything anymore. It's just like brushing my teeth -- I do it once or twice a week and don't really think about it." There's no trace of guilt in his voice.