Self-defense. To defend others. There's this thing they do in Vos called empurata. They cut off your hands, cut out your tongue, put out one of your eyes. Would you not kill to save someone from that?
They would have done that to Meg. My Meg. He was a slave in the mines and he wrote poetry. They didn't like his poetry. And they wanted to make sure he couldn't share any more.
Everything he did was to keep that from happening. To him, to us, to people he'd never met.
I suppose I was. We were organizing our felonies. Most of the laws we broke, though, were unjust. My older brother wanted to be a cloud scientist. But the law said they didn't need more of those. They needed cops. And the three of us were given the choice, police academy or the military. Is that right? Should my brother be refused even the chance to try because his parents didn't live in a particular school district?
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Everything he did was to keep that from happening. To him, to us, to people he'd never met.
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The poetry proved them wrong.
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[He has no clue how close that cloud scientist thing hits to home.]
Okay, you pass snuff.
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