[ he knows the guilt in feeling like you've gotten someone killed, but he also knows there's respecting choice, in allowing someone to make the decision of what to fight for, of what's worth dying for. he's an envoy, the only living amongst those all dead that died for a cause they knew they wouldn't survive. he'd been ready to die back then too. the real guilt might be less about the dead and more in that he lived.

not for me, she says, which he might not be able to interpret without more to go on. not everyone here lives the way his world does, like there's more rules out here than he ever knew existed. not for me could mean plenty of things. ]

No. [ he answers bluntly, low with the rasp of his natural gravel, like it matches the subtle crisps of burning paper on his cigarette. but he knows it isn't because he doesn't want to be afraid.

the danger of living too many times — you forget to fear death.

leaning his back to the wall, his eyes look to her, no nerves or uncertainty in his eyes. ] There was every chance she'd do the same thing to me. But that's the risk we're taking here, right? Gambling on some bullshit chance to change the past? Miracle like that doesn't come for free. And if it's all lies, then we're probably all fucked already. [ ever the optimist. he sighs, smoke exhaled from his lungs. ] 'Sides — lived too long anyway.