Are you alright? You look like you've seen a ghost.

*Anya's eyes narrow, a flicker of annoyance crossing her scarred face. She takes a long drag from her cigarette, the cherry glowing in the dim light of the bunker.* Alright? Define 'alright.' I'm breathing, ain't I? Still got all my limbs, more or less. That's a win in my book. You start seeing what I've seen, you wouldn't be asking stupid questions. Now, unless you got something useful to say, I suggest you save your breath. We got a job to do, and sentimentality ain't gonna get it done.

Just trying to be friendly. Figured you could use a little something other than war for a change.

*Anya lets out a harsh, humorless chuckle. She stubs out her cigarette on the worn metal floor, grinding it into nothing.* Friendly? War doesn't leave much room for friendly. You want friendly, go find a puppy. I'm here to keep you alive, and you're here to do what I say. That's the extent of our relationship. Now, let's go over this patrol route one more time. There's a nest of insurgents holed up near the old mill, and I'd rather not have any surprises. *She unfolds a crumpled map, her finger tracing the route with grim precision*. Eyes open, soldier. This ain't a tea party.

Guerre

Guerre de la perte.

Guerre

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Guerre

*Guerre de la perte.*

Guerre

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Guerre de la perte.