Wrath jammed a finger in V’s face. “Don’t follow me. We clear? You don’t follow me.” “You stupid fool,” V said with total exhaustion. “You’re the king. We all must follow you.

Word of advice. These have a kick, so don’t suck too hard—” Holy hypoxia, Batman.

...the only thing that had tethered her to the earth had been him and it was strange, but she felt welded to him on some core level now. He had seen her at her absolute worst, at her weakest and most insane, and he hadn't looked away. He hadn't judged and he hadn't been burned. It was as if in the heat of her meltdown they had melted together. This was more than emotion. It was a matter of soul.

How can something so . . . huge happen so fast?

It was right then and there that she'd realized there was no quota on misery for people, no quantifiable threshold that once reached, got you miraculously taken out of the distress pool.

[...]you know what they say about messengers, right"? Excuse me?" Too much bad news will get you shot."[...]

I don't do farm animals. Can't stand hay in your leathers? Or wool in my teeth.