What doesn't kill us sharpens us. Hardens us. Schools us. You're beating plowshares into swords, Vosch. You are remaking us. We are the clay, and you are Michelangelo. And we will be your masterpiece.

A man lies upon the floor, spreads his arms, and transforms himself into a ship of a thousand sails.

It isn't up to me to break his heart; that's time's job.

There are times when fear is not our enemy. There are times when fear is our truest, sometimes only, friend.

Maybe the last human being on Earth won't die of starvation or exposure or as a meal of wild animals. Maybe the last one to die will be killed by the last one alive.

A moment comes in war when the last line must be crossed. The line that separates what you hold dear from what total war demands. If he couldn't cross that line, the battle was over, and he was lost. His heart, the war. Her face, the battlefield. With a cry only he could hear, the hunter turned. And ran.

And then Evan Walker kisses me.