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the illusion of purpose is critical to a well-adjusted population.
“In mortal days, when they couldn’t cure a cancer-illness, they cut that cancer-illness out. That’s exactly what I do.”
If we fail, and your existence is ended, the blame will be yours and yours alone.” “I can live with that,” Citra told him. “No,” Scythe Constantine pointed out, “you won’t.”
He’ll take care of it. He’ll put my arm in a cast.” “A what?” “Voodoo!” said Marie. “An ancient healing ritual. They wrap the arm in plaster and leave it that way for months.”
That’s exactly what the scythedom is: high school with murder.”
“It almost reminds me of the Emerald City,” Anastasia commented, recalling a mortal-age children’s tale. “Yes,” said Scythe Curie, with a mischievous grin. “And I once did have my eyes dyed to match my robe.”