[Ivan's standing tall, in the mud and grass and blood. There's movement all around him, people hurrying back and forth along the lines. The medal pinned to Ivan's chest gleams in the dull light, and his rifle's been polished to almost the same shine. The pipe's lurking nearby, as always, out of frame. He's not blinking, and if you're not paying
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Ivan?
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It's a terrible thing.
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All of you.
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I understand. Truly, I do.
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