I don't know how to process things. The ground feels unsteady beneath my feet. Deaths -- no, let us call them murders. Planned and plotted, cool and rational, we delivered death to those men. I can't think about. I just -- can't
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It's easy to tell those who have come back to themselves from those who haven't. As if there is a weight off their shoulders, or they've just heard good news. Great news. Fucking fantastic news
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