An hour later, his blood warm with drink, he heated up a bowl of real rice and fake beans—yeast and fungus could mimic anything if you had enough whiskey first—opened the door of his hole, and ate dinner looking out at the traffic gently curving by. [...] The blue ceiling glowed in its reflected light, unchanging, static, reassuring. A sparrow fluttered down the tunnel, hovering in a way that Havelock assured him they couldn't on Earth. Miller threw it a fake bean.
—Leviathan Wakes, by James S. A. Corey
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"I'm afraid," she said.
"Don't be," he said.
"I don't know what's going to happen," she said.
"No one ever does. And, look, you don't have to do this alone," he said.
"I can feel something in the back of my mind. It wants something I don't understand. It's so big."
Reflexively, he kissed the back of her hand. There was an ache starting deep in his belly. A sense of illness. A moment's nausea. The first pangs of his transformation into Eros.
"Don't worry," he said. "We're gonna be fine."
--Leviathan Wakes, by James S. A. Corey
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"Stay away from da owkwa. Tell all your friends!"
"I did not see that coming."
"Yeah? How about this? You see that coming?"
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"The noir hero is a knight in blood caked armor. He's dirty and he does his best to deny the fact that he's a hero the whole time." --Frank Miller
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