Nox didn’t say a word. He waited, counting the seconds in his mind. Sometimes you counted bullets and sometimes you counted time. Either one could kill you.

That was the trouble with explaining with words. If you explained with gunpowder, people listened.

They were shooting far, and their accuracy suffered, but Nox didn't exactly have a lot of places to dance through the bullets. They came in number, like rain. You couldn't afford to get wet.

His father used to tell him that you can't eat principles. And no, you couldn't. But you could live by them.

She looked at her right hand, where the index finger was cut to a stump. Some said she lost it in an accident, when she was playing soldier with a live grenade. Others said she was taught a lesson by the law, and they took her trigger finger to make her keep on learning. Those were the lessons the Coilhunter liked. Why, he was quite the teacher himself.

You hang your heroes. That way they’ll never disappoint you.' It also brought to mind his own retort: 'But what about your enemies? What about thevillains? What do we do with those?

The Coilhunter wasn’t much of a talker. He liked to keep things short and sweet, just like the lives of criminals. Well, the short bit anyway.

If you didn’t have your guns, you still had your mouth. Of course, you had to be careful how you fired that off.

He wondered if they knew fear, and thought that maybe if they didn’t, he could teach them it, like he’d taught manners to the foul-tongued and the red-handed.