The one real thing, the one precious real thing was his memory of Valentine, the person who loved him before he ever played a game, who loved him whether there was a buggar war or not, and they had taken her and put her on their side. She was one of them now . . . He had had only one memory that was safe, one good thing, and those bastards had plowed it into him with the rest of the manure--- and so he was finished, he wasn't going to play.
And who could blame him? We cherish the memories that remind us we're human .... whatever that means.
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