His laugh is sharp, like a scoff that kept going.

"Got me there," he concedes with a smile and roll of his eyes.

"We also sing 'bout fightin' an' fuckin' an' war." Sweeney's eyes slip a bit distant for a moment. He hadn't been there, not when the modern were born, of course. But it doesn't mean the subjects had changed or the acts that inspired them. His people's people's people are still fighting and still dying.

That fucking Christ cunt.