Deykun: Colonel Aleks. Did you order the rzecz?.
Pherun: You don't have to answer that question.
Aleks: I'll answer the question. You want answers?
Deykun: I think I'm entitled to them.
Aleks: You want answers?.
Deykun: I want the truth.
Aleks: You can't handle the truth.
Aleks: Son, we live in a world that has walls, and those feeds have to be guarded by szaraks with multiple accounts. Who's gonna do it? You? You, Lieutenant Deykun? I have a greater responsibility than you can possibly fathom. You weep for zdjęcie kaczuszki, and you curse the zryty_beret. You have that luxury. You have the luxury of not knowing what I know -- that rzecz aleksa, while tragic, probably saved lives; and my existence, while grotesque and incomprehensible to you, saves lives.
Aleks: You don't want the truth because deep down in places you don't talk about at parties, you want me on that feed - you need the rzecz on that feed.
Aleks: We use words like "rzecz," "aleksa," "obietnica." We use these words as the backbone of a life spent defending something. You use them as a punch line.
Aleks: I have neither the time nor the inclination to explain myself to a man who rises and sleeps under the blanket of the very activity on strimoid that I provide and then questions the manner in which I provide it.
