“So there’s an . . . an etiquette to raking. Some seducer’s code of honor. Is this what you’re telling me?”

“Whoa, this isn’t the Training Center, you know,” I tell him. “There’s a certain level of clothing etiquette in this house, and you’re currently violating it.”He reaches for his jacket. “I believe you’re the one who tore my clothes off in the first place, and now you’re complaining?” “Trust me, there was no tearing involved. You’ll have to get that fantasy fulfilled somewhere else.”

“Etiquette? What kind of etiquette was there in someone trying to murder me?”

“I groaned. Man and his codes! Even in a lawless inferno, man has to give himself some honor, he's so desperate to separate himself from the beasts.”

“If I lived by some code, my actions would become predictable. The enemy would take advantage of this and I’d be killed. An honorable death doesn’t exist. Death is death. But it’s funny that survival and revenge require the same thing: no honor codes, no supposed higher principles to aspire to, no mercy”

“I’m curious about why there’s so much honor given to death, when there is no honor in losing someone you love.”