The wind whistling through boarded-up windows. Tumbleweeds scratching across dry, sandy tracks. That's how towns die. Not with a bang, but with whispers and whimpers.

Catching lead in Night City's easier than catching a cold.

He burned down half the city just to prove he was right and burned the other half just for fun.

Well, that way you'd kill two souls. Is that what you want?

Would you rather live in peace as Mr. Nobody, die ripe, old and smellin' slightly of urine? Or go down for all times in a glaze of glory, smellin' near like posies, 'thout seein' your thirtieth?