The past, the present and the future walked into a bar. It was tense.

The Railroad? Aren't they busy liberating vending machines and saving computers?

Each weapon tested on someone who deserved it.

Danse: "Keep away from me, you filthy ghoul."
Hancock: "Don't flatter yourself, crew cut. You ain't my type."

Everything here is meant to kill at your discretion. Except for me. I only kill when I want to.