Diego P.W.

“Focus, Wayne,” Wax said. “How are we going to get in? Shall we try a Fat Belt?”
“Nah,” Wayne said, “too loud. I think we should do Spoiled Tomato.”
“Dangerous,” Wax said, shaking his head. “I’d have to do the placement just right, between the lit perimeter and the shadowed part near the walls.”
“You can do it. You make shots like that all the time. Plus, we got this shiny new metalmind, full o’ health waitin’ to be slurped up.”
“A mistake could ruin the whole infiltration, healing power or no,” Wax said. “I think we should do Duck Under Clouds instead.”
“You kiddin’?” Wayne said. “Didn’t you get shot last time we tried that?”
“Kinda,” Wax admitted.
MeLaan stared at them, baffled. “Duck under Clouds?”
“They get like this,” Marasi said, patting her on the shoulder. “Best not to listen too closely.”
“Tube Run,” Wayne said.
“No glue.”
“Banefielder?”
“Too dark.”
“Blackwatch Doublestomp.”
Wax hesitated. “… The hell is that?”
“Just made it up,” Wayne said, grinning. “It’s a nifty code name though, eh?”
“Not bad,” Wax admitted. “And what type of plan is it?”
“Same as Spoiled Tomato,” Wayne said.”
― Brandon Sanderson, The Bands of Mourning

“Plan?” Marasi asked.
“Not dyin’.”
“Anything more detailed than that?”
“Not dyin’ … today?”
― Brandon Sanderson, The Bands of Mourning

“Mortarion was still the greater of them. He was still the stronger, the more steeped in preternatural gifts, but now all that he felt was doubt, rocked by the remorseless fury of one who had never been anything more than flighty, self-regarding and unreliable. All Mortarion could see just then was one who wished to kill him - who would do anything, sacrifice anything, fight himself beyond physical limits, destroy his own body, his own heart, his own soul, just for the satisfaction of the oaths he had made in the void.

'If you know what I did,' Mortarion cried out, fighting on now through that cold fog of indecision, 'then you know the truth of it, brother - I can no longer die.'

It was as if a signal had been given. The Khan's bloodied head lifted, the remnants of his long hair hanging in matted clumps. 'Oh, I know that,' he murmured, with the most perfect contempt he had ever mustered. 'But I can.'

Then he leapt. His broken legs still propelled him, his fractured arms still bore his blade, his blood-filled lungs and perforated heart still gave him just enough power, and he swept in close. If he had been in the prime of condition, the move might have been hard to counter, but he was already little more than a corpse held together by force of will, and so Silence interposed itself, catching the Khan under his armour-stripped shoulder and impaling him deep.

But that didn't stop him. The parry had been seen, planned for, and so he just kept coming, dragging himself up the length of the blade until the scythe jutted out of his ruptured back and the White Tiger was in tight against Mortarion's neck.

For an instant, their two faces were right up against one another - both cadaverous now, drained of blood, drained of life, existing only as masks onto pure vengeance. All their majesty was stripped away, scraped out across the utilitarian rockcrete, leaving just the desire, the violence, the brute mechanics of despite.

It only took a split second. Mortarion's eyes went wide, realising that he couldn't wrench his brother away in time. The Khan's narrowed.

'And that makes the difference,' Jaghatai spat. He snapped his dao across, severing Mortarion's neck cleanly in an explosion of black bile, before collapsing down into the warp explosion that turned the landing stage, briefly, into the brightest object on the planet after the Emperor's tormented soul itself.”
― Chris Wraight, Warhawk

“Congratulations. That was the stupidest thing I've ever seen. Ever.”
― Patrick Rothfuss, The Name of the Wind