Braxiatel took a seat in the stands, close to the forcefield, and tapped against the barrier. No one would pass, that seemed likely enough. He looked down at Oliver. The boy didn't deserve this. Robespierre might feel no guilt for the blood of it, but Oliver would feel the effects of dying. No one came back from death unchanged.

Quietly, his right hand a fist, he said, "Barbaric spectacle."

For those who knew Braxiatel's mother tongue, the word for barbaric might bring pause. It was a heavy slur against the stupidity of the lesser species, their primitive idiocy so unworthy of even the dirt at his feet. It was not an insult often used by the man who so often avidly endorsed the panoply of the universe, who sang the praises of all the younger species. Far more often would it be found on the lips of a xenophobe.

Poor Oliver Day.