Mu stood very much on his own, gazing down at the spectacle below. Though he'd come, initially, to speak to the man in the cravat, seeing Oliver off seemed far more important. There would be other opportunities to talk. This was likely to be once in a lifetime.

Mu's right hand was pressed against the forcefield as though willing it to dissipate, but knowing it would not. He was enraged that he could do nothing, and enraged to know that getting mad would also do nothing.

He closed his eyes, leaning his head on the field as well, and his mouth began to move, silently reciting a Tibetan prayer for the dying.

His hand balled into a white-knuckled fist.