When we fought to the death I killed him first.
Now I call him ‘pet’ and hit his nose. I take his ‘clipboard’. I mock his blows. In truth his skill is great for one who has had little more than one century of combat. He grows angry; yet his eyes sparkle, the corners of his mouth turn up.
I am diminished. Reduced. Trapped in this place, in this shell, and I must learn.
From Wesley I learn to care. From the chieftain I learn of the mission.
And from the white-haired one?
I think I learn to have ‘fun’.