"No. They want entertainment." He pulled back from the machine before it had finished - knowing full well there was nothing of use in it, and his frustration growing.

"Anything given is purely for entertainment. Don't confuse it with help." A small bit of rage broke into his expression as he turned to face John. "They think it's more thrilling to watch a man cut in two by a sword that can't exist than to actually allow anything fair."

The voice was cut glass - sharp, pointed and cold. The heat of the rage was entirely in his eyes, a rage that brewed so far below the surface it usually could not be seen but that the Arena's and their inherent impossibility had been driving into him.

None of that rage came from watching children murder each other. After all, children were merely younger humans - fully capable of the same twisted motives and desperate measures of their older counterparts. Murder was murder no matter the age group. No, the rage was for the twisting of physics, for his own resurrection, for the conceit of bringing John, for the attempt to control him, for the assumption that if pushed hard enough he would become just like everyone else here. Desperate, monstrous, and alone.