The brightness and loudness were easier to ignore for him than many others, he assumed, dressed in the exact same clothes his dead brother had worn when Hyperion had taken his life. Even the stains of blood were there, as bright red as they'd been back then, denouncing yet another of Hyperion's past crimes.

His run towards the Cornucopia wasn't as hasty or desperate as one would expect, but concentration was deep and strong in his eyes as he scrounged and picked up whatever he could find. Eventually he came across a familiar face. The girl he'd killed. The girl he'd taught how to kill.

There wasn't a smile on his blood spattered lips - not quite. But it was close.