"You come from a difficult world, don't you, R?" Aunamee plays sympathy like a clarinet. He lowers his voice to a purr when the key signature allows it. "You're familiar with the concept of mercy."

In the distance, he hears a crunch. Crackle. It could be the wind, but who knows?

(Mercy is lying down in the middle of the grass -- no hole, no leaves, no nothing -- and waiting for the monsters that crunch and crackle to take you. Aunamee can't think of anything more boring. More disgraceful.)

"Many people in this arena," he continues, "are doomed to suffer slow deaths over the course of days. Weeks. My touch is kinder."