My eyes breed apathy, reflected back at me in his.

But you're afraid, I ask him, aren't you? That would be too easy.

Instead, I say, you run toward the Coliseum and cheer on as the men and women of our time maim and murder each other.

His eyes turn to slits, and he downs his bourbon, holds up two fingers for the bartender.

They will pride themselves on being just-another's, he says, and this is so goddamn idiotic that it physically pains me to have to talk to them when they believe this.

Then again, Rémi says, if I could spit on my own face, I would.
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