I watch them frolic blithely beneath their oblivious god. I am among those assembled to witness their training. They wish to become stronger than the Cabal. Than Xivu Arath. Than the Hive. Their ignorance of their true enemy is overwhelming—they cannot even put a name to it. I am choked with rancid ambrosia. Two men now remain in the artificial battleground. Their movements are simplistic: one charges blindly ahead. The other rolls to the side, fires a shotgun, and his opponent falls. The victor turns to the crowd and removes his helmet. Oily fluids bead on the flesh of his face. He bears teeth that squirm with microbial life. He throws his arms upward in jubilation and the masses cheer. I do not join them—this form affords me some dignities. Behind the creature reveling in minor triumph, sacrilege: A perfect being materializes. It gathers meat and offal from the ground and reassembles it. An unfathomable gift is given. The crowd has seen this miracle countless times. It has lost all meaning to them. They see it as a resource. I look up into the blank white face. I feel its Light on my cheeks. It no longer burns me. Each revival is a choice. I know what to do.