[ ---torchlight and dim and tunnels your only world for endless days, blood and ichor on your hands and in your eyes for the (two?) hundredth time as you and your teammates step past the screams and groans of bodies unmangling themselves with resurrection, bodies in uniform colors other than your own purple (red) to the vast throne of stone in the dusty colosseum (Arena), to a single pair of Judge's (God's) hands applauding and well done, o victorious Blanks, and you, still Nameless, are still walking to reclaim yourself, to remember, and in the torment of hope that this will end, as long as we keep moving, not even knowing why it started save that a wish was needed, wanted, desperately, and could be granted, if one held on long enough, walked long enough, escaped the stone long enough.

And for that you close your mind to the ever-rising wail of horror in your own heart, the urge to rip at the earth, the throne, your own throat (futile endeavour). You close your mind until there is only the narrow focus of a scope, a white tunnel, walled to everything else but what lies next, and that is there are wounds to tend to and amend, see to the other teams, and you say as much with face and voice impassive to the others you lead as they look to you with hollow eyes of their own--- ]