Spectator Thread

[Okor]

Okor waited for Galel's response patiently, but a burst of colour and lights from the holographic tables demanded his attentions. A bright display filled the space over the flat surface, forming into the most wonderous words Okor had seen since his elimination. #39, Victor Wolfe: Dead. Quickly shambling over to the screens, he watched the death of the bratty child. A pale, strangely-coiffed man held a bag over the youth's head, the plastic rising and sinking desperately as the whelp attempted to breathe. His efforts, as usual, were in vain. He threw back his helm in laughter, relishing the circumstances of the fool's demise. He died without glory, without a battle, without dignity. Just as he lived his life. He briefly considered the prospect of ambushing him by the exit, but it would have as much of an effect as mauling a deactivated training servitor. No point in wasting his hatred on the dead. Chuckling softly, he replayed the scene again, watching as Victor ultimately succumbed to the lack of Oxygen, choosing to base his own existence on such mortal worries. He tore fruitlessly at the material, his fingers unable to penetrate the transparent film. It was pathetic. He made a mental note to see just how deep Victor fell after this disgrace, once he had the chance.

He replayed the scene again, chuckling mirthfully under his ragged breath and the hum of his armour.