That's the worst thing, right?

It's like, look at them. Look at the [i]variety[/i] here. Politicians, outcasts, mothers! Sons, stoners, salesmen! Hundreds--thousands!--of walks of life! People, people, people, in every shape and color! A cacophony, an explosion!

Subsumed!

Swallowed, extinguished, samed!

They clutch their axes as if the [i]axe[/i] is what makes them special! As if--

She's doing her best not to look at the paint, because if she looks at the paint she's gonna try to read what it means and she's gonna be disappointed again, because--

They act as if they've been let in. As if a hatchet, mass produced and airdropped from a supply center a million lightyears away, is proof that they're part of something. That they're trusted. That they understand. They've been let in.

That they're not being deployed like chaff so the real people don't have to get involved.

Well, that ends now. 

The pseudowolves get the kindness. When they're picked up and hurled, they land somewhere soft. The painted palace of the Ceronians, on the other hand? They get the building-rumbling impacts, the targeted implosions.

They'll come down from their building and face them properly, without sacrificing their minions, or they will not have a building to sit in.