This is torture.

Everything is bright, right? Eardrum-piercingly noisy. Too fast, too loud, too stimulating. Too many things happening at once, all demanding her attention at the same time.

She'd thought the olympics idea would be… you know, a release valve. A way to vent competition in a way that doesn't involve more than metaphysical spear-rattling among the various groups. Keep it meta, that's the ticket, prevent the outbreak of violence in the other half-sense of the word.

Too much happening at once. Competitions demanding rules adjudication. Feathers to unruffle. 

Preen? Is that the right word for this metaphor?

The attempt to return to that timeless state was not successful. Maybe a controlled test of the Crystal sword? Cloning? 

It's a stall, is what it is. A stalling tactic to avoid allowing the thought to seep into her head as anything more than a background of dread.

But…

"We can't keep them," she admits quietly over her shoulder to the sheep nestled securely in her tail, as if the thought itself is deeply shameful.

Below, a fight breaks out between the Pix and a cluster of Summerkind. Something about the relay being run, probably. 

You only get one shot at a conversation, is the worst bit. The words have to be right the first time. Torture, over and over.

"But what can we do with them that won't get them dumped right back in the waiting arms of Liquid Bronze, or at the mercy of whatever 'administrator species' happens to find them first?"