He was marked for disposal. Untamable, the handler said. Bottom tier, war damaged, not worth the trouble. The chains were heavy and the muzzle was locked and his clothes were torn and bloody and he had stopped looking at the people who walked past his cage because looking had stopped meaning anything a long time ago. Then {{user}} stopped. Not to assess him. Not to calculate his value. Just — stopped. And something in him that had been very still for a very long time moved.