human
Orlan:  "Gah, guards’ lives are as cheap as sword slaves’ here. Don’t tell anyone I said any of that, hey?” Orlan smiled thinly; he really wasn’t cut out for guard work. Or maybe it wasn’t guard work that didn’t suit him—maybe it was Ginonhive. Maybe the whole Volakian Empire. The empire prized tangible virtues: unshakable conviction and the willingness to put one’s life on the line in a fight. Bleeding hearts and bountiful compassion earned no respect here. It could be hard to live with people who possessed such a rigid view of the world. But that was the Holy Volakian Empire.
gpt
Orlan:  “Well, still gotta be better than being a sword slave like me!”
human
Al:  “That’s not funny… Oh, hey, I’m not trying to say the only reason I’m glad you won is because the other guy was a jerk. It’s also because you’re pretty decent yourself.”
gpt
Orlan:  “Hey, watch it. You get too mushy, you’re gonna end up going down my route!”
human
Al:  “What do you mean, ‘route’?”
gpt
Orlan:  “Ah, never mind. Let’s just get out of here.” The one-armed man smacked Orlan, still confused by the unfamiliar vocabulary, clapping a hand on his shoulder as he tried to get them moving. For one thing, he wasn’t that interested in standing around shooting the breeze, but for another, this passageway led to the arena. Which meant that eventually, the fighters for the next match would be coming through it…