The ultimate non-partisan stands tall, dark and motionless in the shade, some distance behind the loudest of the crowd. Death has encountered riots, and overseen protests, often at the same time. But those were business trips, for the most part, on which it was not his job to understand. His interests were and are strictly separate. Now that he has been separated from what he was doing before, he's allowed to take some.

So he watches the ebb and flow of the kedan, somehow less and less ebb as the afternoon wears on, and keeps watching. It's very symbolic, right down to the small takeaway cup and colourful straw he's still clutching in one bony hand; a symbol begins with a familiar shape, and the shape of this crowd is as familiar as they come. The Turtle moves, and history turns. Even when it's the wrong turtle.

Just as a grey-haired kedan steps out before the protesters at the gates and begins to raise her voice for their third impassionate speech in as many minutes, Death turns away - but only to fix the deep blue of his eye sockets on the person who just moved behind him in turn. AH, he says, lifting his scythe and taking an obliging step to the side. PARDON ME.

In the heated crowd, his voice carries with the still, cold air of a waiting morgue.