I

Travel is made quickly now. Jumping from gate to gate, from planet to planet. Our planet of origin is all but abandoned by all those with the means to abandon it. Only a few romantics, lunatics, and net-divers still cling on to that old world. Now on Mars the world has changed much since the time he most idolizes, the time when a man's power was all that mattered, and the sword always made the final judgment, and was the final authority, the time of the samurai warriors.

How it was that he ended up here, on Titan, here in this manmade hell, this is a story I will try to tell.

A low level Syndicate thug came home one day to find that his woman had run off, embarrassed him, and worst challenged his strength.

But maybe his story starts a bit earlier, back when he still had a chance of growing in to a human instead of a beast. Men grow coldest and most violent when their means fail to meet their ambitions. He had always seen a great role for himself somewhere on this red planet. While most children dream of becoming famous athletes, singers, or royalty, he had a different dream.

II

It was one typically clear and dry Mars evening that this dream had forever branded itself on to him. Having no parents, that anyone could remember, he was a street kid, living by his own rules. He had been hanging out outside of a local gambling den run by a small local gang. He marveled at the well-dressed men, who would come in and out of this simple door brandishing samurai swords and pretty women around their waist.

The bigger fish tolerated these small fish as long as they had kept their heads low and knew their place. They would demonstrate their subservience with weekly payments. However, their little gambling den had grown to quite a business and it became more profitable to take it over than receive tribute. The night this small syndicate would experience this change in policy he was standing outside, watching, as always.

Two white sedans pulled up and seven men came out with guns drawn, the drivers waited inside the still running vehicles. Loud crashes followed within, as their guns dictated the new business terms. Within ten minutes the men came out dragging the leader outside. The man was in terror, taking quick sporadic gasps of breath in between long weeping whimpers. If this scene wasn't sad enough the poor man had soiled himself. His sword, still sheathed in its scabbard, had never any purpose but to embellish his image. The gunmen tried to set him on his knees but they would buckle like the limbs of a rag doll and he would fall to his side crying like an infant. Finally two of them took him under his arms and stood him up on to his knees. There kneeling on the sidewalk, reeking of alcohol, cold sweat, and piss, well in view of onlookers, he was executed. Two bullets were fired at his head, and his body was allowed finally to drop. The men drove off, the police were paid off, and the management restructuring was complete.

As a stunned crowd was gathering, he saw the sword again. In a split second he dashed out and snatched this object of fascination of the limp body and ran off in to the darkened alleyways. Breathing hard, not from running, but from the excitement, he clutched at the sword. A narrow band of light, from a drawn curtain in a window above the ally, fell on his trophy. He pulled the sword a quarter of the way form the scabbard. Holding it in the light he saw the reflection of his eyes.

"I swear that I'll never die in such a pathetic way," he asserted.

Far from being disturbed by this whole violent scene, his assumptions were only confirmed. The powerful do what they want, and the truly powerful were clearly the men belonging to the ranks of the syndicate. He would spend hours daydreaming of one day being at the head of the Red Dragon Syndicate, the most powerful and well-known syndicate on Mars.

III

His chance to join their ranks would come to him a few years later. Living alone on the streets he had learned to simply take what he needed. Who he was stealing from mattered little to him. It was this attitude that brought him in trouble with a few local syndicate members, and to the attention of his first oyabun, or syndicate father figure.

"Hey ani-kun that's the kid that's been stealing from our bar!" Said one of a group of five syndicate members dressed formally in matching dark blue suits.

"You sure?"

"Yeah that's him alright, he's that kid that runs around with that ridiculous sword," responded another.

"Okay go teach him a lesson," said their leader as he brought a cigarette to his lips.

The leader of the four stayed on the opposite side of the street while his four subordinates crossed to give the boy a good beating. They walked up behind him and one of them took out his gun and belted the boy on the top of his head with the handle. He fell down to his hands and knees almost instantly. Another one grabbed the sword by the scabbard and ripped it from his waste.

He got to his feet and turned around to face the men. His eyes were sharp and piercing, the only glimpse in to an otherwise blank stare.

"Give it back you bastards!" The child's voice was unusually deep and assertive.

"Haha look the baby wants his toy back."

Before the others could laugh the boy had jumped up and grabbed him by the neck and bit him on his bicep. His fingernails dug deep in to the sides of the man's throat drawing blood. As the man screamed and spun, his friends pulled out their guns and pointed them shaking at him.

"Ahhhh get him off me!" He screamed.

Bang! Bang! Two shots rang out both missing their target and hitting the pavement.

"What the fuck are you doing! You're gonna kill me! Ah get this fucking kid off me!"

The others put their guns away and started pulling on this boy, trying to strip him off. The boy released his bite from the man's arm and head butted him in the nose. The man recoiled back taking a few stumbling steps before falling down on his backside. The boy instantly looked back at the other men and lunged at them. Kicking one in the groin, instantly sending him to the ground. The other two stared, mouths gaping, and knees shaking. The boy took his sword and ran off.

Standing in front of their boss the four men were entirely embarrassed. They were fidgeting, and rubbing their wounds.

"Heh the kids tough. Huh?" The boss said half teasing.

The boss, thinking that the kid someday would prove to be a good subordinate, ordered his men to find and bring him in alive. If this order had not been given the boy was surely going to be killed so the men could save face, in a world where reputation held the highest value.

"Hey kid what's your name?"

It was an odd question and a normal question. Something people must be asked all the time, however this was the first time someone had asked him that. He, of course, did not have a name. Names are given to people and beasts that lived and relied one another. Never having known anyone or relied on anyone he was never given a name.

"I know you're not shy kid. Come on what's your name?" Asked the boss again.

"I don't have a name." The boy responded dryly.

Recalling his first impression of this kid the boss said, "Hm… Alright, you'll be known as Vicious from now on."

"Vicious?" The boy repeated tilting his head.

The boss took him in to his world and his apprenticeship in the syndicate began.

Once he had actually entered his idealized, and glamorous life, he was quickly disappointed. For the first three years of his membership one would have a hard time distinguishing him from a household servant. However he endured, as he had come to learn that this was the way everyone had first started out in the syndicate. Even the bosses had washed their fair share of dirty dishes and laundry. Here was a truly honorable world, he thought, where one advanced on the basis of his own strength and by nothing else.

Three years after receiving his name, Vicious was out on the streets working as a debt collector.

IV

Now about the woman, the one that left him, he had loved her, as much as someone like him could love. More accurately he had made himself vulnerable, he allowed her a chance to challenge his strength.

His reaction to her betrayal was swift and violent. What made him good at his job was what made him terrible in his humanity. The woman had been killed. To find her, he had tortured and then killed those he thought to be her friends. To him it was simple, she had to be paid back for her betrayal. The murders and the main suspect had made headlines and created a strong public demand that something be done. To keep in favor with the police, and avoid business complications, his oyabun handed him over to the authorities.

Sentenced to death by the vary man who gave him his new life, his name. This man was the only father Vicious had ever known or recognized as such. He awaited bitterly his inevitable fate, each day growing colder and more resentful. Everywhere he looked was the continual reminder of his weakness. He had been betrayed, twice betrayed. He couldn't save himself. He was waiting for a pathetic death.

Then the order came down from the military. All death row inmates were to be given the option of serving in a penal regiment on Titan as an alternative to their sentence. With hindsight we can say that he would have been better of just dying there in that prison.

On Titan he would grow even colder and more enraged, but that is another story.