A/N: This is going to be a whole lot of short pieces, probably with a lot of narrative-only portions. Hang in there with me, 'kay?
Sons of the Silent Age
Squabbles in the street. Mao was used to seeing them... there were more than a few homeless children in Tharsis, prowling together in cruel packs like half-starved dogs. Little gangs here and there that the syndicates all kept eyes on. They made for good recruitment.
He didn't usually stop to watch. He was a busy man, had things to do. But this scuffle seemed particularly violent, particularly cruel, one lone boy backed into a corner, tall and skinny and so damned pale you could nearly see the crumbling brickwork of the alley walls right through him. The pack had closed in, circling, jeering like schoolyard bullies, taunts that blended into one garbled noise. What really held his attention, though, was the lone boy's demeanor, the way he wasn't cowed, shoulders set straight and level, eyes staring forward as though the rest of the unruly mob wasn't even there. Serene.
He almost missed it. Busy admiring the boy's poise, he almost missed it when one long-fingered hand gripped the brickwork behind him and then swung out, lightning fast, smashing a chunk of crumbling masonry into the head of his nearest opponent, going down in a tumble of limbs and shrieks and one low feral growl, arm swinging over and over until blood coated the pale skin and the other boys, freed of their momentary paralysis, managed to drag their friend away.
He glanced away momentarily, and when he looked back, the pale-haired kid was gone. He looked to one of the remaining boys, busy trying to haul their bloodied compatriot up off the pavement. "Who was that?"
"Vicious," the boy spat out.
It wasn't a name. Not really. But it was what Mao called him when he finally tracked the boy down, and in all the years that followed, he was never offered an alternative.