Sons of the Silent Age
It was another four years before he discovered the other one, seventeen and hustling pool in back ally dives. Getting into fights and earning himself a reputation as a sarcastic bastard with one hell of a punch. This one came with a name--Spike Spiegel--and a past, though he didn't talk much about it. When Mao had extended his offer--one of food and shelter in exchange for all the trouble he could ever desire, in exchange for the small service of befriending his 'son'--the lanky teen had given him a look, stretched his neck in a bone-popping way, and shrugged. Sure, why not?
Though they were of an age, the two boys could not have been more different. Spiked talked too much, drowning out Vicious' calculated silence. Preferred to fight with his fists, in counter to the sword which Vicious had come to favor over all other things.
Over the years, the other syndicate meant had learned to give the pale youth a wide berth. His name was not underserved, after all, and after the last round of good-intentioned teasing had lead to an unfortunate amputation, they'd given up on trying to engage him in anything other than official business. If rumors of the other boy's violence had reached Spike's ears, he paid them no heed, poking and jabbing, trying to get a rise out of his silent cohort.
For the most part, Vicious seemed to ignore it, but for the first time in four years, Mao thought he saw that icy facade begin to thaw. Like spring coming to Callisto, it was nothing to boast about, but it was more than he himself had managed to accomplish. Mao could turn him into a very efficient killer, but Spike... Spike might just have held a chance of turning him into something human.
The younger syndicate members, of course, loved Spike. The kid was reckless, sometimes dumb as a post, but he had such spirit you could practically see it on him, like a glow.