He has anger the magnitude of a century wracked with oppression and suppression and hell. He is built just right, not too small not to be taken seriously in a fight, not too large to stand out in this crowd. He is lean but pure muscle, and can theoretically tackle a bear when needed. He is white-skinned with a fantastic shock of naturally blazing red hair and can manage to look sweat-free after a full day of training. His gaze can cut open minds.

He was born into a royal family, as royal as communities of professional fighting machines can ever get. He had biological parents who had men and women on the side. He had mentors who made him feel uncomfortable, and then guilty for feeling uncomfortable, and then angry for being made guilty for feeling uncomfortable about the things that had been done.

He lost to his first love and then lost his first love in the annual killing sprees. It had been fun, and then sad through the end. They lynched his second love for having the wrong kind of parents. He rated high on chemical sensitivity, but very very low on pain. He wonders whether this had to do with an early encounter with a drug when he was younger that made him say yes all the time, to everything.

He had wonderful hands and had used them on many a neck–he had the touch of a razor-winged butterfly, barely there and then woosh: life taken. He had no problems killing animals, too. He had regressed so deeply into darker quarters certain people only talk about to feel mildly adventurous. He thinks all people are fools.

Except he can’t say the same for these kids.