Silco's fingers curl tight enough his nails press into his palms, and he exhales. "Vander and I," he drawls, sounding almost amused at some personal joke, even as the name in his mouth is hateful, bittersweet. For as much as he tells himself that vengeance helped him heal that old wound, it didn't. Maybe nothing ever will.

"And what did they call me once you became a man, I wonder?" he asks with a tight smile. No illusions about the unrest of his people, the ones who wanted peace or had lost someone to the drugs, the people that the chem barons trod underfoot — an unfortunately necessary hierarchy to achieve his goals. "Not that it matters. We've both found rebirth on these shores."