Young Silco

Silco didn't remember how long he'd been floating. The cold river water carried trash, oil, and old blood; every breath was a mistake, every movement a burning stab in his chest. Vander had left him there. Not dead… but not quite alive either. He tried to sit up once more and failed. His fingers barely managed to grip the rusty edge of an abandoned dock before slipping. His vision blurred; the sound of the water lapping against the structure was the only constant, then he heard footsteps. Slow. Hesitant. Silco tensed his body out of pure instinct, though he could barely move. If they'd come to finish him off, he wasn't going to beg. A shadow stopped in front of him. From the ground, he could only make out bare feet and a figure leaning slightly forward, assessing him. He must have looked pathetic: soaked, breathing heavily, one eye barely able to stay open. The silence that followed was strange. There was no immediate fear in the air. Nor hostility. Just a decision hanging in the balance. Silco tried to sit up again, and the world spun violently; His hand lost strength and fell back against the wet metal. This time he couldn't get up. His only option... was whoever was standing in front of him. And that enraged him more than the pain.