The garden was well tended, though Ryven did not know by whom. The Sisters of Eve station was a large one, and though he had lived there as long as he could remember (granted, not too long, he was only 10 years old), he hadn't really learned much beyond the section of the station that was the orphanage and primary school. He was an orphan, a Caldari of the Civire bloodline. This he knew simply because everyone had told him so. He was one of about forty children from age 4 to 17 under the care of the Sisters of Eve. However, aside from his name, age, and race, he knew absolutely nothing of where he came from.
The great mystery of who he was and where he came from was constantly on his mind. He pestered the Sisters for a while about it, and he knew they knew something. It was evident in the way the Sisters exchanged glances when he asked. He always received the same answer, "You are Ryven. The past is unimportant." They would caution him to not pry and to accept the freedom to be his own person, unfettered by his parentage. So, no matter how much Ryven would protest and fume and sulk, the Sisters kept mum. This really only served to stoke a burning rage within him.
Ryven came to the garden often. It was a small room, only 10 meters by 10 meters, and filled with greenery. The plants were real, but the sky and horizons were not. Neither was the rain that happened every 48 hours or so. Ryven sat on the lone bench next to a small pool. The rain began less than 5 minutes after he sat down. That's how he preferred it. It helped to calm him. He was bleeding again. He let the sound of raindrops striking the pool lull him into a near trance. He remembered the fight.
The other boy didn't really deserve it. They usually didn't. His name was Tankran. He had reddish hair. He was an idiot. That's really all it took for Ryven these days. It happened in one of the corridors of the orphanage. Tankran had a look on his face, some sort of smirk or a grin; Ryven didn't know for sure, really. He waited for Tankran to pass within arm's reach of him, and quickly spun and struck him in the face with the heel of his hand, feeling the crunch of the cartilage collapsing, and the warmth of the blood on his hand. His world slowed, the sounds faded, and only he and his opponent existed. This is why he fought all the time. To Ryven, the only peace came from fighting, or replaying the fights in his mind in the garden. He fluidly followed his palm-strike with a knee strike to the abdomen, and a leg sweep. Tankran landed hard on the metal floor, his head smacking with a harsh thud. Ryven followed up with one last strike, an elbow to the sternum, which effectively knocked the wind out of Tankran. Ryven would've gotten in another hit, but one of the Sisters Security members pulled him forcibly from the now bleeding, injured, and unconscious victim.
The headmistress of the orphanage, a mid-fifties Gallente woman, Sister Caille, sat him down in her office. It might as well have been a closet, and it smelled of mold and steel. The only furnishings were her spartan desk and chair, and the small steel chair he was sitting in. She also had a framed artistic depiction of the Eve Gate, the central focus of the religion of the Servant Sisters of Eve. She was obviously upset, but didn't raise her voice. She went on and on about moral codes and ethics. She talked about how he was a ward of the Sisters of Eve, and that they were willing to help those in need, but that such magnanimity had limits. That's when she said that they were at the end of their rope, and that one more fight would mean the end of his stay, and that he would be dropped off at the nearest Caldari outpost to fend for himself. When she finally finished, all he could say was, "Yes, Sister Caille. May I go?"
"Yes, very well." She sighed. "But, Ryven, don't throw away a chance at a peaceful life."
The Sisters didn't understand, fighting was the only thing that brought him peace.
To be continued...
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