The boy had come a long way in the last year since he began his martial arts training. Honing the body into a weapon, as a necessity, involves controlling oneself and instilling intense discipline. These are both things that Ryven had little of in the beginning. The boy in front of him now was another matter altogether. His eyes were still aflame with intensity, but the boys stocky frame and muscular build, on the verge of his peak teenage years, were perfectly relaxed, but coiled and ready for anything. He was pure physical potentiality. A snake, ready to strike. He was a tiger.
"Sir, what should I do when I leave this orphanage?"
Baillieu really didn't know how to answer. The State likely had little use for him, being of dubious heritage, and having little or no socialization in the labyrinth of Caldari social custom. He wouldn't fit in, and the life of a Civire at the bottom rungs of Caldari society was dim. Conversely, life for a Civire in the Federation could be decent, but, still, the same prejudices would apply. The Amarr would never accept him as an equal, but, the Khanid could certainly appreciate him. The Minmatar? They would be loath to accept the work of a man whose race was scarcely better than the Amarrians in their eyes. No, he was a boy without a home. Still, as much as it pained Baillieu, he knew only two things the boy would ever really excel at. Warfare, as part of a reputable armed force, or piracy. He prayed Ryven would choose the former over the latter.
"You will have to find your way. No one will give you what you want. You must earn it, or take it."