[ There is a lot, in those eight words. In the epiphany that has grasped Silco, just by asking a single thing about his circumstances instead of blasting through life toward his inevitable end. Something dark, hungry coils inside of his belly — smug, satisfied, gloating, rich with laughter unshared between the two of them because isn't that just right? Hadn't he warned as much? Hadn't he known? Coveted information, sold himself off little by little to a cosmic war in order to lay claim to others in a more primal, vicious way?
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Hadn't he been his mothers child? ]