"When a man is morally responsible for everything he does, he is free." —Hannah Arendt.
At ten years old, the Fault of Violence roamed the towering limbs of the Trip Sector like a small storm. The world-tree village he wandered through had been hollowed out by slaughter; huts sagged, toys lay cracked, and the wind carried the sour tang of old blood. He moved in casual, easy steps, as if the ruined hamlet were merely another playground.
Two men came at him from across the clearing, one brandishing a hammer, the other a knife. Their feet drummed the rotten wood as they closed, and without hesitation, the knife-man barreled into the hammer-man. They collapsed into a brutal tangle. Metal struck metal; skin split; the hammer-man smashed the knife-man's skull twice with bone-rattling blows that should have felled him, but the blade found flesh and left angry, ragged slashes across the other's limbs and chest.
The Fault of Violence watched, and his face split into a grin of pure, eager joy. He stepped closer, savoring the spectacle of men destroying themselves. The two combatants lay bloodied and near-broken: the knife-man had one eye grotesquely sagging from its socket; the hammer-man's face was a ruin with an eye gouged and an ear missing. In a last, savage movement, the fist with the knife slit the hammer-man's throat. The body slumped. The victor staggered upright, broken, and burst into helpless tears—scrubbing at his face, an animal trying to wipe away the horror he had made.
"WAS THAT ENTERTAINING TO YOU!? YOU MISTAKE OF THE WORLD!? YOU MADE ME KILL MY LITTLE BROTHER! You only exist to bring the worst out of people, to watch civilization collapse as you walking around feeling invincible, right!?" the knife-man roared, raw grief and fury tumbling from him in ragged waves.
The Fault of Violence only smiled.
"ANSWER ME!!!" the knife-man demanded.
The boy tilted his head the slightest degree, and it was enough. The knife-man snapped. He lunged. In a motion like a machine, the Fault caught the man's wrist and twisted, pressure building until the hand surrendered with a sick, wet snap. The knife-man crumpled to his knees and howled in a sound that tore at the air.
The boy laughed. Then with cold, deliberate fingers he gouged out the knife-man's eyes—two small, crimson orbs—and watched the life roll away.
He continued on, moving through the town as if on a stroll. Bodies littered his path—women, men, children—each one a story ended. A tiny spear pierced an infant's skull; its mother lay nearby, her head shattered by dozens of cruel blows. The boy stopped at the scene, and something like a peal of pure, echoing laughter tore from him. He laughed so long and hard the sound beat his chest against the ground. When he finally rose, the laugh stilled and left him empty and expressionless again.
He stumbled into an abandoned bakery and forced the door. Inside the shelves sagged with moldy loaves. He ripped into them like some starving thing, tearing crust and dough from shelf and tray until he had eaten his fill. Afterwards, he stepped back outside, glanced at the infant and its dead mother one last time, and laughed again—short, sharp, as if confirming something in himself.
At the edge of the village branch, he stopped. He looked up and breathed in the night air with closed eyes, savoring whatever sting of copper and horror it carried. Without a glance, the Fault stepped off the ledge and dropped into the dark below.
In another village hollowed into the world tree, a bar pulsed with the low hum of drunk conversation and stale smoke. Lanterns swung above crooked tables, but one patron cut through the haze: an old man with a grey ponytail and the kind of muscles time couldn't thin. He drank with a steady, almost ritual devotion—three liters of orange soda laid before him like a chalice. His eyes were blunt as a bull's.
The bartender sidled over with a face made of nerves. "It's really you, huh? You brought yourself all the way down here, sir?"
"Mind your own damn business, will you." The old man's voice was deep and dangerous enough to make the bartender flinch.
"I—I—" the bartender stammered.
"Just serve me my damn drink, you bastard." His tone clipped; the warning hung like a blade.
The bartender's hands trembled as he reached for a fresh bottle. The old man finished the first three liters in a single, brutal swallow and crushed the empty bottle with one hand.
"Now." The old man demanded.
"Yes, sir!" the bartender stammered, scrambling for the next.
The old man touched the new bottle and wrinkled his nose. "It's warm."
"I—I'm sorry—!" the bartender squeaked.
The old man's expression hardened for a beat, then split into a laugh so sudden and huge the bartender staggered.
"I should really rip your head off right now."
"Sir… p-please don't."
The old man cracked, laughter spilling out uncontrolled. "BAHAHA HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAA!!!!"
"Wh-what—" the bartender sputtered.
The old man folded his hands around the bottle, smiling in a way that softened the menace from before. "I'm sorry. I just can't take myself serious." His voice dropped, gentler. "Oh man, how'd you like my tough-guy impression?"
The bartender blinked, then managed a shaky, "Oh… OH. It was good, sir."
The old man grinned wide enough to show teeth like alligator teeth. "Never took myself for a good actor. Thanks a lot. Did I have you scared there…?"
"You really did," the bartender admitted, relief and awkward admiration tangled in his voice.
"Alright, alright," the old man said, nodding. "You asked why I was here. I heard that you guys have a Fault problem."
"Oh, you heard, huh. Yeah, it's a child," the bartender confirmed.
"A child, you say. So the rumors are true. What kind of Fault is it?"
"One of violence. His existence has already ruined half of the damn Trip Sector. When he was younger it was people killing each other for him—villages falling just so one family could get a chance. But once he learned to walk, he started murdering people himself."
"A Fault of Violence—that sounds hellish." The old man's brows knitted. "It's almost like a wild animal. Something whose natural instinct is pure, mass violence. It's sickening—like a demon."
"He might as well be one," the bartender agreed. "Personally, I refuse to acknowledge he looks human. All he wants is violence. He enjoys it; he revels in it. So you came down here to compete for the chance to kill him?"
"Not exactly." The old man pounded a palm on the bar; the sound cracked through the room like the report of a gun.
He didn't smile often, but when he did it was like a fist unclenching. The old man set the last empty bottle down with a soft click and fixed the bartender with a look that cut through the smoky air.
"I'm here to tame him!" he announced.
The bartender recoiled a fraction, the words tumbling out before he could catch them. "Tame..!?"
"Of course." The old man's voice was dry and certain.
"How would you even tame something like that?" the bartender demanded, incredulous.
"It's something that survives off of violence; all it knows is violence," the old man said, leaning forward. "It's worse than an animal, because even animals have the instinct to protect their own and live. Faults don't have that instinct."
The bartender's brow furrowed. "Then how could he be alive still if he doesn't have a survival instinct?"
The old man's stare softened as if considering a puzzle. "There's one key factor to Faults that arguably makes them easier to tame than a wild beast. They're impressionable. Yes, they function differently from us mentally, but they still learn similarly to whatever race they were born to. If it were a demon Fault, maybe it'd be irredeemable—but this one's human. He has the learning curve of a human child. He wasn't born knowing how to eat, drink, or take care of himself; he learned it from selfish humans who kept him alive for their own ends. All I have to do is cram a bunch of good stuff into that brat's head."
"That's really ambitious, sir," the bartender muttered.
"I know, I know." The old man waved a hand. "You know who I am. I'm—" He paused as if tasting the sound. Then he finished with an easy, confident edge, "I'm Bryn Foldin, a Faulty Tilt champion and one of the best to do it! Some violent kid won't stop me."
"You're right," the bartender conceded.
The man—Bryn—tapped the bar with a knuckle. "That kid is doing what his morals tell him. His own instincts steer him. He's as free as he'll ever be. I need to take away his freedom—for the better of his life."
"Good luck with that, sir," the bartender offered.
"One more thing, bartender… do you happen to know where this Fault is?" Bryn asked, the palm of his hand flat on the counter like a seal.
The bartender blinked. "Wh-what? No. You came here without knowing the location of the Fault?"
"All I know is that one is here," Bryn said.
"Well, sir, being honest with you, I have no idea where that Fault could be. I just hope he never comes here. Everywhere that thing goes leads to the death of a village."
Outside, on a crooked branch of the world tree, three old men watched birds wheel above the ruined village. One bird in particular circled slowly: a massive orange shape, feathers ragged and rough.
"Do you recognize what kind of bird that is?" one old man asked.
"That appears to be an Australian Water Eagle," another replied. "They're about the size of vans."
"What is that one doing circling above us?" the third wondered aloud.
"I don't know," came the plain answer.
The bird gave a screaming cry and arched its back—then convulsed. Its flank burst open in a spray of feathers and entrails; the spinal column glistened like white coral. The great orange bird fell, a ruin of blood and broken bone.
Perched on the ruined carcass, green pupils empty and dead, the Fault of Violence stared at the three men as if inspecting a toy.
"It's—" the first old man managed, but the sentence never finished. The man behind him raised a smoking pistol, and the old man's skull was gone in an instant—his brain blown out like a popped fruit.
"Sorry, old friend. I need this," the shooter said, voice small and hollow.
The remaining elderly pair erupted into action—one swinging a fist, the other answering—and the two quickly tumbled into a scramble of old men who still thought they could fight. The Fault of Violence walked past them without a glance and moved deeper into the village.
People recognized him as he passed. Faces slackened, then hardened. The sight of him was a spark; hunger for power flared in bellies like dry tinder. Players and bystanders, neighbors and rivals—everyone surged toward the boy. Buildings spat flames, gunshots clattered through the air, and knives flashed. People were stabbed and shot with the casual tragedy of a place grown used to losing its own. All the while, the Fault walked on, expressionless and steady.
Inside the bar Bryn sat unmoved, finishing another three liters of orange soda as the sounds of chaos rolled outside. Someone burst in, breathless and frantic.
"The Fault! The Fault is in the village!!!" the man shouted.
At the name, the other patrons scattered—everyone except Bryn and the bartender. The bar's door slammed, and muffled gunfire and screams rolled in on the evening like distant thunder.
"That's your call, sir," the bartender said, hands already reaching for glasses.
"Oh, you're not going to join in the senseless violence?" Bryn asked, almost amused.
The bartender wiped a counter, voice measured. "I have a son to raise. His mother keeps him homeschooled. He has dreams of joining the Faulty Tilt when he's old enough."
"How old is your son?" Bryn asked.
"Eleven—turning twelve in a week." He forced a small, helpless smile and went back to cleaning.
Bryn's face softened fractionally. "Well, your son might just end up in the mix of this violence."
"He lives in a whole different sector with his mother. I live and work here to support them with money. Killing a Fault only guarantees one person unimaginable power. What kind of husband and father would I be if I left my family behind for something selfish? All to risk dying, widowing my wife—making my son fatherless. The problem with killing Faults isn't the Fault themselves; it's the demons trying to become angels."
The bartender finally offered his name. "Basil Galanis."
Bryn regarded Basil with a look almost like grudging respect. "You're a smart one, aren't you? You seem to be the only respectable person in this sector. You understand the value of your life. Seeing people my age and younger die for this is a disappointment."
Basil asked the obvious question. "So how do you suppose you'll get to the Fault?"
At that moment the bar's door opened and the Fault of Violence stepped inside, dripping with the blood of others as if it were an accessory. He sat without ceremony next to Bryn and stared at him with those flat green eyes. Bryn finished his orange soda and didn't even look up.