[So much had happened in the first years, before the regime change, before the land of America became hostile to his kind (funny, how they always seem hostile to some kind or another). The Porter had seen fit to send Silva back at some point before, back to the streets of London, sending him to the deserted Scottish moors, sending him to his own death. He hadn't been the same when he was brought back to the City. But at least it answered Silva's age old question of if he could truly restart his old hacker-for-hire business here. No. No point. There was never any point to his life anymore. He could only continue on and become something else. Someone new.
It didn't take long for that chance to spring up. Silva knows dangerous change when he sees it, knows well how to go to ground, how to slip away, disappear, spend his time surviving. Very quickly, he recognizes that this change is going to stay, can feel the terror in the people around him, natives and Imports alike, like gooseflesh zipping along his skin, like pores drowning in nervous sweat. And he knows it's finally time to shed old skin. Raoul Silva fades away as though he had never existed. Fakes his own death, in fact, with a car bomb and a borrowed cadaver so badly destroyed that identification would prove nearly impossible.
It's catharsis, in a way, watching someone in his vehicle burn to a crisp, a stand in for himself. Burning. The irony nearly chokes him. But it lets Tiago Rodriguez rise back to the surface. The old agent returning and putting his skills to the test. He tosses his blue-tinted contacts. Stops dying his hair. Dark brown roots eventually retake his looks, sliding back into his distinctly hispanic appearance that he had purposely altered so long ago.
The years pass. He's getting older. But he makes a point of staying in shape, so his knees aren't killing him. Rarely trusts a soul. He can't, Tiago can't. He knows the worth of trust, knows the pain of having it broken. Sometime during the long weeks and months and years, he carves out a niche underground, filled with electronics, with computers, with monitors. Plugs himself directly into the power supply. Masks himself as best as he can.
And watches the world above turn.
Tiago has always been brilliant with computers; that's probably why Lachesis gifted him with technopathy. He certainly hasn't let the present go to waste. He's used it so much to his advantage that he feels he can do almost anything so long as he can connect to it. And sometimes he does. Even helps people, when he can. Abandoned, given up, tortured, interrogated. Those that need an invisible hand the most.
The ghost in the machine, as it were, does not go unnoticed. So he makes himself a name: Xolotl. Funny, how his days of decorative skull imagery are long behind him, but he has to have at least a little fun with the whole thing. He doesn't ally himself directly with the resistance, with any group or renegade or vigilante, although the government officials tend to think of him as one. Sometimes someone even manages to find him, though they tend not to know the face behind the virtual troublemaker.
In the light of day, he appears to be a slowly greying nothing special nobody. Best to keep it that way.]
look at all that open
It didn't take long for that chance to spring up. Silva knows dangerous change when he sees it, knows well how to go to ground, how to slip away, disappear, spend his time surviving. Very quickly, he recognizes that this change is going to stay, can feel the terror in the people around him, natives and Imports alike, like gooseflesh zipping along his skin, like pores drowning in nervous sweat. And he knows it's finally time to shed old skin. Raoul Silva fades away as though he had never existed. Fakes his own death, in fact, with a car bomb and a borrowed cadaver so badly destroyed that identification would prove nearly impossible.
It's catharsis, in a way, watching someone in his vehicle burn to a crisp, a stand in for himself. Burning. The irony nearly chokes him. But it lets Tiago Rodriguez rise back to the surface. The old agent returning and putting his skills to the test. He tosses his blue-tinted contacts. Stops dying his hair. Dark brown roots eventually retake his looks, sliding back into his distinctly hispanic appearance that he had purposely altered so long ago.
The years pass. He's getting older. But he makes a point of staying in shape, so his knees aren't killing him. Rarely trusts a soul. He can't, Tiago can't. He knows the worth of trust, knows the pain of having it broken. Sometime during the long weeks and months and years, he carves out a niche underground, filled with electronics, with computers, with monitors. Plugs himself directly into the power supply. Masks himself as best as he can.
And watches the world above turn.
Tiago has always been brilliant with computers; that's probably why Lachesis gifted him with technopathy. He certainly hasn't let the present go to waste. He's used it so much to his advantage that he feels he can do almost anything so long as he can connect to it. And sometimes he does. Even helps people, when he can. Abandoned, given up, tortured, interrogated. Those that need an invisible hand the most.
The ghost in the machine, as it were, does not go unnoticed. So he makes himself a name: Xolotl. Funny, how his days of decorative skull imagery are long behind him, but he has to have at least a little fun with the whole thing. He doesn't ally himself directly with the resistance, with any group or renegade or vigilante, although the government officials tend to think of him as one. Sometimes someone even manages to find him, though they tend not to know the face behind the virtual troublemaker.
In the light of day, he appears to be a slowly greying nothing special nobody. Best to keep it that way.]