Re: Violence
When Silver came to, he was still on his back, and at first he didn't recognize the filthy metal above his head. He had his arms up, as if to ward something off-or if to hold a gun that wasn't there, and he'd barked his knuckles on the skidplate still hanging half off the car. Then he recognized Creedence playing about bad moons, and even if he was unable to find that pure center of calm that had always been so much a part of his personality, he knew that he was again himself. He lay there a moment and watched his stomach under the old blue t-shirt rise and fall, and then he carefully rolled out from under the truck.
Silver had never felt that kind of rage before, the bleak hunted kind of rage that obviously turned feral. Up until that point, he thought he had understood it when he came across it, its unpredictable nature, but now, shaking, he realized that wasn't true. He didn't understand that urge to defend by damaging, to use fear as power and inflict pain through frustration. Silver didn't hurt or kill because of his own needs. Surely not.