For some, blight is a blessing. Born with a lovely set of subcutaneous bone growths on his head and elbows, little Spikes was the pride and joy of his winged father and two-headed mother, the first-born fifth-generation mutant in his family. Yes, his father had to put a gag on him for a couple of days right after his birth for he wouldn’t stop crying, but after that he never caused any more trouble. Apart from when it was the right time to do so. At three, he shot his first stub gun. At five, he strangled an older peer. By then, his horns had started to develop, his bones had gotten really strong and his skin toughened. At ten he scavenged, on his own, the first of a long series of scatterguns, which became his weapon of choice. Shortly after he began to raid along with the rest of the gang. But at this point everything slowed down, his bright future never manifested itself, and Spikes slipped in the lacklustre routine of the average scavvy: load your gun with a mix of bolts and nails, stalk close to some guy, shoot him up, end him with a knife, search him, and carve a cut of meat if the flesh doesn’t look too unhealthy. Over and over and the same. The years passed, and Spikes is still waiting for his chance to shine, eager to fulfil the promise of his depraved lineage.