"The revolution ain't happening, mate, till you stop lighting joints and start lighting molotovs, know what I mean?"

The son of revolutionary anarchist/occultist parents - a British father and American mother, named for two different slaves who rebelled against their masters, Spartacus grew up in a succession of south London squats surrounded by bong smoke and bullshit about changing the world. Most of his education was unofficial, picked up from the people who passed through or eked out of libraries while he stayed one step ahead of the truancy officer, but for all that turned out pretty wide-ranging and from a wider than usual range of perpectives. He learned French from Africans & Haitians, Spanish from Cubans, Portugese from Brazilians and scraps of all sorts from drifters that passed through his dad's haze of self-important mysticism. One or two of their sex worker friends even took care of a sexual education for him, saving him years of confusion, therapy and shame by simply coming at it head-on. And yes, his parents gave him all the weird occult stuff, run through the eighties Chaos Magik filter with the quintessential mistake that it was an excuse for less work rather than a whole lot more.

Once he hit eighteen he finally struck out on his own, trying his hand as a musician (failed), a comic (soooo different from just being funny, it turned out), art (as if) and even dancing (better than expected, but no hope of being really good). A few years of that turned into drifting more widely, tending bar and cooking in various joints all over the world while he revisited the politics and other stuff of his childhood (mostly for the sex & drugs if he was honest about it) until one morning he woke up and realised that he'd basically turned into his dad: all talk and no walk.

And he didn't like that. Not one. Little. Bit.

That sudden, horrible moment of self-knowledge sent him off down another path, learning to fight properly, to handle guns, knives and a first aid kit, how to teach the things he knew to others so he could do the one thing his dad never did - get off his arse and actually do something. Now he's in with the Socialist Rifle Association and John Brown Gun Club, he runs with the Black Bloc when he and they are in the same town and he trains people in whatever skills he can - for free - as a community educator. He rolls into town, does what he can and fucks off just ahead of someone deciding to file charges; Hathian is - right now - just another stop on what's starting to feel like an endless parade of sad little shitholes full of desperate, hungry people. Home's his beloved truck - a home where he's slept on guns and medical supplies hidden in the same place that's been occupied by women escaping abusive partners and comrades escaping the Feds - but for now he's hidden that and his guns outside of town and swapped them for a rathole near the university while he gets a look at the place and sees what's what.

Maybe Hathian will turn out be different - he wouldn't mind a break from the road, honestly, and the place looks like it might just about be a deep enough hole to lose himself in. Guess we'll see.

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