Desert Bound by TW Iain

Author:TW Iain [Iain, TW]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: TW Iain
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Brice

Brice found himself back in the city.

He should’ve walked into the desert. He could’ve avoided all these bloody idiots, just the sand and the night. None of this constant chatter, all these bodies. Why the hell were they out and about anyway? Wasn’t like this was a decent part of the city.

Not that there were any of those. Why the hell had Ryann brought them out here? Couldn’t she have found somewhere better?

This place stank. The desert heat still clung to the stone, but now it competed with greasy food, with sweat and whatever these people washed themselves in. Or maybe it was the stale sweat that clung to the clothes they’d been wearing all day.

Apart from the ones who were all tarted up, like there was somewhere to go in all this stone. The buildings were pretty solid, but they were only one step up from mud huts. Not that people here deserved any better. Degenerates, the lot of them. Even the academics. No, especially the academics. Living in the past, earning their reputations off the day-to-day toil of people they’d never known, people just getting on with the job of living.

No different to anyone else in this hell-hole. Clambering to the top, treading others down. Survival of the fittest, with a screw-you attitude to everyone else.

“Hey! Watch it, buddy!”

Brice looked up, only now registering the pressure on his side. The man in his way was tall, with long hair and a mean look.

Brice stepped to the side, didn’t respond.

The man blocked his path again. “You gonna apologise?”

“Leave it, Pan.”

Another face appeared, behind the angry man, and a hand came down on his shoulder. But he shrugged it off.

Pan! What kind of name was that?

“Nah. Kid walked into me, kid should say sorry.” The man leaned in, yeasty breath washing over Brice. “Right?”

Brice felt his fist clench. His arm shot forward.

The arsehole staggered.

Brice punched again, fist connecting with the man’s head. The next punch landed in the man’s stomach, doubling him over. Brice pulled up his knee. Something crunched. The man cried out. When he stepped back he held his nose, blood running between his fingers.

The man’s friend looked on, open-mouthed. When Brice stepped forward, he moved to the side.

Brice walked past the friend, glaring.

As soon as he did, data from his senses flooded through him. He tasted surprise and anger in the man with the now-broken nose, shock and fear in his companion. He heard the muttering of the small crowd that had already gathered, registered how their eyes followed him.

And behind this lay the traces, a network of bands stretching across the street, around buildings, through doors. Each trace told a story, and they opened up to Brice, ready for him to read.

Many were new to him, but others were familiar. Brice focused on two Kaiahive operatives who had followed him previously, and one of Keys’ goons. And another trace, familiar from the landing pad. From the Nyx.

So Fay was keeping tabs on Brice too. Typical‌—‌he wanted nothing more than to disappear, and he’d become notorious.

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