Total pages in book: 146
Estimated words: 144277 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 721(@200wpm)___ 577(@250wpm)___ 481(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 144277 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 721(@200wpm)___ 577(@250wpm)___ 481(@300wpm)
And when I lock on to him, my whole world goes silent.
A weapon of the sandy sea.
In the image, I am made and in the image, I will unmake.
For thine is the kingdom made in sand.
“Come on, Tymmy! You know you want some!” Myra is holdin’ out a canteen for me. It’s filled with Sanddji, the local distilled spirit unique to Pi City, last stop before the Outlands.
I shoot Myra a look, not a nice one, either. “Call me that again and I’ll black the other eye for ya.”
I’m half jokin’, half not. I don’t like to be called Tymmy and she knows it. But she’s buzzed on the Sanddji, which is also a slight hallucinogenic, and it’s got a hold of her good senses. The only way threatening to punch a woman in the eye is funny is if she’s already got one shiner, and it didn’t come from me or some jealous lover.
She actually fell. Fell.
If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I would’ve never believed her and probably Jast would be dead by now because he’s the kind of man who would definitely hit her back if she struck him first. And he’d for sure leave her marked up. A black eye is practically a calling card when it comes to Myra and Jast.
It wouldn’t be the first time that they’ve tussled. For some reason, they’re like oil and water those two, and I’ve gotten between them many times. Especially when they’ve been sippin’ the Sanddji.
I don’t like that he hits her like that, even though Myra doesn’t give a fuck. It’s not right. He should respect her a little more, not just because she’s a girl, but because she’s pulled him off the event horizon of an Outback veil on at least seven occasions and that last time they tangled, he knocked her out.
That was it for me. I told him if he ever touched her again, I’d kill him.
I don’t want to kill him. I need Jast. I need all of them.
But I’d have done it on principle.
And then we’d be short a man on the way out and… die.
None of us want to die.
And anyway, Myra really did fall, and this is a joke, but I still don’t like being called Tymmy. So she says, in an exaggerated manner, “Pardon me,” taking a low bow, “captain.” Her eyes rollin’ up to look at me, like she’s beggin’.
And when I look at her, she… shimmers. But it’s the wrong word. Because shimmer implies light. And Myra, looking up at me with those beggin’ eyes, is not lit up. She’s dark. Not dark as in looks, but actually fucking… empty. She’s black, like space, outlined in glowing blue spark.
What the fuck?
And thy rule was made in wind.
And in the wind, as in the days of dark imprisonment, the new gods rose as tall as the hollow towers.
I shake my head, tryin’ to make Myra go away as the Augment’s Creed spins through my head like a fuckin’ bad-trip Sanddji flashback. “I don’t have time to think about you now, Myra.” It comes out in a whisper.
I only have time for death.
And in this rising, they conquered.
Swept the land of everythin’ and left it clean like a bone.
The augment charges. Comin’ at me with his arm raised, ax high in the air.
On instinct, I reach for the Versi, but of course, it’s not there. So instead, I charge him. Head first. Full power. And for a moment, this confuses him. Because he’s thinkin’, I’ve got an ax. Who the hell does this motherfucker think he is?
Yeah, well… he’s about to find out.
And on that bone, was born I.
The executioner and the death.
My head hits him square in the fuckin’ gut and he goes reeling backwards, slammin’ into the metal bars of the cage. The breath comes rushing out of him in a great gasp, and then he’s suckin’ in air. Desperate for it.
Which is when I simply reach down and give that neck of his a little twist.
Just like the last guy.
When I look up, there’s already another one comin’.
It’s not just him, though. There’s a whole crowd of Epsilon’s mutant augments behind him. A wall of bodies, shifting and snarling, surging forward like a living tide. Glowing eyes—red, blue, sickly green—flicker in the hazy dust created by the stompin’ feet of hundreds of men.
And as stupid as it sounds, I stop here to wonder about these eyes.
An augment’s eyes are blue. Like spark.
So where the hell did all these colors come from?
Later, Tyse. You’re fightin’.
Metal limbs clank as they rush me. Flesh rippling over unnatural muscle. Some dragging weapons, others bare-handed, eager to tear into me with just their fingers. Mouths split open, revealing those teeth—jagged and uneven, like Luther’s.
A hallmark of Epsilon.
I actually stop to laugh.