He sat up, glancing at the sleeping bodies around him. Chests rose and fell, breath fogging in the cold air. Quietly, he slipped from his blankets, disentangling himself from the men pressed close to him in their slumber.
This was the way with Booker’s men. There was no fragile masculinity to be had when all that was left was to cling to one another in the darkness for warmth, for companionship.
He slipped out of the stifling proximity to step into the street. His body had become acclimated to the lack of sunlight, and from the amount of time he had slept, he wagered it was still very early morning.
Tartarus was still asleep.
Alone, Micah leaned against the wall of the old warehouse. His hand trailed to the back of his neck, grazing over the ugly raised scar left by Booker’s knife. It was a scar that had saved his life – the cut that had removed his tracker, keeping him hidden from the Elysian Police.
Unbidden, his thoughts turned to Eden. It was difficult to reconcile his status as an officer of the Elysian Police. When he thought of the men who had taken his mother’s life, it hurt to imagine Eden taking similar violent action. But he would be a fool to imagine that Eden wasn’t capable of it. That he hadn’t already been involved.
Military raids in Tartarus were common. Especially given the burgeoning Resistance efforts. To Micah, it was all a fruitless fight for a freedom that would never exist. Not so long as Axel Tovar lived. But still, the Resistance trudged onwards, seeking followers and plastering the red hand through the alleyways of the underground city.
“Micah.” It was August. His boyish face was set with concern as he approached. “What are you doing out here?”
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