The jumper died as soon as he hit the ground. Lucky him. It hardly ever happened like that. My sneakers neared the ledge, toes hanging over. In the distance, three armored cars were tearing across the stretch of sand. Their black, insect like shells glittered in the sunlight, growing larger and larger with each passing second. The immense nothingness of the desert made estimating their arrival difficult, but they appeared halfway between the wall and the prison. I peered over the edge, looking down at the inmate’s broken body. The back of his grey uniform stared back, the number 459 taunting. This could be you. A single step and you could be— Dead. I could be dead. Or a broken mess, waiting for soldiers
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Death could be wielding that scythe of his, stealing loved ones left and right. War could be stirring up anger and resentment, trying his hand at creating the world’s worst war. Pestilence could be concocting a deadly pandemic in a lab somewhere, ready to set it loose and watch the world burn. Famine could be circling the food supplies, spoiling the meat and destroying the hard-earned crops.
Doubtful.
But possible.
I took one last look at Deryn’s body. At one hundred and two, she had been Desolation’s oldest inhabitant. Now, however, the title would fall to Booker until he was either released, beaten to death, or jumped. My money was on the second option, considering how many times Ridley had to tell him not to piss in the courtyard.
The armored cars were closer now, maybe twenty minutes away.
You will not be alone in this endeavour.
Why did precogs always have to be so damn cryptic?
It was always “Your future will change dramatically, but I’m not going to tell you why or when or how because it goes against the precog rule book that explicitly states ‘I shalt not give all details or be remotely comprehensible.’” Add in the fact that Deryn’s sickness was eating away at both her mind and her body, and I couldn’t even begin to figure out what was true and what
Death could be wielding that scythe of his, stealing loved ones left and right. War could be stirring up anger and resentment, trying his hand at creating the world’s worst war. Pestilence could be concocting a deadly pandemic in a lab somewhere, ready to set it loose and watch the world burn. Famine could be circling the food supplies, spoiling the meat and destroying the hard-earned crops.
Doubtful.
But possible.
I took one last look at Deryn’s body. At one hundred and two, she had been Desolation’s oldest inhabitant. Now, however, the title would fall to Booker until he was either released, beaten to death, or jumped. My money was on the second option, considering how many times Ridley had to tell him not to piss in the courtyard.
The armored cars were closer now, maybe twenty minutes away.
You will not be alone in this endeavour.
Why did precogs always have to be so damn cryptic?
It was always “Your future will change dramatically, but I’m not going to tell you why or when or how because it goes against the precog rule book that explicitly states ‘I shalt not give all details or be remotely comprehensible.’” Add in the fact that Deryn’s sickness was eating away at both her mind and her body, and I couldn’t even begin to figure out what was true and what