Ryland watched the way the man tried to search out the sound of his voice. He drew no attention to himself, not even in the overly conspicuous way of looking guilty or shifting nervously. Cigarette between his lips and smoke rising slowly, Ryland simply watched the way the man shifted before finally rolling his eyes at the threat.
It was interesting. Clearly not a strung out junkie, this Sparrow was doing a good job of acting like he knew what he was doing. Sure was better than the other bitch striving for domination over the dank sewers and the fading. Honestly Ryland didn’t understand the need for this power struggle; who wanted to reign over an army of miscreants and fools?
Cigarette burnt to the butt, Ryland paused just before flicking it to the ground. Instead his head lolled to the side as he took in the wash junkie beside him. Without thought or reason, Ryland stubbed the burning remains of the smoke out against the man’s arm. There was a grunt as fabric hissed and the faint smell of scored skin filled Ryland’s nostrils.
One. Two. Three.
Another grunt, a slight shuffle of the feet and then the addict sighed and went back to staring at the noise making man in the middle of the room.
“I swear the zombies above have more brains,” Ryland said, just loud enough to be heard. Pushing off the wall with his foot, he flicked his vest at the arms before readjusting the strings of leather and beads wrapped around his wrist. “But if you have guns and a plan… I’m in,” he shrugged slightly, not expecting much of a rally to the cause. “Gotta be better than this.”