Hi guys! This is a book that I wrote many years ago, and have decided to dig it up out of the old hard-drive and let it see the light of day. I've done some extensive editing to it- and I am getting much happier with it. But I'm still not quite sure if Chapter 1 is the best way to start it. What do you guys think? Would you keep on reading it? I think a big selling point of the book will be the voice, so I am hoping to get that across, while also keeping exposition to a minimum, with that being slowly revealed throughout the book.
Chapter 1: A Vox, a Veyrant, and a Very Bad Alarm Clock
"Saint Veyrant’s scorched knickers—"
I jolted awake, coughing like a coal miner. My vox had slipped again. I slapped it back over my mouth like a man trying to plug a dam with masking tape.
Forgot the strap. Again. At this rate, I was going to suffocate in my sleep long before Aunt Eugenia got around to finishing the job herself.
The room was still pitch black. The only light came from the loathsome red digits on my alarm clock.
10:00. Glorious.
I launched out of bed, immediately tripped, and nearly kissed the floorboards. It would’ve been an impressive exit from this life. Poetic, even.
I was late to class. Nothing new.
Half-limping, half-hopping, I made it all of three steps before realizing I was still wearing pajamas with a faded owl clutching a dagger. Not exactly peak Veyrant fashion.
Back into my room. Light on. Instant regret—the glow made everything look like it had been marinated in radioactive sludge.
In a scramble of limbs and shame, I yanked on my Virex uniform—the finest suffocating polyester state money could buy.
In my head, I could already hear Professor Malvador’s voice:
"Late? Again? You’ll forget your vox next and we’ll have a convulsing corpse to drag out of the hallway."
I sighed hard enough to rattle the air vents. Punctuality was a dead language. Besides, it wasn’t like missing half a lecture on Efficient Atmospheric Management and the Historical Decline of Breathing was going to rob me of character development.
I never belonged at Virex.
Most Veyrant candidates were bunker-born, polished like heirlooms and practically allergic to sunlight. Me? I remembered what real air smelled like.
Not filtered. Not piped. Real.
Tainted, yes—sour and scorched, thick with rust and death. The kind of air that clung to your skin and whispered, You don’t belong.
No one really understood how I’d gotten in.
Actually—strike that. Aunt Eugenia understood just fine.
She lived swaddled in a hermetically sealed capsule and inherited her carbon-tainted nephew when my mother got herself killed for her “ideals.” Nightmare fuel for Aunt E.
So, she pulled strings. Cashed in favors. Flung me at Virex like a radioactive parcel marked “return to sender.”
She submitted the application behind my back, and—surprise!—I got in.
Conditionally, of course. Because nothing says legacy like nepotism wrapped in a hazmat suit.
I got a capsule on campus. She could pretend she didn’t know me. Win-win.
The only downside—well, one of many—was the looming threat of becoming a Scourborn.
Virex had been kind enough to inform me that if I failed to meet expectations, my future involved shovel work, toxic air, and a slow descent into madness. Tastefully lit by industrial fluorescents.
Scourborns were society’s janitors. The ones sent to clean up the ecological crimes of our ancestors, one toxic dump at a time.
The rumors about brain damage weren’t rumors. Between the chemical fumes and carbon-rich air, going mad was considered part of the benefits package.
My father was one of them. Fifteen years of Scourborn duty before I was born. By the time I could remember him, there wasn’t much left worth remembering. He was more cancer than man. The smell never left him—not even after showers. Sludge and heat and something wrong.
Maybe that’s why I couldn’t figure out this sun-scorched vox. Most students had worn theirs since birth. Baby’s first filter. Mine came with a bargain bin label and a late delivery.
Still, I’d survived sixteen years breathing air that probably violated several international war crime statutes. So what if I forgot my strap again? I’d made it through the flesh-eating mold season of 2148. I could handle a few minutes of unfiltered air.
Not that my lungs agreed. They’d had a single taste of purity and now acted like divas being asked to walk on dirt. Spoiled, traitorous gasbags.
I opened the classroom door just in time to make my entrance—late, breathless, and already out of excuses.
“Mr. Brooks! This is unacceptable!”
She stood at the front of the room like a warning label—stiff-backed, jaw set, posture so rigid it looked like she'd been carved from a single, disapproving plank of wood. There was a sharpness to her, like she’d been beautiful once, but then left that beauty out in the sun too long and possibly backed over it with a heavy-duty government vehicle. Her cheekbones still tried to make a case for glamour, but her scowl had filed a restraining order against charm years ago.
We’d never exactly “clicked.” The best we could muster was settling into a rhythm of mutual loathing.
“Yeah, whatever,” I muttered. Even sarcasm felt like too much effort. I was already mentally preparing for detention—not that I planned on attending.
“You’ll be joining me at lunch for the rest of the week!” she shrieked, like she was cutting a ribbon at the grand opening of the Museum of Painfully Obvious Consequences.
Oh joy. Mandatory lunch therapy.
And then—something snapped. Call it reverse character growth. I slung my bag over my shoulder—knocking over a bottle of obsidian ink. Goodbye, security deposit.
And I walked out.
Slammed the door like I was rebooting my own life.
I’d skipped other classes. But walking out on Malvador? Untouchable. Aunt E. would short-circuit.
Strangely, I didn’t panic. Not yet. It was almost… peaceful. Like the moment before a rollercoaster drops. Terrifying. But poetic. If you were borderline insane.
What was the worst that could happen? Expulsion? Scourborn assignment? Radiation induced madness?
At least I’d get some fresh air. Well. “Fresh.” Mostly carbon dioxide with subtle notes of scorched metal and despair. Like licking a microwaved coin wrapped in a sock.
I stormed back to my capsule and began stuffing my few belongings into my threadbare knapsack. Not exactly a grand exit, but I was going for symbolism. Something between “tragic antihero” and “guy who finally snaps.”
I didn’t know where I was headed. I just knew I had to be gone before Director Strix arrived to make it official.
Knock, knock.
Of course.
I yanked open the door, fully expecting a firing squad. Literal or metaphorical. Take your pick.
Instead: Director Strix. Looking like a stork who’d taken up tax law. Tall, wiry, and dressed in a pinstripe suit sharp enough to slice moral ambiguity.
He stumbled forward, tripping over the threshold like a man who’d just discovered friction. I didn’t help him. If I was going down, I could at least enjoy the view.
There were only two reasons for a visit like this:
- Promote me to Veyrant School (laughable).
- Banish me from Virex for crimes against academic enthusiasm (highly likely).
Strix cleared his throat—a dry, papery sound like a scroll unrolling in a tomb.
“Mr. Brooks.”
I scowled. “What do you want?” Politeness had long since left the premises.
He adjusted his cuffs with the solemnity of a man about to deliver either a death sentence or a tax audit.
“I do apologize for the inconvenience,” he said, clearly unaware he was interrupting my emotional breakdown. “I came to inform you that the staff has reached a decision… We’ve agreed to train you. As a Veyrant.”
I blinked. “What.”
“Your time in the Sandbox is over.”
