Ezra DeWitt was a big man. He topped 6'3" and weighed a staggering 90 kilos. It was all muscle that continued to his brain. He fed well because he did his job well. He was an eradicator, whether of people or property, he used brute strength to break that which others held dear and turned a profit. Not much could stand in the way of Ezra DeWitt when there was booty to be had. And he had a bounty to collect for a job well done.
Ricoh watched DeWitt approach the Complex on foot. From the 14-year-old's vantage atop a pile of boxes and crates filled to bursting with all kinds of trash (another man's treasure and the product of a hundred scavengers and traders that passed through the Complex's gates each year). Pressed flat as he was, Ricoh remained unseen by the guards and DeWitt. The assassin had arrived at dawn dressed in the tatters of desert motely and smelling of smoke and fire. Ricoh's nostrils flared as the man passed beneath him and shared his stench. Sucking air through his teeth, the boy waited till the guards had turned their attention to the desert beyond to slip from his hiding spot. DeWitt moved with purposeful strides toward the low shack that served as the Complex's front door. The big man looked forward and never saw or heard Ricoh's silent approach. The boy stalked the man like a cat, sticking to the shadows, darting between crates and vehicles, low to the ground.
Ric! Ric! Where are you? Something's happened! His brother's sudden voice exploded in his head, full of fear-driven anxiety. It was enough to make him stumble and kick up dust. The sound of his feet shuffling was loud in his ears. He darted behind an ATV left where it had died. Only a skeleton was left but it was enough to hide by. When DeWitt turned at the sound of scuffling, he saw only a lone dust devil whirling toward the fencing.
Go away, Mikkaill. There was a threat implied in the deliberately slow thought-projected words. Ricoh didn't need his brother to do what needed to be done. The wind carried the scent of ashes to him. His hand clenched into a fist. Ricoh crouched low as DeWitt dickered with the guards at the front door.
Ric! Don't you know? Macy...she...she's, Mikkaill's mental voice hiccupped, couldn't get the word out. Ricoh supplied it for his twin. Dead, Mik. She's dead. A split second was enough to share the anger that had engulfed Ricoh. He had tried to hide the knowlege of her death from Mikkaill, at least until he had solved the problem, dealt with the killer. The killer who was walking through the front door, laughing with the guards. Too late now. The slamming of the door set Ricoh in motion. He ran, feigning breathlessness, like he had just run for days and only now had returned to the complex. He gave the guards a feckless grin that set their heads to shaking.
Ricoh doubled over and took deep, deep breaths. Mikkaill's voice sounded far away, muffled by the pounding surf of red behind his vision. Ric...don't do anything stupid. Keep your sights clear. He ignored his brother and continued to grin at the guards. "C'mon. Lemme in. Austinn'll kill me if I'm late for language class. I'll get there sooner if I go through the front." Ricoh was growing lanky, all gangly arms and legs with a girlish face and big grey eyes. The second guard leered. The look almost made Ric lose his grin.