"That girl right... there!" The bulky man pointed toward Claire, the brown-haired, blue-eyed, "magical" chick. There was a reward out for her return to Chaos, but the man couldn't think of how to get close to her.

Not with that guard dog of a boy around, anyways. Chaos had found out about the boy not long ago, and they've told all recruits that he might be dangerous.

One member thought he saw wings on the boy. The thought of such a thing shook the bulky man to his core with laughter. Wings? On a kid? Preposterous.

"Got anything on the girl, Wes?" Another man, about 26 or so, appeared next to Wesley Amherst, taking the binoculars out of Wesley's hand to get a glimpse of the girl who, if captured, could promise their freedom in a place untouched by the burning hand of the Red Giant.

"No, not yet. She's looking up at that building there, smiling and waving, but there's nothing there. Chick must be crazy."

"Ha, I hear you." The man looked with the binoculars from Claire and the boy beside her to the top of the building, only to see a desolate, dusty rooftop with a dangling ledge.

The man simply shook his head as he handed the black pair of binoculars back to Wesley, smirking in awe of the girl before them in the near distance.

"Never seen anyone quite like her."

"Me either, man. Listen, I need to head back to the warehouse. Got some work to catch up on. New leads and intel on the girl and her boy toy. See ya, Wes."

"See ya."

Wesley pressed the binoculars back to his cold brown eyes, watching as the boy and Claire rose from the ground, walking on the shattered remnants of a typical Sedona street.

Wesley's concentration had been broken. He hadn't been able to concentrate well since he was diagnosed with ADHD as a child. Though he was 31 now, his ability to focus had still been impaired.

His ADHD revolved around a pure, undeniable, uncontrollable rage. Alongside his constant anger, Wesley's mind was held captive by sporadic depression. All his life decisions were decided in the time it took him to get dressed in the morning.

Impulsivity, especially impulsive aggression, was one of his strong suits.

Always had been, now that he thought about it.

Wesley was expelled from school when he was 15 for hospitalizing another student. Wesley couldn't get rid of the constant nagging in the back of his mind, trying to convince himself that he should feel bad for what happened to Jackson.

He just couldn't do it, though.

He felt nothing.

The memory of seeing Jackson surrounded by emergency medical doctors along with the flashing blue and red lights played through his mind every night like a broken record.

Jackson had blood spilling from his head and a newly broken nose and arm.

Wesley convinced himself nearly every night that Jackson deserved every half-hearted punch, even the one that slammed him into that red brick wall, nearly killing the poor boy.

It was all worth it to protect his sister, Talia.

Her memory haunted him on a regular basis. He hadn't been to visit her grave in quite some time; not since he'd been recruited by Chaos.

"Not now, Wes. Not now. She's in a better place."

Wesley placed a hand on his forehead, his tribal tattoos coming into view. He pushed back his brown hair, grey arising at the surface, from his forehead.

Grabbing the binoculars, Wesley stood up, brushing the sand off of his jean jacket and pants. He made way back to the warehouse, passing a small building on his way. The shed seemed to have been abandoned long ago, as pieces of the roof had fallen beside it. It wasn't completely destroyed, so it could be a safe place to rest for a couple of hours.

The heat had grown unbelievably hot, as it had been every day for the past few years, ever since the sun had turned into a Red Giant. The air became hazy, waves of heat visible above the broken pavement and buildings across what was left of Sedona.

"There's gotta be some shade in there. I'll die of heatstroke if I stay out any longer."

Wesley had grown lethargic. He was dizzy, hardly able to keep his balance as he walked toward the shed. His toes had become numb, and with each step, he found it harder and harder to breathe. Sunburn had made it all the more difficult to move efficiently, as he felt burning with each step.

His lungs expanded and contracted, taking in only small bouts of the polluted air around him. His chest was tight with the dread of taking another step, but he had only a small distance left to travel to the shed.

"Just a few more steps,"  he thought to himself. "Just a few more steps."

As Wesley reached the rotting wooden door, he pushed it open, finding the shade comforting. He closed the door with a slam, sliding his back against the wall with relief.

Click.

"Who are you?" The timid voice of a boy sounded above him, the pistol in his hand loaded and ready to fire. It was clear that he had tried to sound strong, but his voice shook as he looked at the sweaty, bulky man with tattoos all over who had slid into the floor.

"Wesley. Please, don't shoot me. I'm tired, that's all." Wesley spoke between heavy breaths as beads of sweat rolled down his forehead. "Who are you?"

"My name's Cole."