the smuggler’s bible


Everything is cool and black for a long time. Consciousness makes a few abortive attempts to sally out of whatever tiny bolt-hole it was stuffed into, but these register merely as throbbing pulses of red light, easy to ignore, way out on the periphery of all that limitless peace and quiet.

Nothing happens—until, of course, it does.

The smell of ozone sneaks in, very faint at first. Tenuous context follows close behind. Motion, his heels dragging over cave rock, and a scholarly voice murmuring nearby. Bloodtooth begins to moan softly, hoping the effort will make him black out again.