Orson's fists clenched, his nails piercing into his palm. Each murmur from the crowd behind him felt like a needle pricking at the inflated balloon of his ego.
He had come this far for them. The thought was a bitter mantra in his mind. When they refused to think, to understand the implications of survivors coming here out of nowhere, he had been there to make them aware. He took the lead and stormed this place for them. And now, when it was time to be rewarded, to be given the authority that was his rightful due, they looked through him as if he were a ghost.
Ha, what a bunch of ungrateful cowards!
His lips twisted into a sneer.
Of course, what his raging mind refused to acknowledge was the simple, undeniable truth written in the new language of this apocalypse: strength. He had none to show for himself. Compared to even the Awakened kids that could cause an earthquake with a scream, or the one that could latch onto the wall—disregarding physics, he was painfully ordinary.
