I had always imagined that stealing the sky would feel a little more triumphant. Perhaps a chorus of trumpets, or at least a sense of divine vindication that the heavens themselves had finally chosen me as their rightful custodian.
Instead, it felt like motion sickness.
Hours had passed since our dramatic little escape from the mob, and though the balloon sailed steady now, my stomach hadn't quite caught up with the concept that the ground was not, in fact, politely waiting beneath my boots.
Every time I leaned over the basket's edge, I expected to see the cobblestones rushing up to greet my skull, and instead there was only the endless sprawl of the city, smoking and writhing like some fever-ridden beast.
Just as I had expected, the city refused to settle. Instead it roared, it howled, it tore itself apart in glittering pockets of madness. With their primary target gone to the sky, that left them to turn on each other once more.
