Jay Posey - Morningside Fall

“Everything’s going to be fine, Wren,” Connor said.

Wren wanted to ask why, if everything was going to be fine, they’d just shot his mama and were keeping such a tight grip on his arm, but he knew better. He’d been through something like this before, back when Asher had caught him and Three. And Able and Swoop had been training him for this sort of situation. Best to go along, until the opportunity presented itself. And it would.

Aron moved to the door and cracked it open, checking outside before committing to opening it all the way. He nodded to Connor and motioned for them to follow. The hallway was deserted, and that was a bad sign. If there were any guardsmen left in the building, they would probably be on Connor and Aron’s side anyway.

It didn’t take long for Wren to figure out where they were headed. They took him along halls that he hadn’t been through in a long, long time. To a room he hadn’t been in since… not since Three had died and his mama had come back. Aron led the way, and Connor half-dragged Wren along, apologizing the whole time, constantly telling Wren it was all for the best.

“We just want you to try, OK?” Connor said. “We just want you to see what you can do. It really is for the best. We all just want what’s best for the city, OK?”

They took him through what was once a kind of throne room. The room where Wren’s father had sat and held court and handed down his judgment. Already Wren could hear the faint hum. Wren wasn’t exactly sure why they were making him come to the room itself. And it occurred to him that for all their plans and schemes, they still didn’t even have a basic idea of how it really worked. Underdown’s machine might as well have been magic as far as they were concerned.

Aron unlocked the door and stepped back. Connor pushed Wren inside. Even without the lights on yet, Wren could make out the shape of the thing. Underdown’s machine. The device Underdown had constructed to tap into the minds of the Weir, or whatever it was. The way he’d called them, and forced them away. The way he’d controlled them, as a means to control his people.

Aron followed them in and activated the lights. The machine stood before them in the center of the room, emitting a hum that would’ve been soothing to anyone who didn’t know what it’d been made to do. It didn’t look like much. It was about Wren’s height, maybe just over four feet tall and about half again as wide. Mostly smooth with a couple of panels and a few lights that were all darkened. Only now did Wren understand that the machine had never been shut down. Maybe they didn’t even know how.

“We just want you to try,” Connor repeated. He seemed more nervous now, even more than he had when they’d first come in Mama’s room.

“Try what?” Wren asked. He was being honest. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“You know what your dad could do with this,” Aron said. “We want you to do the same thing.”

“I never even met my dad.”

“Don’t talk back to me, boy,” Aron said sharply. “I helped make that wall. And I helped make your father. I’ll make you too, if it’s what it takes to keep this city alive. But don’t you think for one second I’ll hesitate to tear you down, either, if that’s what it takes.”

Wren had never seen the machine before, let alone tried to interface with it. But Aron and Connor didn’t seem all that concerned with facts or excuses.

And he understood that if they thought he was doing anything other than what they wanted, there was no telling what they might do to Mama. So, for his mother’s sake, Wren closed his eyes and put his hands on the machine, and tried to see what his father had seen. And he knew without a doubt: there was terror inside that box.

Painter lay awake on his bed, wondering if he’d ever get a chance to sleep. It was a constant battle, trying to maintain some semblance of a normal schedule during the day, knowing that his body was wired for the night. He’d adjusted to some degree, and somewhat better than others. But the early hours of night were always the toughest, trying to convince his body it was time to shut down, instead of wind up.

Not that it was really his bed he was lying on. It was Finn’s. The man who had kindly given up his own room so Painter could stay among them at the governor’s compound.

Why they’d given Painter a room on the same floor as the governor’s personal guard, he didn’t know. For protection, maybe. Though it’d be hard to guess whether they meant to protect him from others, or others from him.

Painter still felt bad about how he’d reacted when he’d seen Snow’s body. Everyone had assured him there were no hard feelings, and that they all understood. But Painter couldn’t let himself believe there were truly no hard feelings. And he was certain they didn’t understand. But he’d taken care of her. She would be OK now. He’d done his part.

Except for repaying those that had taken her from him. That work still remained. Painter didn’t blame Wren, or anyone in the compound. Someone had poisoned her mind. He knew that now. Poisoned Snow against him, and against everyone like him. Against Luck. And as much as her death had broken Painter, it had, in a way, also healed him. Her reaction to him, upon his return, it hadn’t really been her. It’d been what she’d been taught. What she’d been told by others. It wasn’t really her fault. He’d find out whose fault it was, and he would repay them in kind.

It was while Painter was lying awake, thinking through all that had happened to him, and around him, that something sparked in his mind and interrupted the natural progression of his thoughts. Wren is in trouble. He had no idea how or why he knew. But there was no doubt that his little friend needed help, and soon.

Painter sat up in bed. Was there any reason to think Wren was in danger? No. Surely not. He was with his mother, and she was more than capable of protecting him. And even if not, there was his personal guard. Able, and the rest of them. Finn. Surely those would be far more able to take care of the Governor than Painter ever could. It was a silly thought. Painter lay back down and tried to think of other things. But no matter what he did, he couldn’t chase away the feeling that Wren needed him. Him. Painter. And so without understanding why, Painter got up and quickly put his clothes back on.

He’d never been much of a fighter. He believed he had the heart for it, just not the training or skill. But believing it was different to knowing it.

There was really only one way to know for sure. He crept to the door and opened it as quietly as he could.

Wren was focused on the machine. It was complicated. Far more complicated than anything he’d ever imagined, let alone seen before. If his father had used this to control the Weir, it was far beyond Wren’s understanding. At first he’d just been searching for a way to connect, thinking that maybe if he showed he’d accessed the machine, it’d be easier to tell Aron and Connor that he’d really tried and couldn’t do it. But once Wren had gained access, he’d become intrigued by the system. Though it was far more layered, far more intricate, Wren had once glimpsed something like it in a moment of uncontrollable fear and rage. It reminded him of what he’d seen just before he’d… whatever it was he had done to his brother. When he’d sent him away.

It was like that, multiplied by a thousand. Or ten thousand, maybe. Except less organized. Or maybe more so, but with a system too advanced and on a scale too massive for his comprehension. It was impossible to tell, because of the depth of it all. Wren felt himself drawn towards it. Sliding nearer. And for a moment, he thought he might be falling helplessly into it.