Jay Posey - Three

Intruder.

Slowly, Three shifted his head ever so slightly to the right, just enough to take in the full view of the line leading off that direction. It was clear. Now, just as slowly, just as carefully, back the other way, checking left. He stopped. Someone was standing on the track.

Three waited. Judged. Let his mind run the calculations. Not a Weir. The idea was so bizarre, so preposterous, that he wondered briefly if he were still asleep, dreaming, or maybe hallucinating. But his gut told him he was wide awake, seeing what he was seeing. The silhouette of a man standing patiently on the tracks, maybe ten meters from the repeater, as if he’d been there all night.

Somewhere in an alley far away and far below, a Weir cried out in some unknown and unknowable emotion, if Weir could in fact be said to have emotion. The silhouette turned its head slightly in the direction of the sound, revealing a brief profile. It turned back as Three’s brain worked to identify the intruder from that momentary glimpse of features, and he noted from the movement that whoever it was, they were staring right at him now.

Thin, angular. Something in the posture seemed familiar. Three’s hand floated almost of its own accord up to the thin slash on his throat as it clicked.

Dagon.

There was no telling how long he’d been out there. Waiting. And there was no reason for him to be there other than because he had tracked them to their hiding place. If that was the case, why hadn’t he crept in and killed Three in his sleep? Taken Cass? If Dagon could evade the Weir at the height of their activity, that made him even more dangerous than Three already considered him. More dangerous than anyone Three had known before. And if Dagon had found them, what did that mean for the others? Were they waiting outside as well, ready to ambush him?

No. Something within told Three that the right thing was to go out to him. It didn’t make sense, but none of it did anyway. Dagon had some strange sense of honor, or some personal code. Three didn’t know much about the man, but he felt certain that whatever was about to happen, it wasn’t a trap. At least, no more a trap than confronting the deadliest foe he’d ever met could be.

Three slid carefully out from under Cass, propped her gently with the backpack as a pillow, and crept up to his feet. Dagon didn’t seem surprised as Three walked out to meet him. Three prepared himself, drew a deep breath, forced his body into a relaxed readiness. He cracked his neck as he walked the final steps, hands slightly stretched out to his sides, showing he was unarmed. For now.

As Three closed the distance, Dagon moved forward a few steps almost as though the two were old friends meeting again for the first time in a long while. Close enough for Three to see his half-smile. Close enough to whisper and be heard.

“Sorry if I woke you,” Dagon said, still smiling. “I was trying to be quiet.”

“Light sleeper.”

“Me too. Guess it’s not a bad thing. At least in these parts.”

Three didn’t respond. Just waited. Silence had a way of drawing more out of people than any question ever would.

“Is Haven in there?” asked Dagon. “Cass, I mean.”

“Would you believe me if I said no?”

Dagon chuckled quietly, shook his head.

“And Spinner?”

Three didn’t know why Dagon used different names, but he guessed correctly that he meant Wren.

“If I said no for that one?”

“I guess I wouldn’t believe you either.”

Again, Three just waited. The whole situation was surreal, like some sort of collision between alternate realities. Dagon didn’t belong here. But then again, neither did Three. None of them did. And certainly this didn’t seem like the time or place for small talk.

“What’s your name?” asked Dagon.

“Three.”

Dagon grunted. Then extended a hand.

“Three, I’m Dagon.”

Three hesitated, evaluated. But everything seemed sincere, genuine. He took Dagon’s hand, shook it firmly. A strange tradition that somehow managed to survive in a world where real, physical contact was practically indistinguishable from the virtual kind.

“I remember you, Dagon. We traded a couple of tokens of friendship last time we met.”

Dagon smiled. There was a strange kinship between them, though Three couldn’t place it. Few enough men in the world were left who could travel the way Three did, out in the open at night. Here stood another. Maybe that was all it was.

“Is she alright?”

“Hanging in there.”

“You taking good care of her?”

“I doubt she’d see it that way.”

Three understood now. Dagon loved her. And he guessed the feeling wasn’t mutual. That explained Dagon’s turmoil, his need to find her, to bring her back, and his wish to let her go, for her to be free.

“Let her go, Dagon.”

He seemed surprised at Three’s words, maybe slightly embarrassed, his secret revealed in the barest of exchanges. Dagon dropped his eyes, looked off over the side of the rail at the Vault below.

“Pathetic, isn’t it?”

A moment of silence. Then Dagon shook his head.

“But no. I can’t. Asher won’t do anything else until he has her back, and that’s not good for business.”

“Cracking Sec/Nets for Cutters really worth her happiness to you?”

Dagon’s reaction seemed even stronger: surprise, but also a hint of amusement.

“Sec/Net? Is that what she told you?”

Three didn’t answer. But he felt that cold wave wash over him that told him he’d been played for a fool. Worse. He’d let himself be played as one.

“Maybe things aren’t all I thought,” said Dagon. “You really don’t know who we are? Who Asher is?”

Three just stared him down. Dagon let out a low whistle.

“Brother, you just might want to sit down for this one then.”

“I’d rather not.”

“As you like… you ever heard of RushRuin?”

Before he knew why, Three felt it in the pit of his stomach. Utter dread. Some part of his brain kicked on automatic, rifled through backlogs of jobs he’d done, people he’d brought in. There was a glimmer of vague recognition. A passing familiarity. And recognition came. Older, maybe outdated, maybe a rumor. A dangerous crew, well outside his line of business.

“Brainhacking crew?”

Dagon snorted at that.

“Professionally speaking, we offer ‘thought acquisition and recovery’. But yeah, brainhacking gets it too.”

It was coming back to him now. A job two or three years old. Some nanokid in the heart of Fourover got his hands on a piece of tech he shouldn’t have. Ten grand alive, three dead. By the time Three had tracked him down, RushRuin had already gotten to him, which was saying something. Mostly just a bag of meat and bones left. They’d taken back the tech and ripped out whatever the kid had known about it, along with pretty much everything else he’d ever learned in his short life. Three had brought him in anyway, and managed to wrangle five thousand out of the agent in charge.

“Still working out of Fourover?”

“We go where we like these days.”

He didn’t want to admit it, but Three was rattled. Something hadn’t been sitting right with him since the wayhouse when it came to Cass. He’d known she was holding something back, but he’d assumed it had more to do with her chems than anything else. But this? This was way bigger, way deeper than anything he could’ve predicted.

“I wish you hadn’t killed Kostya. Asher might’ve let you off since you didn’t know. But Fedor…” Dagon shook his head, sincerely sorry for Three. “Well. That was his brother, you know?”

Three fought to maintain control. Stillness.

“So now what?”