Jay Posey - Three

“I said I can try to arrange it. No promises.”

“Try hard. It’s important.”

“Yeah, I’d guess so,” jCharles glanced at Cass and Wren again. A different look in his eye now. “Where you stayin’?”

“Nowhere yet,” Three answered. “Just rolled in.”

“Alright, I’ll set you up,” said jCharles. He swept up his mug, downed the contents, and then slammed it on the table as he stood. He moved like an animation skipping frames. “Drop upstairs if you want, Mol’s in. I got some business to attend to this afternoon.”

Three nodded, waved slightly, and jCharles was gone. Cass waited for Three to elaborate, but of course he didn’t. Finally, she prompted him.

“So… Bonefolder? That doesn’t sound like something we want to do.”

Three just nodded. Took a sip of his drink, grimaced, shook his head.

“Sit tight for a sec. I’m gonna go see Mol, let her know we’re here.” He stood, scanned the bar. Then added, “And do not chug that.”

Cass and Wren sat silently, Wren occasionally leaning forward to sip his drink. The Samurai McGann was a busy place, people coming and going, but mostly minding their own business. So it was strange when Cass saw the man by the door, staring at them. She didn’t recognize him, and he looked away quickly. Though there was something vaguely familiar about his eyes. As he walked out, she noticed he walked with a limp, but thought nothing more of it. It wouldn’t be until much later that she would place him.

Three climbed the back staircase with heavy steps. Weary. Far more so than he felt he should’ve been. He was used to being the one on the hunt, not the other way around. It was a slow burn, never being able to rest, never feeling safe; it was beginning to take its toll. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this fatigued. The guards at the gate… he shook his head. Losing his edge, when he needed it most. And he wasn’t sure when he’d get it back.

He hoped he’d get it back.

The stairwell was poorly lit, and its corridor was so narrow Three had to twist his torso to keep his shoulders from rubbing the walls on either side. An iron door stood guard at the top, painted over with some kind of pale green rubberized coating. There was no landing. The stairs just dead-ended at the base of the door. Three stood on the last step, gathered himself. Mol was in there. Always tough to see her.

Before he had a chance to buzz in, heavy mechanisms slid and chunked inside the door, and it swung away from him, and light flooded into the corridor, and she was there. She gave a little yelp, and in an instant her arms were around his neck.

“What are you doing here? Did you just get in? Does Twitch know you’re here?” Her perfume hit him: gentle, faint, but like a sledgehammer of memory. Like rain and moonlight on the ocean. And he was suddenly conscious of all the sweat and grime thick on his skin.

“Heya, Miss Mol.”

He dropped his hand on the middle of her back, gave her half a squeeze. Careful to avoid the jack and steel housing at the base of her spine. She pulled back, beaming.

“Don’t you ‘Miss Mol’ me! What are you doing here?”

“Passing through.” He tried to smile. It came out broken.

“Well, get in here. You bring anything with you?”

“Yeah, more than usual. Couple of guests this time.”

“Oh,” she said, obviously surprised. “OK. Well bring ’em on up. You need help with your gear?”

“No, I got it. You sure it’s alright?”

Her expression went flat, like he’d insulted her. She swatted his shoulder.

“Go get your gear and your friends. You see Twitch yet? I think he was heading out…”

“Yeah, on the way in.”

“Good. That means he won’t be gone all day. You sure I can’t help you with anything?”

“You’re helping me now,” he said, and winked at her involuntarily. “Be right back.”

She nodded and as he turned and headed back down the stairs, he could feel her watching him. When he was about halfway to the bottom, he heard the little whirs and clicks of her walking back into the upstairs apartment. The sound of the servos and micro-hydraulics that made her lifeless legs useful. The sound that broke his heart, every time.

He found Cass and Wren where he’d left them. Cass hadn’t touched her drink. Wren’s was empty.

“Hey,” Cass said when she saw him. Her expression shifted. “You OK?”

He nodded. “Mol’s waiting upstairs.”

“Mol is…?”

“A sweetheart. jCharles’s wife.”

He grabbed his pack, swung it up on a shoulder. Reached down and took Cass’s in a hand. Paused. Nodded towards Wren. “He ever seen a nerve-rig before?”

Cass thought, shook her head. “Not that I know of.”

“It gonna be a problem?”

“Full rig?”

“Half. Just the lower.”

Cass nodded, understanding. Something in her eyes said more than Three wanted them to. He had the disquieting sense that she was starting to get a read on him. She looked down at Wren, still sitting in her lap. Spoke quietly.

“Wren, the person we’re going to see upstairs has a special machine. To help her walk. It might look a little strange, but we don’t want to make her feel uncomfortable, OK? So we’re not going to stare at her, or ask her about it, OK?”

“Is she sick?”

Cass looked up to Three. He shook his head.

“No. She got hurt. A long time ago.”

A long time ago. As clear as yesterday.

“OK.”

Three hoisted their packs, shook Cass off when she tried to help.

“This way.”

He led them back up the stairs, letting the burden of all the gear focus his mind on something other than Mol. The first few minutes were always the hardest.

She’d left the door cracked open, so Three nudged it with the top of his head and leaned in.

“We’re back.”

He heard her moving around in the back room.

“Just throw your stuff anywhere,” she called. “I’ll be there in a sec.”

Three pushed in, slung the packs in an out-of-the-way corner by the door. Glanced around the apartment. Pretty much the same. The door opened right into the main room; a large, comfortable space that somehow seemed wider inside than the building had looked on the outside. It was warmly decorated, with oversized furniture. Old, dark woods. A kitchen was off to one side, and the other side led to the back room where Mol was now, which Three knew had a storage area in addition to jCharles and Mol’s bedroom.

“What are those?” Wren asked, looking at the one oddity in the apartment, across the room. jCharles’s life’s work, obsession, and personal treasure all in one, stacked on shelves that ran nearly the entire height and length of one wall.

“Books.”

Collected, scavenged, rescued, and restored. Ancient works, last known copies in existence. Masterpieces standing alongside some of the worst specimens of the written word ever penned by man. All worth saving, as far as jCharles was concerned.

“What do they do?”

“They’re full of words, baby,” Cass answered. “Stories and things. From a long time ago.”

He moved closer, touched the spine of a cracked leather-bound volume.

“Let’s not touch them, sweetheart,” Cass said.

“Oh, it’s alright,” Mol answered, coming in from the back. “They’re meant to be touched.”

She walked over to Cass with her hand extended. “I’m Mol.”

“Cass. This is my son, Wren.”

Wren turned away from the books, moved closer to his mother.

“Hi, Cass. Hello, Wren.” She knelt with some difficulty down to Wren’s level. “My goodness if you aren’t the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Any chance you’re an angel?”