Jay Posey - Three

Three snatched the man behind the neck, forcing the guard’s head down into his shoulder, and whipped him around, putting the captain between Three and the other guards. With his free hand, Three trapped the pistol, and pressed its barrel against the captain’s stomach. Lined it up, and squeezed the trigger. The shot thundered in the room, tore through the captain, and dropped one of the guards from the door. Three slung the captain’s body to the floor and leapt at the next guard, intercepting the man’s jaw with a flying knee. Three rode him to the ground. As they landed, Three bounced the man’s skull off the floor, knocking him out cold.

Three whirled back to his feet, facing the throne with the rod in one hand and his pistol in the other. Its bulk was comforting. He’d missed it. Asher was sitting bolt upright in the chair, but his face was more one of disappointment than fear or surprise. The last guard stood trembling by Asher’s side. Asher looked at him.

“Well. Go on,” he said. The guard looked at Asher, and then at Three. And then back to Asher again. Asher sighed. “Useless.” He looked hard at the man, and the guard suddenly cried out sharply and collapsed to the ground as if his muscles had simply switched off.

Asher stood then, casually, confidently. “I told you I could’ve used a man like you. Too bad, really.”

“Bring Wren to me, and I might not kill you.”

“Oh… no, I don’t think I’ll do that,” Asher said. “The people of Morningside thought Underdown was something special, you know. Allow me to show you why.”

The guard had been asleep when Wren had quietly opened the door. A lucky break. Wren didn’t know what would’ve happened otherwise, and he hadn’t wanted to kill the man, after all. He’d shut the door behind him quietly and locked it back. For at least ten minutes, Wren had wandered the halls, listening for people approaching, sometimes hiding. The place was vast, with confusing hallways and passages, and voices seemed to come from funny places.

There was no way for Wren to track Three, and he didn’t dare risk trying to pinpoint Asher. So he did what Three had taught him to do.

When in doubt, trust your gut.

Wren followed a corridor down a long set of stairs, and kept descending, and descending. And the lower he got, the more terrible he felt. A growing, creeping fear crawled over him. He stopped several times on the steps, fighting the urge to turn around and at the same time trying to convince himself he was going the wrong way anyway. But each time, he knew in his heart that he had to go down those stairs. Three had once told him that it wasn’t bravery if you weren’t scared. So he gripped his knife in slippery palms and tried to ignore the trembling in his legs.

He passed a couple of landings as he went down, but no one seemed to be on the stairs. It didn’t seem like anyone had used them in a long time. Wren forced himself to keep moving, told himself there was nothing really to be afraid of. And all the while the dread grew. A terrible, terrible feeling like sweating and being cold and wanting to throw up all at the same time. It was like something he’d felt before, but the feeling was one he couldn’t quite place.

And suddenly, the stairs stopped. And there was a hallway. And at the end of the hallway, there was a door. Wren did not like that door.

There was a humming sound deep in the walls, a low drone that he noticed now seemed to vibrate in his chest. Wren sat down on the bottom step and hugged his knees. The door stood, staring back at him. Like so many doors Mama had gone through before. And nothing good had ever been behind them.

Wren cried a little then, silently, the tears rolling down his cheeks and dripping off his chin. He had to go through it. No matter what, he had to. He wished Three could be there with him. But he missed his mama most of all.

Finally he stood, and wiped his nose on his sleeve. And took a bunch of deep breaths. Then he started walking. It was the hardest few steps Wren had ever taken in his life.

The door was cool to the touch. Heavy, and a dull green, with big rivets around the edge. Locked. And then somehow it was open, and Wren knew he had opened it without really even meaning to. It was getting easier to do that. He pushed on the door, and it swung silently, smoothly inward. Inside there was only a dim reddish light, and it was hard for Wren to make out more than shadows and silhouettes within. He stepped inside, squinting. A wave of fear rolled over him, and he stood there shaking uncontrollably. In here, the hum was louder. No, not louder. Stronger. Or at least, he could feel it more. His eyes finally adjusted enough for him to make out what he was looking at.

There were boxes. Huge boxes, made of metal, with metal bars. As tall as Fedor. Rows and rows and rows. It made him think of the Vault, the first night he’d fallen inside.

And for all Wren’s fear, curiosity finally built up enough for him to take a few more steps inside to get a better look at the boxes. Though, boxes didn’t seem like quite the right word for them. And just as he approached the nearest one, his hand reaching out to touch it, he realized… not a box.

A cage .

From deep inside, near the back, two pale blue lights shone back at him. And just as a scream began rising in his throat, something clapped over his mouth and dragged him suddenly backwards.

In the wall behind the throne, a panel shifted quietly and slid to one side, revealing a dark passage behind. Though his mind couldn’t comprehend, it didn’t take but a moment for Three to recognize the aura emanating from it. The moonlight glow of a Weir’s eyes, growing as it approached, ascending stairs from below. Asher stood to one side, watching impassively, with except perhaps a look of muted pleasure on his face.

“They thought he was some great warrior. Or wizard. Or both, I suppose. Feared by the creatures. But he was neither.” He turned and looked at Three then. “He’d built a machine, you see.”

The Weir’s eyes became visible in the darkness, two soft stars in the gloom. The creature paused before entering the room, its other features hidden in the shadows.

“He hacked them. More or less. He could call them, he could drive them away. He even has a place to keep a few of them. But he never really understood them. He was about control, you see. Always control . Never got much beyond using them to secure a place of power for himself.” Asher returned to his seat, relaxed into it. “And that is why I am sitting here, and he is not.”

Three’s vision swam, his balance shifted awkwardly, though whether it was from the shock of this news, or from the injuries he’d sustained, he couldn’t tell.

“You look like you need to sit down.” Asher smiled. “Underdown was an innovative man in some ways, but he wasn’t terribly clever. Summoning the Weir and then driving them away again, for show. A one-trick pony. It took me to realize the full potential of his creation.” He looked vaguely over his shoulder to the creature behind him. “You can come in, my dear.”

The Weir stepped forward, something familiar in its movement. The creature snaked fluidly around the throne, and then poured itself seductively into Asher’s lap. If not for the eyes, Three would’ve sworn the woman was human. Her flesh a healthy olive tone, her hair dark and untangled. Her features perfectly preserved. Just as he’d remembered her.

Cass.

Three felt his legs go out, and he fell backwards, collapsing heavily on the floor, his weapons clattering heedlessly next to him. It was her. Cass. A violent chill shook him, and he nearly vomited. It was her. And yet it wasn’t. The she-thing looked back at him without recognition, without emotion. It wasn’t Cass, not anymore. Just a slave, using Cass’s body.