“OK.”
“And Wren?”
“Yeah?”
“Nice hat.”
Wren smiled and tried to force a laugh, but it came out like a lie. “Thanks. See you, Painter.”
“Yep.”
Able was standing at the door when Wren stepped out of the room, looking like he already knew how it had gone. He nodded slightly and put his hand out for Wren’s, and together they left the Tea House.
Wren cried the whole way back.
As they neared the governor’s compound, their path led them by the north-eastern gate and though Wren’s eyes were on the ground, he felt Able’s stride slow and his hand tensed.
“What is it, Able?” Wren asked, out of reflex. Able wasn’t looking at him, so he didn’t respond. He didn’t have to. When Wren followed his gaze, he saw what had caused him to react.
The remnants were strewn all over the street. The gate itself didn’t seem to be damaged at all, though Wren couldn’t tell if anyone had been trying to break into the compound anyway. But what once had been a memorial to those who’d been taken was now little more than a pile of debris smashed against the base of the wall. The wreaths had been pulled apart, the vigil lights stomped on and smashed against the concrete, the various articles of clothing and other personal effects were all torn, crushed, or shattered. And the pictures. The pictures were mostly pulled down and scattered along the street. Some swirled, caught in little eddies of the night air.
Able swung Wren up and carried him quickly towards the main gate. As they headed inside the compound, Wren wondered if his grand idea not to keep extra guards posted was another catastrophe in the midst of unfolding.
Painter stood at the window of his second-story room, biting a towel between his teeth to keep the fear and heartbreak and tears in check. He stared out at the street below, but only saw the look on Snow’s face, with crystal clarity, the moment she had first seen him after he’d returned. The reunion he’d imagined shattered by the horror in her eyes, the stark disgust on her face. For weeks Painter had been telling himself he’d go downstairs to work, and she’d be there, sitting at one of the tables, and she’d apologize, and Snow would wrap her arms around him and tell him how glad she was that he was alive and OK, and they’d be together again. And now… what if it was true? What if Wren was right? What if his baby sister was gone?
His eyes refocused on the flexiglass window, his faint reflection there staring back at him, staring back with those hellish electric eyes. His hand flashed without thought, fist driving through his own image, through the plate, out into the night air. The flexiglass exploded outward with a sound like a thunderbolt, the sharp crack snapping Painter’s attention back to the here and now. He pulled his hand back in through the window, stretched out the fingers, watched the black fluid welling up around the shards stuck in his knuckles and in the back of his hand. Sharp fragments of what should have been unbreakable. Black ichor that should have been blood. He tugged at the slivers, drew them from his flesh, and wrapped the towel around the wounds. There was pain, but not what he would’ve expected. It was sharp but distant, with a fiery tingle. Already his modified body was reconstructing itself. Modified. Optimized.
Painter inhaled deeply, letting his eyes fall closed, felt the cool night air across his face through the hole in the window. He had been unfair to Wren. Only now he realized how much trouble the young governor had gone to, how much danger he had exposed himself to, just to be the one to tell Painter about Snow. Even if Wren was wrong, he had still taken a risk for no reason other than kindness. If Painter hurried, he might be able to catch up with them.
He bounded down the stairs two at a time, nearly colliding with Mister Sun at the bottom. Mister Sun caught him by the shoulders, held him upright.
“Everything OK, my friend?” Mister Sun asked.
“Yes, fuh- fuh… yes, fine, Mister Sun,” Painter said. Mister Sun held him fast, the old man’s good hand surprisingly strong on his shoulder. Mister Sun’s eyes searched Painter’s. “Really. I just need to go. I’ll mmm- make up the time tomorrow, pruh- prrruhh- promise.”
The old man’s eyes narrowed, but after a moment he nodded, and squeezed Painter’s shoulder, and then let him go. Painter hurried through the Tea House, realizing he’d have to be careful chasing after Able and Wren. He couldn’t draw too much attention to them, after all.
He was lost in thought as he leapt down the stairs in front of the Tea House, and couldn’t quite stop himself in time as he hit the street and ran right into a trio of men, nearly knocking one of them down. Painter reached out instinctively and grabbed the man’s arm to steady him.
“Suh — suh — sorry, I’m sorry, are you alright?”
“Yeah, I’m fine, just watch–” the man cut himself off as he looked up into Painter’s face, snatching his arm away roughly. “Get yer stinkin’ hands off me, deadling!”
Painter held up his hands, hoping to defuse the situation. “I’m sorry, s-s-sss, sorry, sir.”
The other two men closed ranks, one on each side of Painter, as the one he’d run into drew himself up. He was a good four or five inches shorter than Painter, but about twice as wide, and he had a gap between his front teeth big enough to stick a finger through.
“S-s-s-s-sorry!” Gap-tooth mocked. “S-s-s-sorry, he says. You got a busted mouth, deadling?”
“No, sir–” Painter started to say, but before he could say more, Gap-tooth smashed a fist into his face, and Painter hit the ground, his head bouncing hard against the concrete.
“Ya do now!” Gap-tooth said, and his buddies laughed at that, and one of them took a big step forward and kicked Painter in the gut. The shock wave sent all the breath exploding out of Painter’s lungs and made him choke. Then Gap-tooth was on him, a knee in his crotch, crushing but dull pain; a hand around his throat under his jaw, shoving his head back into the concrete. Gap-tooth’s face was right in Painter’s, his foul breath spilling like kerosene over Painter’s mouth and nose.
He said, “You and yer kind better think hard about where you belong, cause it ain’t here. It ain’t nowhere close to here, you unnerstan’? There’s a storm comin’, there’s a storm comin’, and you and all yer kind are gonna wash away or twist in the wind.”
Painter fought to breathe, his vision mixed with dark spots and bright flashes. And floating images, images of Snow, and his reflection, and the window shattering, and dark things. Dark things that he had done before — before Wren had found him. How easily they had come apart in his hands before.
Gap-tooth reared back and punched at him again, but it was badly aimed and little more than a glancing blow. The man spat and Painter felt the wet spatter on his cheekbone and eyelid and upper lip, and then the weight was gone, and the three men melted away, laughing in the haze of Painter’s stunned and battered mind. After a minute, or five, or twenty, he managed to roll to an elbow and push himself up to a sitting position. The world reeled, then settled to a lazy swirl, and Painter felt bile in the back of his throat and realized his hands were cold and sweaty, and he was shuddering uncontrollably.
He held them up and looked at the palms, torn from the fall. Up his slender fingers. How they trembled. And there, at the ends, graceful glints of steel reflecting the yellow-orange street light and the blue of his eyes. The talons of the Weir, a scant half-inch long and sharper than any blade or razor ever honed by human hands. Elegant. Utterly efficient. Painter couldn’t remember having extended them. But for a brief moment he stared at them, and let himself imagine a different outcome. The tearing of Gap-tooth — the gush and spill as the man’s friends screamed in helpless horror.