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
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
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