There was really only one way to know for sure. He crept to the door and opened it as quietly as he could.
Wren was focused on the machine. It was complicated. Far more complicated than anything he’d ever imagined, let alone seen before. If his father had used this to control the Weir, it was far beyond Wren’s understanding. At first he’d just been searching for a way to connect, thinking that maybe if he showed he’d accessed the machine, it’d be easier to tell Aron and Connor that he’d really tried and couldn’t do it. But once Wren had gained access, he’d become intrigued by the system. Though it was far more layered, far more intricate, Wren had once glimpsed something like it in a moment of uncontrollable fear and rage. It reminded him of what he’d seen just before he’d… whatever it was he had done to his brother. When he’d sent him away.
It was like that, multiplied by a thousand. Or ten thousand, maybe. Except less organized. Or maybe more so, but with a system too advanced and on a scale too massive for his comprehension. It was impossible to tell, because of the depth of it all. Wren felt himself drawn towards it. Sliding nearer. And for a moment, he thought he might be falling helplessly into it.
But there was a shout from somewhere far away. Somewhere in another world. And then Wren realized it was in his world. His room. Everything came rushing back and he saw everything again as it was. Aron was there. And Connor. And someone else. A Weir. A Weir had come from the machine.
No, not a Weir. Painter. It was Painter. Come to help him.
Aron was fumbling for something inside his coat, and Wren tried to warn Painter, but it was too late. Painter didn’t need the warning. He leapt across the room, literally leapt, and struck Aron in a single motion. Aron’s head snapped back and his feet came up off the floor; he crashed head first against the wall behind him before collapsing down. He landed heavily, and his skull bounced when he hit. It made an awful sound.
Connor was making some noise, yelling maybe, maybe calling for help, Wren couldn’t tell. Everything still seemed like a dream at that point. And Painter – Painter was there, and his right hand flashed out and caught Connor by the neck or by the shirt, Wren couldn’t see for sure. But his other hand, his other hand was a fist and it smashed into Connor’s face. And again. And again. And Connor’s knees buckled and he went to the floor, still screaming. Painter rode him down, and his fist kept smashing. Again, and again. Until there was a wet crunch with every impact, and someone was screaming: “Stop stop stop!” – and Wren realized it was him.
Painter stopped, his hand raised for another strike and bloody, and it was like he was waking up from a deep sleep, from the way he looked at Wren. He was straddled on Connor’s chest. Connor was just laying there, still and silent, and his face was smashed in on one side and his eyes were open.
“Painter,” Wren said.
“Wren. Are you OK?”
Wren swallowed and nodded, but he didn’t feel OK. Connor was staring at him, and Wren could tell even from where he stood that there was no life left in those eyes.
Painter looked down at Connor and then stood up real fast, like he’d seen him for the first time. “What happened, Wren? What happened?”
“They came and took me. They hurt my mom.”
“Is he dead?” Painter asked, looking down at Connor, and then at his own hands. His left one was spattered all the way up his forearm.
“I think so.”
“What about the uh-uh-other one? Did I k-k-kill him too?”
Wren looked over at Aron, crumpled in the corner. He was motionless, and Wren could see there was blood pooling under his head. “I don’t know.”
“I didn’t mean to, Wren, I sss-sss I swear it. I thought they were hurting yuh-you.”
“They might have. They wanted me to do something… something I don’t think I can.”
“What do we do?”
“I think we better go, Painter.”
“I di-di-di… I di-didn’t mean to kill them, Wren.”
“I know, Painter, I know. Come on.”
Wren led the way out of the room, and back through the halls towards his mama’s room, his heart racing and his face cold with sweat. It all felt just like a nightmare, like waking up from a nightmare, except he knew he was awake and this was all happening, and all he wanted was to make sure Mama was OK. He could hear Painter right behind him, but Wren didn’t want to turn around and look – because he’d seen what had happened, and he knew if he looked at Painter now he was going to lose it – so he just kept looking straight ahead, getting back to Mama.