“No,” he said curtly. “I prefer to leave on a high note.”
The pair stood and shook hands and then they dissolved into darkness. As quickly as they disappeared, they reappeared, and the scene replayed itself.
Again.
And again.
And again.
No doorway opened for her to slip into. Nothing happened at all. She paced around the small space, yawning occasionally and stretching. On the tenth replay of the memory, something snagged her attention. During one of their moves the dark-haired man had two pieces disappear, as though Rowan had taken two.
“Oh no,” said Maeve as she realized why no doorway was opening, why there was no option for her to slip into the dark-haired man’s mind.
This memory was, in fact, a lie. It was not entirely truthful like the Headmaster claimed. Maeve brushed it off as Rowan’s memory of this chess game not being sharp.
The scene began a final time, and Maeve prepared herself to break through the “crack” in the memory. Rowan moved his piece, knocking the dark-haired man’s knight aside. Maeve reached for it at once.
“Concurred,” she whispered.
The memory around her silently exploded. Rowan, the dark-haired man, the chessboard, the table, everything blasted into the darkness and began collapsing around her, trying to suck her down with it.
Maeve held her footing as Rowan’s false memory disintegrated. She slipped, faltering slightly as she too began to fall and pulled back out of the memory.
She planted her mind in the darkness, refusing to fall, and the air beneath her became hard once more. The darkness beneath her barreled up, air whipping through her.
She closed her eyes and calmed her quick heart.
When she opened them, Rowan and the black-haired man sat before her, playing the same game of chess.
“Damn, Ezekiel,” said the dark-haired man. “I forgot how well you played.”
Rowan moved with certainty, no hesitation, and took one of the dark-haired man’s pawns.
She looked at the man-
And slipped into his memory of their chess game.
“How could you?” Said Rowan. “Or do those German radicals you associate with not play?”
The dark-haired man laughed. “They play. But we are busy with more important things.”
“Like genocide?” Asked Rowan plainly.
The dark-haired man moved his piece. “Like fixing this world we are forced to inhabit.”
Rowan didn’t respond to that. Maeve looked at the board. He was two moves away from winning.
“When is your next meeting?” Asked Rowan.
“You considering joining us? You aren’t in the Militia. You weren’t even a Bellator.”
“No,” said Rowan lazily. “But I have other skills.”
“Like being a spy?”
Rowan looked across the table at him.
The dark-haired man scowled now. “Yeah, mate. People talk.”
