Then… as Cradle had planned for a long time, but in a darker, more complicated fashion, he’d been left alone in the room. Or as alone as he could be, with the beast in the fifth quadrant. The beast that had devoured Snaggletooth.

Alone, he’d found that when he sought exit, he found it. An early awakening.

And—

And he was strong, now. But he was strong and angry, strong and self-loathing. Strong and riddled with doubt.

He could suppress all of that. He’d had a lifetime to.

But he’d have to find a solution. Because one day of this was too much. The Fallen boy had screwed with the dream room… had screwed with the room, somehow, just as Cradle had fine-tuned his own dream.

If this happened tomorrow or the day after, Cradle knew he would break. He’d resolve everything in the next twenty hours. Accelerate every plan. No other choice.

His hand clutched at his chest.

“The plan stands,” he said, and he didn’t sound like himself. Even the sound of his own voice made him feel pangs of regret and doubt, as real as if he’d tried to shout with broken ribs. “We—”

He was reminded of the time in the waiting room of the principal’s office, before he’d left his first school. Mrs. Parrish.

He’d held off on talking because he’d been worried she was recording. As tempting as it would be to tell her exactly what he felt and what he knew, it was dangerous.

He wiped blood from around his eyes.

No sharing the plan. Not if someone might be reporting to the enemy. He’d been careful, but there was no use being stupid. Not when the Fallen boy had enlisted the help of a camera tinker.

“Get ready,” he said, his voice hoarse. “We mobilize now.”

The city’s already gone and everyone who matters knows it. As bargaining chips go… it’s acceptable. I feel like I could die, I’m drowning in pain, but I don’t feel like dying when I think about that reality. If the city needs to be sacrificed, then that’s fine.

A batty, rabbit-eared woman who doesn’t care about anything except a fairy tale playing out in real life, who wouldn’t even mind dying? She’d make a fine scapegoat, when the authorities needed someone to blame.

That felt bad, which was alien. He processed it for a second, as his soldiers moved. Because March was mentally infirm. He was taking advantage of that.

He pushed past the realization and the feeling, every push hurting and distracting.