Steve Moscova, the Brain Boss, called it a “gallery.” It was maybe twelve feet wide and thirty feet deep, with lights strung along the ceiling. A lot of lights. Actually, the Brain Factory was probably the best lit place in all of Haven. They needed it. Here was where the chemicals got mixed, the blueprints drawn up, and the gizmos perfected. When the Angels went out into the field to face an army of the walking dead, they did so—we did so—with weapons forged right here. These dudes totally needed to see what they were doing. There were maybe a half-dozen Brains, and Steve lorded over them, as Sharyn had once put it, “with an iron pocket protector.” He had gotten the Sight later than most, almost a year later than his younger brother, Burt. It was a subject he was sensitive about. He thought it made him sound nerdish. But nerd or not, Steve was a genius. The genius himself stood at a lab table against the gallery’s back wall with Agent Ramirez.
