His mind switched on, booting him from a visionless dream of pain. Something had roused him from his slumber. Connor opened his blood encrusted eyes. He was lying on top of a dead Phantom, the skeletal helmet cold against his skin. The suit felt hollow, as if she had escaped and left it there for him to lay on. He pushed himself up to a sitting position. A new feeling of horror overcame him. Dozens of thin tendrils extended from his body to the Phantom, slipping between the seams of the armour for the soft inner lining. In his comatose state he had cannibalised her body for material. His skin crawled, the feeling of revulsion and shame were overbearing. He was a monster. A freak of nature. Perhaps he should have let the Phantoms kill him. None of this would have happened if he had stayed with the C.D.C agents. This whole mess was his fault.
With a growl he yanked at the thin tubes, pulling them from his body and arms. The modified tendrils he retracted, the growths too thick to merely rip off. He stood and surveyed the carnage. The limp bodies of the Phantoms lay amongst bullet casings and patches of congealed blood. Natural light filtered in through plastic skylights. He had no idea how much time had passed since the desperate fight. Had he been knocked out for mere hours or days? His body felt amazing, a scary thought given how he had healed himself. His borrowed clothes clung tightly to him. Had he grown?
Connor heard voices and footsteps echoing within the confines of the warehouse. His heart began to hammer in his chest at the thought of another beating. Had the Khalists returned? Were they here to finish the job? He cast about for a weapon. Connor’s eyes were drawn to the sword lodged in the Phantom’s shoulder. He went for it, spurning the empty, blood soaked auto-pistols scattered on the ground. Placing two hands on the sword’s handle and a foot against the chest of the Phantom, he gathered his strength.
“One. Two. Three,” he whispered to himself.
Before he could pull, the Phantom shuddered awake with a wet cough. Connor let out a startled cry and yanked as hard as he could, wrenching the sword from the armoured body. The Phantom screamed in pain and clutched at the wound on his shoulder. Connor heard shouting from elsewhere in the warehouse. It was time to be gone. He turned and started to run, hopping over the tangle of limbs, pools of blood and bullet casings.
“I’ll find you!” screamed the Phantom, pointing a blood-soaked finger at Connor. “I promise. I’ll find you and cut your head off! I’ll kill your entire family! I’ll find you!”
Connor ignored the man. He was as good as dead anyway. All he cared about was escaping and finding his family. He ran past containers riddled with bullet holes and random machine parts amongst spilled shelving. The warehouse was enormous, and the stacked containers made it into a maze. Connor looked at the high, domed ceiling to try and get a bearing of where he was. He caught sight of a metal beam running down the centre with smaller arched beams connected to it. He turned down a pathway between some containers and followed one of the smaller beams, hoping it would take him to an outside wall where he could find an exit.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw figures clad in dark clothing running in the opposite direction to him – likely following the screams of the injured Phantom. It was too dark to see who they were. Worst case scenario they were more A.R.C, coming to retrieve their fallen comrades. The middle scenario was the police or Feds, coming to take him away to the private research facility. At best they were a private security team hired by the owners of the warehouse.
If anyone found him, they were not likely to let him go without a fight. Connor wasn’t sure if he had it in him. He couldn’t murder men and women who were only doing their jobs, no matter how desperate he might be. Killing the Khalists, however, had been a necessary evil. In another time and place he would be lauded a hero. The full ramifications of taking a life hadn’t hit him yet, but given time, it was sure to wreck his conscience.
He made it to an exterior wall of the warehouse. Connor crouched for a moment and watched, looking up and down the space between the wall and the assorted junk, searching for an exit. A green sign glowed dimly in the distance, a fire exit. He crept toward it, eyes and ears alert for danger. He could hear muffled voices from far behind him. They had found the gory mess he had made of the Phantoms. Somebody swore and began retching. The door was just ahead. Connor stood under the green LED lit sign, one hand on the door handle, the other clutching his borrowed sword. He breathed deeply, psyching himself up. He coiled the tendrils in his arm, preparing them to strike.
“Alright,” He whispered before pushing on the door handle.
The heavy fire door swung open and the bright sunlight assaulted his eyes. He stood for a moment, blinking rapidly as his vision corrected before realising, he was. exposed to a slew of parked police cars, fire appliances and ambulances, their flashing lights painting the scene in distorted bursts of blue and red and orange. Connor’s stomach dropped at the sight. He stood there in the doorway, sword in hand, illuminated by the day light, his clothes torn and blood stained – as he counted the waiting emergency service workers. His feet felt as though they were glued in place. Should he run? Go back inside the warehouse?
A policewoman leaning against a nearby squad car saw him first. Connor and the woman locked eyes over the short distance. Her eyes travelled down to his blood-soaked clothes, over to his sword then back to his face. It took a second or more for her brain to register what she was seeing.
“Hey!” she shouted for the attention of her fellow officers. “Hey!”
Several dozen people turned in their direction. The police officer was approaching him, one hand going for her sidearm. What was he going to do? Hand himself over to the police? Or would they just give him to the C.D.C? The fact that so many factions were resorting to desperate means to get a hold of him made Connor wary. Whatever research they planned to conduct on him would not be pleasant. Connor made his mind up. Escape or die trying. He kicked his body’s natural defence mechanisms into overdrive, releasing a potent dose of adrenaline. His blood sang and the fibres of his muscles tensed, ready for action. He shook slightly as the chemical swept through him. He made some mental checks on his body. It had fully repaired itself while he was unconscious, stock piling reserves of extra fat and muscle. He felt stronger than ever before.
The officer drew her weapon and took aim at Connor. “Drop the weapon!”
The other police officers had done likewise, taking positions behind their vehicles. Connor shook his head at the officer. “I’m not the bad guy.”
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“Drop the weapon, kid!’ snarled the woman. “Don’t do anything dumb!”
“I’m not a bad guy…” he said to himself. He shuffled his feet into position.
“Don’t…” warned the policewoman.
Connor leaped through the air before she could finish her sentence, his extra muscle performing at near Pro-Human levels of strength. The world seemed to be moving in slow motion as the adrenaline hit its teeth-clenching crescendo. The policewoman’s face changed from anger to fear as he rocketed toward her. Connor struck her in the chest with a fist. He felt her ribs snap as she careened backwards into a squad car. Connor’s feet hit the ground and he sprang forward again, straight into the middle of the waiting police. The cops dove for cover. None of them were willing to fire their weapons while Connor was amongst them. He used the confusion and the cover provided by the emergency service staff to bound past their cordon and into an alley between two warehouses in several leaps of god-like athleticism.
He sprinted within the tight confines of the alley, springing over stacks of rubbish and assorted junk. His legs pumped like steam driven pistons. Connor smiled despite his situation. It was an incredible feeling, the strength he commanded. He wondered if this was how all Pro-Humans felt. Sounds of pursuit followed him. Connor emerged from the alley and struck out towards the nearest cover, a truck compound. A high chain-link fence blocked his path. Connor leapt mid-sprint, flying over the ten-foot-high fence with inches to spare. He zigged and zagged around trucks and trailers, trying to lose anybody following him. He made his way to an office block, people shouting at him as he ran through the compound. They kept their distance as his bloody clothes and ninja sword screamed psychopath. Connor turned his head for a moment. Two police cars had made it to the chain fence and a gyro hovered into view from behind the warehouses.
“Shit.”
A gyro was almost impossible to escape. Connor doubted he could outrun one, even with his newfound superhuman strength. If he made it downtown, perhaps he could lose them amidst the tight confines of the skyscrapers. A big ‘if.’ They could mow him down with a burst of their machine guns should they feel the need. Another gyro could appear at any moment, too. He ran regardless. Connor refused to give up now.
Dodging past a truck driver who stood in his path, he sprinted down the side of the office building. A high brick wall topped with razor wire hemmed in this part of the compound. The bars holding the wire jutted toward the other side, giving him limited space to jump over without cutting himself to ribbons. Connor skidded to a stop at the base of the wall and jumped, his fingers outstretched as far as he could. He missed the top lip by several feet. He looked over his shoulder as he gathered his strength for the next attempt.
The gyro flew in his direction, a door gunner leaning from the rear cabin pointing straight at him. Connor looked back at the wall, his teeth bared in a desperate grimace. He stretched out his arm, pointing it at a metal bar which supported the razor wire. He released the tendril in his forearm. It looped over the metal bar and coiled around it several times. Connor threw the stolen sword over the fence and started to climb, gripping the tendril like a rope. The thin tendril quivered painfully under his weight. It felt as though it would shear in two or tear itself from his forearm. Connor shoved the pain aside and added as much extra material as he could while climbing, stripping the layer of fat around his belly first. The strain was too much, however, and a tear started to form near the where the tendril caught against the metal bar. Connor launched himself at the lip of the brick wall with an outstretched hand. His fingers found purchase. He paused for a moment to retract the frayed tendril back inside of his arm before hauling himself up, hands gripping the spaces on the metal bar while leaning away from the sharp razor wire. He teetered at the top, looking down at the other side.
An empty expanse of train yards spread out in front of him, barren except for stacks of forgotten rail overgrown with weeds and several decayed bogies scattered alongside the rail corridor. He could feel the gyro sighting him with its weapon systems. There was nowhere to hide. In the distance spread the sister fence to the one he now stood on. Connor cursed himself and jumped. He hit the ground with a jarring thud, driving the wind from his lungs. He sat stunned for a second, sucking in air. His fingers brushed against the monofilament blade of the sword, scoring a shallow cut across them before he knew what was happening. He closed his fist as the blood began to flow, holding it tightly until he could knit the skin closed again with a little focused healing.
He stood up, careful to grip the wickedly sharp sword by its handle. The roar of the gyro’s turbines filled the air. Scared of going into the open, Connor broke into a run along the edge of the wall, hoping to gain some distance between him and the gunship. Broken glass and loose stones crunched under his driving feet as he pushed himself forward, taxing his stolen muscles to their limits. The gyro screamed overhead, throwing a storm of dust and grit outward. It circled around until its deadly nose pointed at him. Connor felt a cry of despair worm its way out of him. He kept running, eyes scanning the area for an exit.
“Stop where you are,” boomed the loud speakers on the gyro.
Connor ran, hoping, praying that some miraculous hole would appear in the ground to swallow him up. The police were having none of that. One of its cannons opened a brief volley of fire in front of him. A warning shot. Tears leaked from Connor’s eyes. This was it. He slowed to a stop, arms held high, the sword still clutched in his hand. Over the whine of the gyro’s turbines and surging blood pumping through his stricken heart he heard another, sharper noise. A large carrier jet descended behind the gyro, its rotating jet engines scorching the dry ground. It floated behind its smaller cousin ominously. Connor waited. He couldn’t see through the glare on their windshields, but a showdown was underway. Finally, the gyro ascended slowly into a support position. The carrier jet turned about to Connor, until its open rear door came into view.
A teenager dressed in an expensive suit clung to one of the rear struts of the loading ramp, the wind ruffling his thin hair. He looked at Connor with strong, brooding intensity. Dark circles rimmed his eyes and his pale skin shone with perspiration. People dressed in agency tactical-wear stood far behind the teenager, hands clutching weapons or medical equipment. The teenager stepped off the still hovering jet into thin air. Instead of falling, he floated, his clothes and remaining hair rising to stand on end. He smiled cockily at Connor, like the whole situation was all a game to him.
Connor lowered his arms into a defensive position. Floating or not – he would kick the smirk off this kid’s face if he tried to lay a hand on him.
The teenager giggled and rolled his dark eyes. “Really, Connor? You think I’m scared of a sword?” as he said as he floated closer.
“I’ll shove this up you ass, blade first, if you try and touch me,” warned Connor.
The teenager shook his head. “I don’t think so… I could it shove up yours though, if that’s what you’re into. You’d survive that, wouldn’t you?”
“I’ve killed more dangerous people than you, sick little fuck!” spat Connor, feeling his anger rising. “Come and face me! I’ll cut anyone who tries to cage me!”
The teenager shook his head condescendingly. His voice entered Connor’s mind, blocking out the noise of the screeching jets. You’ve become quite the psychopath, haven’t you? But your boasts are all hollow. I could rupture your brain with the smallest of thoughts. I could crush you under a weight so vast, you’d explode like a grape. There is nothing you can do to hurt me.
The teenager raised a hand. Connor felt a darkness overcome him, draining the spark of life from his frightened mind. He started to fall but something soft gripped him and raised him into the air.
“Let’s take you home. Uncle will be so pleased,” said the teen. He turned and levitated back to the waiting jet, Connor’s unconscious body in tow.