The city didn’t sleep. Gyro’s flew in pre-set lanes, the whir of their turbines ever present in the cityscape. Government and private operated drones hovered like bees above the rooftops, thick as flies in the darkness, adding a higher pitch to the constant buzzing as they waged a surveillance and counter-surveillance battle. It was a constant war of attrition, but those that didn’t play missed out. Dead drones dropped from the sky, smashed, blown or shot to pieces. Giant LED billboards alternated between advertising the latest luxury item to broadcasting public notices while red lit timers counted down the hours and minutes left on the curfew. In the narrow streets lurked the predators and thugs, moving product up and down the criminal ladder. Rivals were chased off. Murders were made. The sane and cautious stayed indoors. Those that lived on the streets hid until daylight.

Connor edged his way down the back alley, hood up and alert. He had a long walk to Fort Boise Park. He knew he should have stayed indoors until the curfew was over but he was too angry to turn the other cheek. If they didn’t want him around, he’d go. He could only hope that either Henk or Joshua got his message. The alley opened onto a street lit with bowing lamp-posts delivering tepid yellow light. Warning signs flashed in doorways – CLOSED – ARMED SECURITY DRONE. The air stunk of piss, vomit and wet tarmac. Delivery trucks and early commuters headed in to the city. Connor looked up and down the sidewalk, searching for lurking hoodlums dressed in bright gang colours. Nobody stood out. He risked a glance skyward. None of the drones seemed to be tailing him in particular. He walked onward, shoulders hunched and eyes forward, a deep scowl on his face. A carload of teens slowed to inspect him but his dirty hand-me-down clothes must have given away his current financial status. One of the passengers yelled a homophobic slur at him as the sleek black car accelerated away. Connor forced down his desire to flip them off, instead focusing his anger on staying alert.

This part of the city was foreign territory for him. He navigated by the illuminated landmarks of high rises to the south and the sky-bridge in the north. A surviving air-carrier sat atop the bridge, a dark smear on the skyline in daylight, a void of flashing light by night. Graffiti was sparse in this area, just the odd Lion stencilled on a wall. He crossed a street and things changed. The five pointed crown of the Reyes dominated every surface like a warning. Other signs had been sprayed over or highlighted with a target. This area seemed like it was highly contested. The buildings were taller and stood closer together, blocking the sky. Wires and washing lines hung between the buildings, linking them in familial and yet sinister ways as the occupants built their own networks of communication. Gyros couldn’t fly in these streets but skilled drone pilots could, if they dared. Connor saw flashing lights ahead and froze by instinct. An ambulance and several cop cars blocked the road. Body bags lay in a pool of blood and flechette casings beside a torn-up car. The police and medics worked fast to gather the bodies and evidence, likely spurred on by the knowledge of who controlled this territory and who had been shot. Connor spied bystanders watching from the windows and stoops. A group of people wailed in grief. Others watched in silent anger. He crossed the road, keeping his head down.

“Hey! Kid!” yelled a cop patrolling the crime scene.

Connor paused and half turned to the officer.

“Go home! Curfews on!” said the cop, pointing to the nearest building as if Connor belonged there.

Connor gave the thumbs up and jogged to the next block.

The crown of the Reyes gave way to the dice of IG 6, which merged into innocuous graffiti handles and street art the closer he got to Fort Boise. He expected the police to descend on him at any second for breaking curfew. The number of sirens he heard throughout the city suggested they were having a busy night. The dense city blocks opened up as he approached the park. The park itself was inky black, the lights in the lamp-posts off to discourage kids from visiting after dark. Connor made his way to the small stand of trees near its centre where he had last seen Henk and Joshua. He found the fallen log in the clearing. He sat down with his back to the log and wrapped the jacket around as much of his body as he could cover. He waited, watching the shadows until sleep overcame him.

Dawn came, dispelling the darkness in increments until the sky was a murky grey. Connor woke to bird song and the rumble of traffic. His body shook from the jarred awakening as his mind struggled to recall where he was. After several seconds of collecting his thoughts he remembered he was in the park, waiting for his friends to come. He mumbled his outrage and attempted to fall back asleep. There were too many distractions, however, so Connor shakily stood and stretched the kinks from his back and legs. A hollow pit had grown in his stomach once more. Connor walked out of the stand of trees and found a water spigot to drink from, filling himself to the brim to try and mask the hunger pains. With little else to do he alternated between walking in circles around the clearing or sitting on the log.

The grey tinged morning sky lightened into a wane, watery blue. He waited, hoping, praying that someone would come. In his mind he went over his options. Did he dare contact his mother? Should he leave Boise? Was he doing the right thing? Could he survive a life on the run?

A figure entered the clearing. Connor snapped out of his thoughts.

“Henk?”

“Yes,” replied his friend. “Are you okay, Connor? We heard you were hurt. The whole school has been talking about you.” Henk stopped a short distance away and laid a hand on his shoulder.

Connor almost burst into tears. It was good to see someone he knew. “Its not good, bro. I’m in all kinds of trouble.”

Henk’s eyes narrowed. “Really? What happened? We heard you were dying in Boise General.”

Connor grimaced. What could he tell him? “There is something different about me. Something the doctors at the C.D.C want to examine…” he said, pausing. He saw more people approaching, their outlines little more than blurs against the trees and shrubs.

“Okay…” replied Henk. “What is so different about you?”

Connor watched the blurry people spread out, surrounding him. “Henk. Were you followed?”

“Um, no,” replied the Dutch boy.

“Did you tell anyone you were meeting me?” hissed Connor, as a feeling of foreboding overcame him.

“Just you,” said Henk. “But I never got a reply back. Why?”

“I think you’ve been followed,” whispered Connor, his eyes darting to the tree line.

“What?” said Henk, turning to look. As he did, his head snapped sideways in a spray of pink mist. His body crumpling to the dirt.

Connor stumbled backwards, heart hammering in his chest. He heard a noise behind him and something bit into his back. Pain flooded his body as several thousand volts coursed through him. He dropped to the ground like a ragdoll, his limbs flailing uncontrollably. The pain stopped, but he was unable to move. Footsteps crunched through the fallen leaves. A set of boots stopped in front of his swimming vision. They knelt and stabbed a needle into his neck. Connor felt the drug enter his bloodstream. It spread though him, cold and painless.

“Bring the ship down. We have the kid.”

Mustering what facilities he had left, he looked up. The skull like visage of a Phantom stared back, its digital camouflage almost blending into the grey-blue sky.

The drug took hold and he saw no more.

Rough hands held him, coated in poly-carb weave, their fingers digging into the soft flesh under his arms. They dragged him through a dark room. He could hear their footsteps on concrete. His skin felt cold and damp. A bitter taste cloyed his mouth.

“He’s waking up.”

“Give him another shot.”

“He’ll overdose.”

“Not according to the report. Hit him again.”

The sting and surge of the needle. He blacked out.

He was strapped to a chair. Mouth dry. Vision swimming. Sweat dripped from his nose. He could detect the traces of the drug through his skin. His body wanted it gone. He turned his head. He was alone in a shipping container. They had stripped him of his jacket and shoes. His exposed skin prickled with goose-bumps. A battery powered flashlight lay on the floor, pointing at the wall. His thoughts came to him long distance, distorted and almost foreign. How long had he been there? Where had they taken him? Where was Henk?

“Henk…”

The memory rose from the murky, drug addled depths. His friends head whipping away, bright crimson blood bursting from the entry and exit wounds, his limp body falling onto the damp autumn leaves and mud. Henk was dead, his reward for daring to help.

Connor bit his lip. Tears fell, hot against his cold, clammy skin. “God…” he entreated the room.

Henk had died trying to help him. Connor felt sick. It wouldn’t have happened if he hadn’t escaped from the C.D.C agents. Now he was captured by some arseholes in Phantom suits. Were they A.R.C rebels or criminals posing as Khalists? It was no real concern. Someone would pay for the death of his friend. Would he pay for putting him in harm’s way?

Connor felt a veil lift in his mind. No matter what, they wouldn’t get what they wanted from him. He would do his best to exact his own brand of justice. Now he only had to figure out how.