He needed a weapon. Something that could take on a soldier in a military grade suit of poly-carb. The tendrils hidden in his arm were his first choice, but they would need adapting and upgrading. He started by adding a mesh of muscle and sinew to them, protecting the sensitive nerve ends and adding to the system that extended and retracted the tendrils. At each tip he fashioned a blade of sharpened bone and a sheath for the nerves to extend, should he need to connect with another nervous system. If his trial with Bill had proven anything, it was that he could in fact heal others, he only had to get better, faster. The growing process was slow, however, and he was draining himself of materials. The sound of clanging metal roused him from his internal meditations.

One of the Phantoms came in to check on him. Surprisingly they had removed their ghastly helmet. The face that looked at him was Caucasian, no different than anybody you saw on the street. He had been expecting some hardened killer, a mercenary or thug, their face a mesh of scars from a dozen battlefields. Or perhaps the tattooed cheeks of a Khalist warrior, eyes wide with religious zeal. He carried a small medical case. An auto-pistol was strapped to his waist along with an array of ammunition and a long knife.

“You’re awake?” said the man, surprised.

Connor didn’t respond. He watched, his anger written across his face.

The Phantom shook his head. “I’m going to need a shit load more tranquilizers…” he said to himself as he prepared another hypodermic needle.

“It won’t work,” said Connor. “I’m developing an immunity to them.”

The man looked at him over the needle. “Then I’ll give you something else.”

“I’ll get used to that too…” shrugged Connor.

“Whatever makes you feel better,” sighed the man as he injected another vial into Connor’s neck. “It won’t help where we are going.”

Connor closed his eyes as the liquid entered, trying his best to hold it in place. “Where are you taking me?”

“Some rival of Kurniec’s” said the man as he inspected Connor’s eyes. “’The enemy of my enemy is my friend’ or whatever. If Kurniec wants you, we want you.”

“What does Kurniec want with me?” asked Connor through gritted teeth as he fought to contain the drug.

“He wants the Pro-Human children,” replied the man, hands on hips as he watched Connor. “He’s interested in some kids more than others. You in particular.”

“Why?” panted Connor, fishing for information.

“I don’t know. This should have kicked in by now…” he mused to himself. “Should be drooling…”

Connor gasped, the drug was leaching past his defences. “Where are you taking me?”

“I ain’t telling you shit,” said the Phantom, his voice edged with boredom. “You’ll find out soon enough. Or maybe you won’t. I’m just killing time…” he added, watching Connor’s eye lids droop.

Connor slumped forward, face slack and eyes closed.

“Told you,’ muttered the Phantom as he stood up.

Connor hadn’t been knocked out. He had delved inward to find a way to stop the drug. Collecting all he could, he forced it to the nearest extremity. A small slit opened upon the palm of Connor’s hand. Bloody liquid dripped out and pooled on the floor.

“What the hell?” exclaimed the Phantom.

Connor coughed and sat upright. He flashed a smile at the other man.

“Fucking freak,” growled the man. “You’ll die in a lab. I guarantee it. So keep smiling if it makes you feel better. You won’t be smiling for long.”

Connor’s mouth twitched. He closed his eyes, focusing on the weapons he was growing within. He poured in as much as he dared, giving the two tendrils their final touches.

The Phantom turned and stomped out of the room, his poly-carb boots booming on the thin metal floor of the shipping container. “Sit where you are, asshole,” he called over his shoulder.

Connor flexed the tendrils. They coiled beneath the skin of his arm, stretching it taut. He wound them back, preparing them to strike. He would have one, possibly two chances to attack. He didn’t like his chances of taking on a pack of trained killers. His healing ability was a trump card, so long as he wasn’t shot in the head. He was still feeling his way through this new gift, but he was ninety percent positive he wouldn’t survive a bullet to the brain.

He heard footsteps. The same Phantom from before entered with a female in tow, her face severe. She was of Asian origin. Her hair had been shaved off to reveal a Khalist tattoo above each ear. The man had a needle ready. He approached Connor as the woman stood in the corner watching, one hand hovering near her handgun.

“You’re a lucky boy. This shit is guaranteed to send you to the moon. I’m a little jealous,” said the Phantom, checking the needle for air pockets.

Connor breathed deeply. It was now or never.

The man leant forward, sinking the needle into Connors bicep. Connor lashed out with the tendril in his forearm. It pierced the man’s neck, just below the jaw line. He elicited a groan and coughed, spraying blood over Connor’s face.

Connor extended a nerve, searching for a connection to the Phantom. The soldier raised a hand to the bleeding wound before collapsing on top of Connor.

The Khalist drew her weapon and pointed it at Connor. “What’s going on?”

From her angle she couldn’t see the bloody tendril affixed to her teammate, just his body slumped over Connor.

The nerve found its target and formed a connection. His consciousness expanded, his senses doubled. He was one mind shared across two bodies. He stood, wearing the other man, controlling him like a puppet.

“Troy? Are you okay?” asked the woman.

Connor turned the man to face his comrade.

“What the fuck!” she swore as she saw the tendril jutting from her friend’s neck. Blood dripped down the Phantom suit, throwing the digital camouflage off as it couldn’t blend with the surroundings.

The puppet went for his sidearm, his movements slow and awkward. The Khalist opened fire first. Her bullets thumped into the poly-carb armour, pushing the man backward. Connor ignored the pain shared down the link and used the puppet to pull the gun from its holster. A bullet tore into the man’s head, blowing it open. The Khalist stopped firing, assuming it was over as the corpse teetered on its feet. Pain and an overwhelming array of sensations assaulted Connor through the link. He clamped down on the connection, focusing only on signals from below the neck. Connor lost sight through the other man’s eyes but could still control him. Through the puppet he raised the pistol and squeezed the trigger, sending a volley of automatic fire at the Khalist Phantom. Bullets punched through the thin metal of the container in an arc as he swept the gun before him blindly. The Phantom flew backward, clipped by a round to the chest, her dark blood spraying against the wall.

The pistol’s hammer clicked, its magazine empty. The puppet dropped the gun. Connor forced the puppet to turn. The grisly head wound confronted him. He gagged, sickened by the sight mere inches away. Breathing deeply, he directed the puppet to pull the combat knife from its belt. By a combination of touch and mirrored commands he managed to control the dead Phantom and cut through the rope tying him to the chair. Connor released the bond with the dead man and retracted his tendril. The Phantom crumpled to the floor, the remnants of his face frozen in a rictus of surprise.

Connor stood and edged away from the body, his skin crawling at what he had done. He was responsible for two deaths. Three if he included Henk. Part of him wanted to vomit. Another wanted to run. There were more arseholes dressed as A.R.C in the area. If he was to survive he’d need to overcome them too. He removed the hyper-dermic needle that was still hanging from his arm, tossing it against the wall. He bent over and picked up the discarded auto-pistol from the floor and a spare magazine from the dead man’s belt. The bullets had yellow heads — mini-ex. After several attempts he managed to reload the pistol, his knowledge of first-person shooters and V.R gaming coming in handy for once in his life.

The radios on the dead Phantoms squawked once. Connor jumped at the sound, almost dropping the gun. The sounds of footsteps and grating metal crept into the container. The remaining A.R.C were closing in. He was surrounded, trapped in a windowless box. Connor started to shake. Memories of Boise General assaulted him. The cold metal pressed to his head. The smell of blood and cordite. The overwhelming sense of fear. He should have died that day.

Connor looked at his arm.

He didn’t die. He survived.

He took a deep breath.

Cowering in the corner wasn’t going to solve anything. He looked around the room for anything else that could help. His eyes came back to the female phantom. An idea formed.

He emerged from the container a moment later. He walked behind the dead phantom, his gun pressed to her temple. He controlled her through a link, the tendril buried into the base of her skull. He walked slowly, his concentration divided between two sets of legs. They were in a warehouse, surrounded by stacks of containers and shelving. The muffled sounds of revving trucks and forklifts washed into the warehouse from beyond the metal walls. Connor looked around him, searching for camouflaged Phantoms. A shadow emerged from the shelving and walked toward him. Connor pointed his pistol at the figure, desperately trying to keep the weapon steady. The shadow shed the Vantablack, gaining natural colour. They stood, arms folded casually, chin tilted back. The glassy visor of its skeletal helmet seemed to glower at him.

“Hold up,” warned the Phantom. “Don’t point that thing at me.”

Connor pressed the gun to the woman’s head instead. “Let me go or I’ll blow her brains out.”

The Phantom cocked its head slightly. “Are you okay, Xi?”

Connor forced the puppet to nod and blink. He was probably not giving the most realistic performance.

“What have you done with her?” asked the Phantom.

“I drugged her,” lied Connor.

“And Troy?”

“Dead.”

The Phantom nodded. “Give me Xi back and I promise we won’t hurt you.”

“Let me go I and I promise I won’t kill you all,” replied Connor.

“That isn’t going to happen,” chuckled the Phantom. “We have you surrounded.”

Connor hunched closer to Xi. “I have survived worse. I was at Boise General.”

The Phantom peered closer. “Of course. The kid that almost pissed his pants. You get around, don’t you?”

Connor felt a wave of anger course through him. “What does the A.R.C want with me?”

The Phantom laughed. “I love the American’s way of thinking! They are from Asia and Russia and they’ve formed a Co-operation! An overly simplistic way of describing the birth of a movement without giving thought to the reason.”

“So, you prefer to be known as a Khalist? Either way you dress it, you lost,” sneered Connor.

“Yes, we are loyal Khalists. But, no, little boy, we have not lost. You cannot kill an idea. A way of life. A culture. A religion. We may have lost the first battle, but we shall return. Stronger than ever. We are here, in your heartland, opening the minds of your people.”

Connor wanted to paint the walls with the Phantom’s brains. Shaking, he eased the tension out of his trigger finger lest he make a fatal mistake. “So why me? Am I to be indoctrinated into the cult?”

The Phantom started to pace, forcing Connor to turn while holding Xi to face him. “Our informants within Kemprex told us that Kurniec himself had flagged you of importance. Naturally, we agreed to take you and deliver you to his great rival, weakening the snake and his secret agenda.”

“Kurniec’s agenda?” asked Connor.

“America has fallen to corruption,” said the Phantom. “Poisoned by the very corporations which have made it wealthy and powerful. The true imperialist leaders plot against each other. Kurniec represents a powerful arm of one of those factions. Kemprex wants you for further study. His competitors want to remove his edge in bio-engineering. So, either you come in alive or you die here. I’m close to advocating the latter unless you give up now.”

Connor aimed at the Phantom. Where were the other mercenaries? He dared a quick look behind. Shadows surrounded him. Any could hide a camouflaged Phantom. He heard a noise from above. Looking up, he caught the sight of an indistinct figure flying toward him. A boot connected with his face, shattering his nose and throwing him backward. He landed on his back with Xi on top of him. A Phantom stood over him with a sword poised to strike. Connor still held the pistol. Before he could move, the blade lashed out cutting cleanly through his wrist. The pistol dropped to the floor, his hand still gripping it.

“Mono filament blade, bitch,” laughed the Phantom as blood sprayed across their suit.

Connor tamped down the surge of pain and panic, shutting off the signals he was receiving from his hand while staunching the flow of blood. It was risky to concentrate on healing during the middle of a fight, but rapid blood loss would end him regardless.

The Phantom grabbed Xi and tried to pull her up.

“Come on. Let’s get you on your feet.”

Xi didn’t move. She stared back at her comrade blankly, her hands still holding Connors arm.

“What is wrong with you?” asked the Phantom.

Connor snapped out of his daze. He released his hold on the dead woman and retracted the tendril buried into her neck as the Phantom bent forward. Xi rolled to the side.

“What the fuck?”

Connor wrapped the tendril around the Phantom’s forearm. The mercenary struggled backwards. He raised the sword overhead, ready to stab down. Connor lashed out with the other tendril, gripping the Phantom’s sword arm and yanking it to the side. The Phantom struggled and swore as Connor sawed the tendrils side to side, keeping the man’s hands away from him. He stretched his right arm out to the severed hand. He dug deep, forcing his healing process into overdrive. Small fibres shot out of his arm and buried into the bloody stump of his hand. The fibres meshed and pulled. His hand reconnected with his wrist, the raw wound sealing over. Connor raised the pistol, his hand numb and slow. He pointed the muzzle at the Phantom’s chin.

The Phantom stopped struggling, his fate sealed. “Come on…”

Connor pulled the trigger. The bullet tore through the helmet, blowing a hole out of the back of his head with a loud bang as the mini-ex tip exploded. The body fell backwards. Connor started to withdraw his tendrils. Erratic gunfire started, tearing up the floor. Connor rolled toward the dead Khalist and hid behind her armoured body. He returned fire toward the flashes of his enemy’s gun, forcing them back into cover. He pushed himself to his feet and ran to the nearest container, trying to put something solid between himself and the Phantoms. Gunfire followed him. A bullet hit him in his lower back, knocking him over. He rolled awkwardly and came to his feet once more, moving on a combination of adrenaline and endorphins. He ran for cover, his mind striving to heal the ragged wound.

The Phantom’s pursued. Bullets flew around him, ricocheting off the floor or steel shipping containers. He heard footsteps above him. He aimed as the dark body of a Phantom appeared. He squeezed the trigger, firing off a salvo of explosive bullets. The Phantom disappeared in a bloody mist. Another bullet hit him in the leg from behind, nearly tearing it in half. Connor crumpled to the ground, stopping the blood flow as soon as his racing mind could gather its wits. The shadows moved around him. Connor raised his gun and fired, the light alloy weapon weighing a ton in his hands. The mini-ex boomed, destroying a set of shelves holding machine parts, the steel crashing to the floor.

He inspected his left leg. The bullet had shattered his tibia and torn out a great deal of muscle. He masked the pain and stood, hobbling gingerly on his good leg. He scanned the area for enemies. The dark warehouse was filled with shadows. Skulking Phantoms seemed to lurk behind every ledge and corner. His vision was blurring from the blood loss. How many were left? What were they waiting for? Could he kill them in his current state? He inched forward, leaning against the nearest container to take the weight off his left leg. He saw movement out of the corner of his eye. Too late, he turned to face a charging Phantom, sword held aloft in both hands. The blade buried itself into his chest, just below his heart and into the metal lining of the container. He struggled momentarily as the Phantom pressed the sharp sword deeper, their skeletal mask inches away. The fight went out of Connor as everything went dark. He dropped the gun and retreated inwards.

The remaining three Phantoms gathered around the kid. Trench’s sword pinned him to the wall like some bizarre specimen ready for cataloguing, slack and bleeding. Trench let go of the weapon and stood back. He removed his helmet and spat in the boy’s face.

“Fucking imperialist bastard!”

The boy didn’t flinch.

“Is he dead?” asked Dylan.

“He fucking will be…” snarled Trench.

Dylan and Jen looked at each other, their defeated postures speaking for them. One child had killed over half of their numbers. A shocking outcome for what should have been a simple kidnapping. With so few left they were looking at the end of their cell. Perhaps they would be folded into another. Perhaps they would been killed as punishment.

“What do we do?” asked Jen.

“We deliver the body as planned. Maybe they can find some use for it,” sighed Dylan.

Jen shook her head. “I don’t care about the job. I mean us. What do we do?”

“We carry on as normal,” said Trench, his voice edged with venom. “We do as we are told for the Glory of Khali and the end of America’s imperialist agenda.”

“We will be punished…” urged Jen.

“Then we deserve it,” cut in Trench. “There is no excuse for failure. Khali does not allow it.”

“Spare us the dogma,” sighed Dylan.

“I never wanted this job… Helping Hershlag of all people just to hurt Kurniec? Where did we go wrong?” asked Jen.

Dylan sighed aloud once more. “Our glorious leaders are trying to start a war between the two companies. We are not helping either…”

“Then we should kill them!” hissed Jen. “I’m not stupid! I just don’t want to pussyfoot around when we can cut the head off the snake directly.”

“Exactly,” said Trench, nodding his head. “But only with the blessing of our Lady.”

Dylan shook his head. “We need tinder to spark the fires of war. This boy is just one splinter of the wedge we will drive between them…”

“We have two strikes. That botched job at the hospital…”

“We’re wasting time…”

Connor listened with half an ear, giving most of his mind to stripping resources from non-essential bones and organs to repair the damage to his chest and leg. He felt light headed and weak, too weak to fight. He would have to fight to survive, however. Death or internment in a lab awaited him should the Khalists win. The death cult was in Boise! The police or the F.B.I would need to know. If they were in Idaho they could be everywhere.

He grafted the last hasty repairs to his leg. It was nowhere near whole, but it would have to do. The Phantoms were arguing, pointing fingers and shoving each other. It was time.

He gripped the sword’s handle with both hands and pulled, freeing the sharp blade from the steel wall and his chest like some bizarre Arthurian parody. He healed himself as he pulled, conserving as much precious blood as he could. The sword finally slipped free. He grunted as blood sprayed across the floor before he could seal the wound. The Phantoms turned at the sound, drawing their sidearms. Connor leapt at them, roaring a wordless battle cry.

He slashed at the middle one, his face surprised as the mono-filament blade cut cleanly through his neck, almost severing it in half. Blood jetted from the wound as the other two Phantoms stumbled backwards to get away from the reach of Connor’s sword. He swung at the larger of the two, swinging the weapon like a baseball bat. The Phantom raised their firearm and shot at Connor, their aim slightly off as they tried to dodge away from the sword. Connor hacked at their forearm on the reverse swing, scoring a shallow wound through the poly-carb. He followed it up with an overhead cut to the Phantom’s shoulder, burying the sword deep into the bone. The Phantom dropped his gun, his arm all but severed. He fell backward, dragging the sword from Connor’s hands.

Connor turned to face the last Phantom. She stood a few paces away, her outstretched arm shaking. Connor lashed out with his forearm tendril, aiming for her gun hand. She fired once, hitting him in the stomach, before his tendril latched onto her arm. Connor stumbled backwards a step, but kept his footing, his pumping adrenaline and overtaxed healing system keeping him on his feet. He jerked his arm to the side, keeping the gun away from himself. The Phantom fired several more shots, hitting the container behind Connor. Connor closed the distance to grapple with the Phantom, taking hits to the head from her free hand. He took the blows, his rage focused solely on extinguishing her life. As his hands found her throat, he lashed out with the tendril in his upper arm, wrapping it around her neck as well. He squeezed, pouring in the anger and fear he felt, taking it all out on the Khalist. The Phantom struggled, making static filled choking noises through the speaker on her helmet. She twisted her gun arm, bringing it up into Connor’s chest. She clutched the trigger emptying the last of her magazine into Connor’s stomach, blowing walnut sized holes out of his back. He held on, even as the light drained from his vision.

“It will take more than that to kill me…” he wheezed, showering blood onto the woman’s visor.

They fell to the floor with Connor on top. He kept the pressure on her neck, choking her until his body shut down and he blacked out completely.