The workday was over and the doctors, lab technicians, bioengineers and sundry specialists were going home. He would too, after tucking the Connors into sleep. Only a skeleton crew of security and possibly a few engineers on monitor duty would be working the night shift. William sat motionless on the tiled floor of the hall, his mind free to wander, and more importantly focus on the individual clones. Those that he could render into a coma he did. The ones that were actively developing new organs or cures had to retain some of their mental faculties, otherwise their progress would stall. It was a case of numbing what he could for each.

The lower level was worse. Much worse. There the scientists concocted new military grade diseases and implants. The techs had free reign, their experiments pushing the boundaries of what was possible. The screams of those clones haunted him wherever he went. If he let his guard down, he could feel the knives, the scalpels, the saws – the fight against viral and lethal diseases wracking the unfortunate clones. And in the centre, the gibbering, mad mess of Connor himself, aware and not at the same time. His mind scattered and fragmented by William’s psychic abilities. His trick of concocting a dream-like scenario for each fragment of mind was not working anymore. The torture had gone on too long. The dreams became nightmares too easily. Connor’s mind had been rebooted of sorts, allowing for the dream prison to work once more. These reboots were becoming more frequent. Connor remembered too much – had dreamt for too long.

Connor railed at his presence, fighting with every torn fibre of his psyche. Connor knew his touch — could sense when William was there. In many of the nightmarish dreams he was pursued by skeletal beings of chrome or midnight. Their long, mechanical fingers made of knives, scalpels and hypodermic syringes clutched and stabbed at Connor as he ran headlong through shadowy warehouses and abandoned industrial areas. William calmed himself and dove into the first fracture.

Connor fought the chrome monsters with a long katana, his back pressed against a metal wall. Twitching metal limbs lay in piles at his feet, bloodless and deformed. Skeletal hands loomed out of the darkness, their medical appendages glinting in the dream-light. Connor fought silently, even as the monstrous hands raked through his flesh. Connor’s chest had been ripped to shreds, exposing his organs. The boy shrugged off the pain and slashed, the sharp katana severing three limbs at once.

“How much longer?” asked Connor, his voice as edged as the sword.

William frowned. That was too quick.

“I know you’re there,” said Connor as he scanned the shadows, his katana raised to strike. “I can feel you. It’s the only thing I can feel other than pain.”

William settled near Connor and wrapped himself in the visage of the boy’s mother. “It’s me, Connor. It’s Mom.”

The boy held the sword in a defensive stance, his face immobile. “I don’t believe you.”

William suppressed a sigh. He wove a matrix of comfort and trust, wrapping himself in its deception. “Come. I can take the pain away.”

Connor stared down William. Finally, the sword wobbled a fraction. “Where will you take me? Home?”

“Home,” agreed William/Mom.

Connor shifted back to a normal standing position. He dropped the katana, which landed soundlessly on the dreamscape. “I need to get home,” he pleaded. “Please let me go home.”

William motioned for Connor to follow. “Right this way.”

The dream shifted. The dark corridors of the warehouse were replaced with the comforts of a pre-war apartment. William brewed up a concoction of smell related memories ripped from Connor’s mind — burning incense, musty carpets, the aromas of cooking food, a dull hint of a brother’s body odour. Connor looked about the small apartment with a look of both longing and disbelief, a look of sorrow for what he missed. The horrific wounds on his chest remained, likely a manifestation of what this portion of Connor was experiencing in the real world. He turned to his fake mother, his eyes brimming with tears.

“How long can I stay here?”

“Forever. This is your home,” said William.

Connor shook his head sadly. “No. It’s not.” He walked towards the lounge, hands in his pockets. He turned on the spot, taking everything in. “It’s close, but it’s not.” He looked back at William, his face full of fear. “When will it be over? When can I go home?”

William spread his hands, lost for words. “I…”

Connor snorted and turned away. “Can I at least rest? I’m so tired of everything. I’m tired of fighting. I’m tired of the pain. Could I just sleep for a bit?”

William sighed internally. Whatever rest Connor experienced would be interrupted once the Kemprex staff returned in the morning. “You can rest here for as long as you like,” he lied.

“Okay,” replied Connor, his voice frosty.

William was about to extract himself and move onto the next fragment of Connor’s mind when the attack happened. William almost didn’t see it coming, as his thoughts were too distant with his pity for Connor and his impending workload of sifting through the damaged fragments of psyche. Connor swept around, hand outstretched. A dozen snake-like tendrils erupted from his flesh in a spray of blood. They shot through the air toward William. The tendrils stuck to him, writhing and grappling until Willian was held fast. One squeezed at his throat, suffocating him. Others stabbed at him with sharpened points of bone. The telepath fought at the bonds, his superior mental abilities forgotten in the face of this surprise attack. He wasn’t used to pain – even the ethereal dream stuff of his own creations.

“I know you’re lying to me,” growled Connor, his face set with determination. “What is this place? What have you done to me?”

William let out a strangled scream. Panic and fear overwhelmed his thoughts. The illusion he wore burst, revealing his true self to Connor.

Connor nodded to himself. The tendrils sawed at William harder, eliciting a pitiful whimper. “This is what I feel, every moment of the day. I can feel what they are doing to me… their knives and scalpels…” urged Connor, lips trembling. “Can’t you see that? Have you no sympathy?”

The telepath howled in agony. The howl changed pitch, becoming a scream of defiance. William drew upon his anger to fuel his power. This was Connor’s dream, but he was in control. He summoned a wall of immolating fire from the depths of his host’s mind. The tendrils withered at the flame’s touch and fell to the carpeted floor in charred clumps. William breathed deeply, his emotions running high. A blink of the eye and his wounds were gone. He caught a blur of motion through the flames. Connor leapt through the blaze with a new katana in hand, ignoring the searing heat. He slashed in mid-air, aiming the deadly blade at Williams head.

William caught the boy with a net of telekinesis, pinning him in its vice grip. William flexed his mind. The net drew tighter. Connor stared at him, an aroma of pure hatred oozing from his fragile mind. “This isn’t over,” spat Connor, blood tainted spittle leaking from his mouth as William squeezed.

“Count on it, motherfucker,” snarled William.

He withdrew from the pocket of Connor’s mind to his own body. He remained stationary for a moment as he familiarised himself with the physical. Feelings came back. His back was stiff and his arse sore from sitting for so long on the floor. He felt a lump of discomfort in his stomach and an itch somewhere behind his eyes. When did he last have a dose? He stood shakily, sweating hands gripping his turning belly. He caught a flicker of motion out of the corner of his vision. He snapped upright, self-conscious of how he appeared. Through the bio-secure glass he saw a clone flailing upon an operating table. William watched this version of Connor gnash his teeth and thrash, muscles straining against the metal restraints. The itch increased. He felt a hook in his brain pulling him back to his house. In the safety of his bedroom he could cut loose for an hour or two and forget this bullshit. William spat on the glass.

“I’m going home, asshole,” grated William. “Have fun with your nightmares.”

He turned and strode down the hall.