The ground inched by far below him, belying his true roaring speed. He was amongst the mountaintops and the low clouds. Oxygen was tight, but he was nothing if not adaptable. At night he followed the stars. In the morning he flew with the sun at his back, in the afternoon, his face, burning his pallid skin. The supplies were running low, even with his stringent rationing. His strength never seemed to reach its peak, as he was always running just above empty. Connor feared landing to find food and water, however, doubting his ability to reach this comfortable cruising altitude once more, let alone getting off the ground. He rode the wind, cold and alone, despair behind him and hope in his sights.

Unfamiliar landmarks passed by. He bypassed the gyro lanes and gave the sprawling cities with their high-rises a wide berth, flying in the general direction of west.

Finally, he found something he could identify, something that would guide him home. The glittering tract of the defunct hyper-loop stretched from horizon to horizon. From Los Angeles, California, to the corpse of New York City, the glass carbon-fibre construction had linked the two coasts, with stops in all states between. It had been popular in its heyday, providing cheap interstate travel.

Then gyros replaced the upper middle class family car and the nuking of the east coast had put an end to it, the company’s headquarters and the terminal building destroyed in the explosions. Nobody had bothered with it since and its carbon material made it worthless to scrap. Connor chased the reflected light from the loop. It went past Boise a couple dozen kilometres to the south.

The sun sank below the edge of the world, orange and baleful in its final moments of the day. Inky darkness crept in, broken by pinpricks of light from rural townships and glowing neon fires of bustling cities. The gyro lanes become more distinct at night, the craft blinking red and green lights like a Christmas display, making signs of the cross stretching as far as he could see.

Connor banked northward at the abandoned Idaho loop terminal, the wind bumped and jostled him, exposing his lack of experience. He pumped his wings, climbing higher. His plan was simple but untested. He’d descend quickly, using the cover of darkness to avoid being spotted and land on the apartment building’s roof. He could only hope his family still lived there. If not, he’d ditch the wings and hit the streets for more information. Maybe he could reach out to someone. A friend…

Henk’s lifeless corpse flashed into his mind.

The guilt hadn’t gone. But then, he hadn’t had time to deal with the grief. Too busy running for his life and being cut up for research to reflect on his mistakes.

Did Joshua know? Did Henk’s family know how or why he had died?

Connor added it to the list of things he needed to make amends for.

He thought of those homeless veterans who had helped him. He owed them a visit, just to express his thanks.

The air traffic built as lanes of automated gyros and jet-carriers thrust to and from Boise. Connor stayed far away from the blinking lights and humming fans. The last thing he wanted was to be spotted by some idle commuter staring out the window and catching sight of him. Would anyone believe their story of a winged man? He was not going to put it to the test.

Connor flew over Morley Nelson, a black expanse in the night. The lights of the suburban developments encroached into the reserve, growing in size and density as he passed overhead, until the tall spires of Boise came into view. Connor’s breath caught in this throat. He had made it home.

Giant holographic advertisements scrawled across the sky, rippled across the low flying cloud. A trio of young, muscular heroes dressed in patriotic red, white and blue outfits, stood sentinel over the city, their hardened gaze following the observer with calculated scrutiny, a warning to evildoers and ne’er-do-wells that Boise was under their sanctioned protection. Connor gave their government issued uniforms an envious look as he flew past.

“One day. Maybe…” he lied to himself.

He passed the skybridge and the wreckage of the air-carrier tethered to its twin arches. The tenements crept past on his right, bright and crowded from his lofty vantage, the notes of competing music and cooking smells in the air. The abandoned commercial park was a stain of darkness, lit only by the few emergency lamps and barrel fires he could see in the open. He noticed the police gyros, hovering high above the city like plump flies waiting for their chance to swoop on unattended food, their lights flashing red and blue in lazy patterns.

Connor angled downtown to the pre-war districts. He circled above, counting the buildings down his street until he found his own. Connor folded back his wings and plummeted from the sky. The roof rushed up to smash him into a bloody, feathery pulp. His wings fanned out, breaking his deadly plummet. Connor’s feet hit the concrete roof at speed. He skipped and skidded across the dusty surface as he shed the last of his momentum, his wings batting against the strong cross wind of the city, stopping just shy of the edge. Connor turned around, searching the building for prying eyes.

A man stood by the stairwell, cigarette hanging forgotten in his lips, his eyes wide at the sight of Connor.

Connor folded back his wings and approached the spectator. “Hey.”

“Where the fuck did you get those, dude?” he asked, pointing.

“Kemprex…” said Connor, too strung out to bend the truth.

He shook his head. “Nah, man. Which clinic? I haven’t seen them advertised anywhere. They’re dope as fuck…” he said, reaching to touch. “Can you pick the colour?”

Connor let him paw his wing. “They’re a… trial product. Not on the market yet. I’m one of their guinea pigs.”

“Word? How do you get set up? Is the money good?” he asked, fingers ruffling through the feathers.

Connor shook his head, dismissing the remembered pain and agony shared between him and the other clones. “No… It’s peanuts. I wouldn’t bother given the choice. The living conditions suck, too.”

“Beggars can’t be choosers, right?” said the stranger, standing back and giving him a wink. “Money can’t buy everything, but it can buy a roof and a hot meal. If you hear of anything going, could you hook me up? I’m in fourteen-twelve. James is the name. It’s my sister’s place.”

Connor nodded and gave him his best smile, given the circumstances. “Sure thing. I’ve got to go. My mom’s waiting for me.”

“Don’t forget. Fourteen-twelve,” said James, lighting his cigarette and turning back to his view of the city.

His apartment was several flights down. Connor ran, dodging the stacks of rubbish and puddles of piss clogging the route. Graffiti had sprung up in his five year absence, the tags and handles in an alien script. None of the names or gangs were familiar, not that he was a self-confessed expert.

Things had changed a lot. Hopefully his mother hadn’t left for the suburbs like every other local. He heard voices. A couple dressed in matching leathers, staggered up the stairs, hands fondling each other in hungry strokes and long, wet kisses shared between heavy breaths. Their tattoos glowed in the dim lighting of the stairwell complementing the colourful, outlandish hairstyles both wore of neon red, electric blue and ultra-violet black.

Connor shuffled to the side of the stairs and pushed past. “Excuse me, please.”

“What the hell is on his back?” asked the girl.

“Some Weeb, cosplay shit,” replied the boy, loud enough for Connor to hear. “They ruin everything that’s remotely good.”

“It looks so real, though… Like one of those angel dudes from T.V.”

“Weeaboo shit,” stated the boy flatly.

“It’s not even a costume party…”

“Weebs always make it a shitty costume party, whether you like it or not.”

Connor made it to his floor and swung open the door. People were milling in the hallway outside of an apartment just up from his mother’s. Thumping dance music pumped down the hall with indecipherable chatter from the party scattered between the beats. Connor dodged past the party goers, his heart thumping harder and harder the closer he got to home.

“Cool wings, dude. Who are you meant to be?” asked a girl.

In another time and place he would have relished the opportunity to talk to her. “I’m nobody,” said Connor, shoving her aside, his focus trained on the door ahead of him.

The people gathered in the hall watched him as he approached his family home. He straightened his clothes with sweaty hands and knocked loudly on the door.

He waited, nervously looking up and down the hall at the party goers watching him. He made a fist and pounded on the wooden panel.

“Mom! Open up! It’s me!”

He heard the security bolt slide open. The fear and anxiety caught in his throat. The door swung open revealing his mother, wearing light blue nurses scrubs as though she had just finished a shift. She had aged a lot in five years, gaining wrinkles around the eyes and mouth and a streak of grey through her hair. She looked up into his eyes, searching for the truth of his appearance. She gave him a wary smile, tainted perhaps by her disbelief.

“Connor? Is that really you?”

Connor flung his arms around her, locking her in a tight embrace, hugging her to the

backpack he carried on his chest. The feelings of anxiety, stress and confusion welled to the surface. Connor sobbed, relieved to have made it home after the years of torture, to be back with the only human who had given him the slightest glimmer of hope in his darkest times.

Denise patted his back, almost tapping out of the hug. “Come inside,” she said. “Quickly.”

Connor let go of her. She turned from him and walked back inside the apartment. He wiped the tears and snot with the sleeve of his jacket. He heard laughter from down the hall and gave his audience the finger before slamming the door behind him.

He leaned against the wall, breathing in the familiar smells of home. He felt drunk on emotion. Every lucid thought he had in that research laboratory had been about getting back here. It felt strangely rewarding and hollow at the same time.

He made it.

Now what?

Connor opened his eyes. The apartment lights were off. Ambient glow spilled through the open blinds from LED advertising screens and holographic projections, bathing the room in sickly kaleidoscopic patterns of light. He slung his backpack from his arms and threw it on the ground, much like he had after school.

“Mom?”

Denise had disappeared. Was she unhappy to see him? Did she blame him for his absence?

Connor’s lips trembled at the thought. Had he come all this way just to be scorned?

“Mom? Where are you?”

“Coming,” she replied with a touch of sweetness. She walked out of her bedroom holding something aloft. The light from the windows backlit her, so she appeared as a silhouette against the swirling lights. She adjusted her stance. What was she carrying? Some type of gift?

“David Kurniec says, ‘Hi’.”

“What?” asked Connor, taking a step toward her. “Who is that?”

Denise squeezed the trigger on the Helter. The squat gun barked, spitting flames and dozens of small alloy flechette. The darts tore through Connor’s soft chest, shredded the walls and door behind him. He flew backwards from the force, smashing through the remains of the door and landing amongst its timbers on the floor of the hall. He wheezed and spluttered, coughing blood as his ability woke up to repair the rents in his internal organs. Many of the barbed projectiles had flown straight through him, taking vast sections of him with them. A few remained, lodged into bone.

His sight dimmed as he bled out. Connor fought to stay awake and guide the healing process, diverting blood from his limbs and sealing the worst of the open wounds.

The party goers screamed and ran for cover at the sound of the discharging weapon, scattering inside the party or towards the stairwell. Connor struggled to understand what was happening. Denise walked slowly toward him, the Helter pointed at his chest.

“Still breathing?”

Connor coughed and looked up at her. He needed to stall for time.

“…who…” he wheezed.

“Me?”

He nodded his head, a mere tilt of the chin.

She shrugged. “I don’t know everything. I’ve been here for over four years. They grew me, I think, to permanently replace her. I have… Had her memories… Maybe she was causing too much hassle for them, bringing too much attention to the company. Maybe she was just an insurance policy. I don’t know. I was designed to kill you. Then I’m free to do what I like.”

Connor shook his head. His lungs and throat had healed enough for him to speak. “… they won’t… they’ll kill you too…”

The clone shook her head. “I can look after myself. They don’t scare me.”

“…should…” replied Connor giving her a brief smile. “…look at what they do… how they fix their problems…”

“I won’t be their problem,” snapped the clone. “I’m yours.”

Connor laughed, spraying blood onto her pants. “Do you think they’ll let you get away? A loose end? A clone that looks like my mother walking around, head full of damaging information. You’ll be terminated as soon as your job is over.” He started stretching his wings out, teasing them from their cramped position under his weight.

The clone raised the Helter, sighting him down the barrel. “You can get surgery, asshole. I could look like anyone I wanted.”

“And willingly go into one of their clinics? Please…”

The clone paused, her eyes shifting to the side as she thought.

“We could work together. I can give you your freedom,” urged Connor.

The clone shook her head. “You can’t give me shit. I’m in control…”

Connor lashed at her with a bone appendage of a wing, swiping the gun from her hands. The Helter discharged, tearing a hole through the feathers and peppering his shoulder with darts. He lunged at her, clasping the clone with his working arm and wings, carrying her back into the apartment. They fell on the floor in a huddle. The clone slipped her hands free as they wrestled, locked in the embrace of his enclosed wings. Blades of dull, bloody steel extended from the palms of the clone’s hands. She stabbed at Connor, driving both lengths through his neck. Connor went slack, his eyes locked on the perfect copies of his mother’s.

“Shhh…” whispered the clone, as his body started to spasm. She leant close, driving the blades deeper.

Connor raised his hand to her face, wiping it almost tenderly.

“It was nothing personal. I’m just doing what I was grown to do,” she said.

Connor nodded to her.

The clone sighed and gave him a sad, sympathetic smile, his hand resting on her cheek.

The bone tip of his tendril buried into her eye socket and wormed itself into the clone’s skull. The assassin gasped once and keeled over. Darkness crept through his mind. He rode the wave, following it away from the pain and into the lightless depths of sleep.