Consciousness came back like a smack to the face. Sirens wailed from somewhere nearby and the buzzing of gyro fans swamped the entire room. Pain lanced down his chest. He wanted to scream, but his mouth wouldn’t move. With a start he realised the assassin’s blades were still lodged inside his neck. Connor gripped the clone’s hands and pulled. The blades slid out, slicing the muscle and sinews like butter. He coughed as his body sealed over the wound, spilling more blood down his chest. He did a quick mental check on his body. The flechette barbs had been expelled from his healing flesh, a wing was missing a few feathers and the worst of the damage had been fixed in his absence. His supply of blood and raw material had been replenished partially through the tendril buried in the assassin’s eye.

Connor retracted his tendril, pushed the dead body off him and stood up. His clothes were a bloody, torn mess. He looked around the apartment, committing it to memory. This was the last time he’d ever be back here. He had crossed mountains to be here and as soon as he arrived, he had to leave.

The clone stared at him from the floor with its remaining eye, its face was gaunt from the cannibalisation, mouth ajar from shock. Hate filled him, turning away the confusion and betrayal that had plagued his mind.

“David fucking Kurniec sent you…” said Connor. “He’d better not have harmed you or I’ll flay that fucker until there’s nothing left.”

He left the body, unable to bear the conflicting emotions it dredged up. He walked to his bedroom, searching for his brother. If they had made a clone assassin of his mother, would they have cloned Avery too? The bedroom was empty. The bunk bed he shared had been stripped of its sheets. His posters, pictures and personal effects had been removed and dumped into sealed plastic boxes. His eyes lingered on the figurines and toys from his youth, pressed against the clear plastic boxes. They reminded him of a simpler time, before the pressures of high school and the existential dread of finding a sense of belonging in this world or the prospect of securing enough material needs to support himself until death.

“Fuck it all.”

There was nothing left for him here. The police lights grew brighter. A squad gyro hovered past the window, flashlight tracking. Connor turned, running back to the front door to escape. The hallway lights went out as he ran through the lounge, revealing laser points from half a dozen weapons. Connor skidded to a stop. His backpack lay next to the dead clone. Connor snatched it up and ran full tilt toward the lounge balcony door, wrapping his wings tightly to him. He smashed through the glass and dove over the balcony’s edge, plummeting past a police gyro.

The ground rushed up toward him. Pedestrians clogged the sidewalk below, oblivious to the drama above their heads. Connor unfurled his wings, praying they would hold him. They caught on the air, holding enough to keep him aloft though his right wing dragged more than the other, pulling him sideways. Connor pumped his wings to hold altitude. He swooped down the street between the buildings, dodging drones and taxis joining the gyro lanes. Connor looked over his shoulder.

The police craft had pivoted to face him, the pilot likely surprised by a giant chicken-man crashing through the glass and flying away.

Connor hooked a right over the river. The muscles in his wings started to ache from the punishing exercise. He started to drop incrementally from the sky, as each beat of the wings produced less lift. What were his options? The tenements? Joshua? What was close?

He flew under the bridge, passing the point where he had fallen in so long ago. Ahead was the park. Connor veered to the side and angled his flight, leaving the river behind. The trees of Captain Hatcher Riverside Park soon snatched at his feet. He’d be on the ground soon, whether or not he liked it. He saw a lone fire ahead, sheltered within a stand of naked trees. Connor found a clearing below him and flew into land.

Connor hoisted the backpack onto his shoulder and got his bearings. The dying grass was dry and brittle beneath his feet, snapping to bits which clung to his pants and shoes as he trekked back to the fire. Connor pushed into the stand of trees, fighting his way through the leafless scrub. Thorns and branches caught on his wings. Connor swore at each offence, vowing to get rid of the bulky things at the next opportunity. He emerged into another clearing, a fire drum in its centre and half a dozen or so people sharing its warmth. They looked in his direction beneath craggy, weather beaten brows in a mix of anger and alarm.

“Hello,” he said, fixing a grin and waving.

“The fuck do you want?” asked an old man dressed in a dirty army surplus winter coat.

Connor thought for a moment. “I’m after some friends. Trio of vets. Allan, Bill and Lisa. Know them?”

The others went about their business, their curiosity sated. “One Eye… Yeah I know him,” nodded the man. “He’s probably down by the water’s edge. Haven’t seen the others in a while. Don’t know what kind of state you’ll find him in though.”

“What do you mean?”

The man shrugged. “He’s into all sorts these days. Might be lucid. Might be moon gazing. Might be dead. I’m not his fucking secretary.” He turned his back on Connor to warm his hands by the fire, signalling the end of the conversation.

Connor took his cue and left.

“Allan! Allan!”

Connor slipped on a muddy patch of the riverside path, almost falling on his ass. The park hadn’t been maintained in years and whole sections of concrete pathing had been lifted or washed away, making even the open walkway perilous in the dark.

“Fuck, dammit… Allan! Are you here?”

He heard a groan ahead of him. A dark shape moved on a park bench in front of him. Connor saw the outline of an arm in the darkness, raised as if begging a question from an imaginary teacher.

“Allan? Is that you?” he asked, walking closer.

The arm dropped and the whole body turned to view him. “What? Do I owe you money or something? Fuck off. I’ve paid my debts… Bloody rat shyster!”

Connor stood in front of him. Allan’s face was leaner than he remembered. His head rolled loosely on his neck and even in the darkness he could tell the veteran had trouble focusing on him.

“It’s me, Allan. Connor.”

Allan’s head stopped wobbling. He tried to stand but his body didn’t seem to want to listen. “Who?”

“Connor Hill. You saved me from the river about five years ago.”

Allan spluttered out a roaring laugh. “You! You bastard! You’re the one that started all this!” he said waving around him.

“Started what?” asked Connor.

“Everything. The debts with the Lions. The habits. Bill OD’d. Lisa pissed the bow after that. Couldn’t stand me anymore. You!” he said, still laughing. “You started all this shit. I should never have pulled you out of that fucking river. My life would have been so much simpler.”

Connor’s stomach turned at the thought of hurting more people indirectly. “What happened? Did the Lions do this to you?”

“They wanted more and more,” said Allan, burying his face in his hands. “Nothing I did ever settled things. Then I started moving gear for them. I was paid in Ket. Started using the shit instead of flicking it for cash. Then…” His voice trailed off and his body heaved as he sobbed. “I can’t stop. I can’t get away from it. And them… I can’t…”

Connor sat down beside him. He thought about consoling Allan in some small way but decided it would be unwelcome or patronising at best. He looked across the river at the bright city lights. He was sick of running. It was time to do something. It was time to fight. Kemprex, his family and the clones could wait for a day. He had an arsenal to build and debts to clear.

“What do I need to do to make things right?”