The smell of roasting meat drifted past, breaking his train of thought. Connor cracked open an eye. Allan stood several feet away, cooking sausage over a fire drum, his sunken eye fixed on the sizzling meat. Connor adjusted his cross-legged seat on the cold concrete floor of the abandoned factory. The smoke from the fire drifted up into the darkness of the ceiling, becoming lost amongst the tracts of pipe and cable high above. Firelight danced over the grizzled veteran, illuminating the grease and dirt laden floor they shared. Piles of damp wood and stacks of paper sat at Allan’s feet, both impromptu seating and fuel for the fire.

“Okay. Let’s keep going,” he told himself.

“It’s disgusting. Whatever the hell it is you’re doing,” said Allan from the other side of the fire.

“Don’t watch me. I told you it was gross,” replied Connor.

Allan shuddered. “It’s enough to turn a man religious. The shit I’ve seen, and it takes a kid to digest shit through his skin to make my balls shrink… I was in the African trenches! Bloody India for god-sakes! The nightmares I’ve lived! And here sits the demon himself, ingesting dog bones like candy, five feet away without a care in the world.”

“Anything else you’d like to get off your chest before I slip back under?” asked Connor flatly.

“Tell Satan I say ‘Hi’, you bony prick,” said Allan, spraying spittle over the fire.

Connor cocked his head. “Are you coming down or something?”

“Yes!” roared Allan, arms raised. “Do you think I’m this pissed all the time? What an asshole…”

“Eat the bloody sausage. It’ll keep your mouth full,” said Connor, keeping one eye open to gauge the other man’s response.

Allan seemed ready to jump over the fire to throttle him. “I’ll break my foot off in your ass. Grow that, you alien freak!”

His closed himself off from the outside world, delving inward to focus on his improvements. The bone slurry in his stomach passed into the intestines for processing before it spread to his skin via a network of specifically designed veins. At his skin it hardened again, following the curves and contours of his engorged muscles. The bone-skin was sectioned to allow him to move, like a suit of medieval armour, overlapping in places to allow for maximum protection. He kept small circular vents in the armour at key places on his wrists, chest and shoulders for the deployment of tendrils, chemical agents and bone darts. Connor enjoyed the work, seeing it as a creative outlet rather than a chore. It was a chance to design and craft, a pleasure denied to him for years. The odd thing was, the material he happened to be working on, was himself. He was clay in his own hands, limited only by imagination and access to raw matter.

Any idea was on the table for experimentation.

Bone armour?

Yes please.

Bone sword?

Of course!

Stronger tendrils?

Duh…

Poison dart system?

Does a bear shit in the woods?

He took the raw data he had experienced in Kemprex’s labs and turned it into the chemicals and weapons he would use to free himself and his family. Glands in his chest grew an array of acids, deadly poisons and paralyzing toxins. The bone tide crept upwards, encompassing his head in a solid mass. He grew lenses capable of seeing in low light, infra-red and thermal. He strengthened his lungs and heart, developed a more efficient digestive system. In his right hand he crafted a long hafted, double edged sword of bone, its edge near mono-filament sharp. Within his left hand he grew a retractable, fang-like appendage to deliver toxins up close. A scabbard of gripping claws grew down his back to hold the sword when not in use. The hours slipped by, measured only by the rising and falling temperatures and the shovelling of beef bones or offal into his adapted stomach when his body demanded more raw material.

His questing hand met nothing but air. Connor pulled himself back from his internal musings and opened his new eyes. The light hurt him. Connor focused the fresh lenses until he could see clearly. The piles of bone and meat had been completely ravaged. Only the barest scraps remained. He sighed, a snorting sound from the confines of his helmet, and sealed the hole in his stomach and chest, protecting it with segments of bone.

“Allan?” croaked Connor, his voice muffled behind the bone plating covering his face.

The factory floor was empty of life. Wane sunlight filtered in through the broken windows, showing the smoking remains of the fire barrel. The wood supply was gone, suggesting Connor had meditated through the night and possibly the next.

Connor stretched his cramped muscles and made to stand, leaving the sword on the floor for now. The armour weighed him down immensely, even with the increase to his muscle mass. He struggled to his feet, fighting gravity and the ungainly movement of the segmented armour.

“What a joke. I can barely move in this thing.”

It annoyed him that his new body required more work. Connor went through a range of motions, flexing and stretching to find where the armour needed tweaking. He shrunk parts here, shaved bits there, increased the distance between the overlaps and adjusted his frame and musculature to compensate for the extra weight.

Soon he could walk at a comfortable pace. Then he could run. Sprinting was too much to ask for and it sounded like a rattling freight train. Stealth would be out of the question when he was wearing this.

He moved on to the weapons. The sword was self-explanatory. It fit the sheath perfectly and he could adjust where it hung with a mental command. The handle poked over his right shoulder within easy reach of a hand or a grasping tendril. His dart system was powered by air he compressed himself. The darts were fired from ports on his forearms. Their supply was limited but could be regrown between battles. The tips of the darts could be laced with a variety of toxins should he wish. The tendrils at his wrists and shoulders had been fitted with a stronger weave of tissue and a protective screen of pebble-like skin and were also longer, giving him a ten-foot reach. He added retractable needles to the tendrils in his wrists in order to bond or deliver chemicals easier. With the armour, he had more room to hide these adaptions. He dreaded to think what his body looked like beneath now.

The sounds of a wet cough and shuffling feet announced Allan’s return. Connor took a deep breath and fired off one last dart, skewering a thin piece of wood.

“Jesus, Boy, you look like a fucking freak,” mumbled Allan.

Drool hung from his slack lips and his only eye hung limply in the socket, as if untethered.

Connor shook his head. “Are you high?”

“I got you a meeting, you demon-bastard. Didn’t know how long you were going to be,” said Allan, wiping his mouth with a sleeve. “Got sick of waiting, so I went to the limey prick’s bar. Said you can come anytime. They’ll be waiting…”

Connor groaned. “What the hell did you say? It sounds like they’re taunting me.”

“Maybe they are,” said Allen, emphasising every word with a tilt of his head. “They don’t give a flying monkey fuck about you or me.”

“Why’d you go and get them all riled up?” said Connor.

Allan burst into ugly laughter. “I’m pulling your leg, you pussy. I just went to get a pick me up. There’s always someone you can talk to in the Four Lions.”

“Geez… How bloody original. How long did it take them to come up with that?” scoffed Connor.

Allan lurched over to the fire and started poking at the coals with a stick. “They’re gangsters, Boy. The only imagination they may dredge up in those thick, little skulls is for murdering their enemies in cruel and unusual ways.”

“I see.”

Allan leaned toward him, his jaw jutting out. “Are you going to have some kind of code name like them sanctioned heroes that tow the government line? Will it be better than our English friends?”

“I was thinking about it, yeah.”

“What then?”

Connor found himself looking at his feet. “It’s stupid…”

“Tell me,” growled Allan.

“Well…” started Connor, feeling more than a little embarrassed. “I used to play a lot of RPGs. Dungeon crawler types, you know? Video games?”

“They had video games in my day too, smartass…” shot Allan.

“Of course. Well there’s a type of class. A warrior that can heal. They’re called a Paladin. I was thinking, because I’ve got the armour, the sword and I can heal… You know…”

Allan nodded. “Seems to fit. Aren’t they all godly and righteous though? Pure good?”

Connor frowned. “I suppose. I’m not trying to be super literal though…”

“Grow a bone mace and you could call yourself ‘Cleric’ by that line of thinking,” said Allan. “Super original.”

Connor rolled his eyes inside the bone helmet. The vet swayed on his feet, stick poking the coals back to life.

“You’re out of wood.”

“Oh…” said Allan, looking around him. “Shit.” He threw the stick in the barrel.

Connor stepped closer. He lowered his voice. “I can help you if you want. I can purge the drug from your body. I can take away the addiction. We can make you healthy again.”

Allan smiled briefly. “Yeah. Figured. Can I just have this last one? I know I always say that. ‘This is the last one.’ I mean it this time. I guess you won’t let me either way…”

“Last time,” agreed Connor.

Allan lost himself in the glowing coals. Connor left him to vegetate alone and returned to his practice.