He looked in the rear-view mirror and barely recognized himself. The bleeding had stopped, and his skin had regained a natural tone. He had changed so much. Was he still the same person? When he had created the armour, he still had the rounded features of a boy. Now his was face was broader, angled, the baby fat melted away. A chiselled man stared back at him wearing his father’s face, but with the uncomfortable addition of his mother’s eyes. He didn’t like it. It was like the last vestiges of his old life had vanished, to be usurped by a man who had abandoned him after birth; a man who’s advanced training couldn’t prepare him for the rigors of civilian life after years of bloodshed and discipline as a soldier. He ran a bone-gloved hand down a cheek. He was tempted to rip it off…

“No.”

He simply didn’t have time for cosmetic shenanigans to soothe his fragile ego. Both money and raw materials were low and who knew what Kemprex were up to back in Ohio.

It did feel good to have the helmet off for the first time in what must have been days. It sat on the passenger’s seat beside him, its new segmented sections open, like some demonic snake’s jaw unhinging to eat prey, lensed eyes staring at him accusingly.

He looked down at his chest. Whole segments of bone armour were missing, lost or cannibalised after his gunfight with the Reyes. He was a bone covered, flesh peeking, blood splattered mess. Connor turned to look at the Petrochemical station across the way, bright and garish in the gloomy night. The tank showed empty with barely enough gas to get him a couple of kilometres down the road. He had pulled over when he realised this was the only source of petro in his range.

His courage faltered at the thought of interacting with people in the messed-up state he was in. He had spent the last ten minutes garnering the fortitude to act and think of a backstory for his appearance.

“They won’t care…” he told himself. “Nobody will give a fuck.”

He had ninety odd dollars and some change left over from Boise. He figured he’d need every dollar and then some to get back to Ohio. If he needed food, he’d have to resort to other means.

He turned the ignition and the dash lit up, its LED display indicating his programmed route to Harristown and the flashing red, low fuel warning icon that had brought him here. A handful of trucks sat parked in the lot, the drivers likely filling up on coffee, food and legal stimulants inside the attached diner. The sedan crawled down the tarmac, Connor’s eyes darting in search of danger. He pulled into the forecourt and killed the engine. He waited, hands twisting the steering wheel as he mustered the courage to get out of the car.

“Come on,” he goaded himself.

He clambered out of the sedan. The heat from the station’s exhausts warmed the air, its scent a mix of ozone and spilled Petro. Insects swarmed under the forecourt’s lights, flying in mesmerised circles around anything that glowed. Connor’s skin prickled with sweat on contact with the hot air of the station’s exhaust. It took a lot of energy to convert CO2 to Petro and much of that was wasted as heat. He picked up a pump and fumbled the flap open. He squeezed the handle. The nozzle stayed limp in his hands.

“Pumps on pre-pay,” crackled a loudspeaker.

Connor looked over his shoulder. A clerk stared back at him from behind the glass, hand waving for attention.

Connor gritted his teeth and strode toward the shop, eager to get this over with.

“Hang it up,” squawked the clerk. “Can’t ring it up when it’s off the hook.”

Connor threw his hands up in the air and complied, hanging the Petro nozzle back in its cradle before stomping back to the station’s shop. The sliding doors dinged open. Bright, sterile, LED light glared down at him, making him wince. Connor stood in the doorway a moment as his eyes adjusted.

“You’re letting out the cool air, dude,” moaned the clerk. Connor turned from the rows of packed food and strode to the counter. The bright colours of the advertising boards and signs dazzled him after long hours of driving through the damp, dreary countryside. He caught the truckers looking at him from their vinyl layered booths, cups of brewed coffee paused inches from their mouths.

“What the heck are you wearing, buddy?” asked the clerk between chews on his gum.

“Fancy dress party,” grunted Connor. “Can I get some Petro?”

The clerk nodded slowly, his eyes taking in the blood caked onto Connor’s armour. “Some party. You want premium?”

“I’ve only got ninety bucks. Will that be enough to get to Ohio?”

The clerk shrugged. “Thousand odd miles… Be close on premium. Longer chain. Burns better. Gets you farther. Probably need to fill up again, though.”

“Okay,” sighed Connor. He could smell the bacon, eggs and sausage the truckers had ordered. His stomach rumbled with jealousy. “Ninety of the premium.” He leaned closer to the counter. “Say, my outfit is a little incomplete. Do you have any scraps of bone laying around? Old chicken wings, that sort of thing?”

The clerk punched a few buttons on his glowing screen, mouth open and jaw working as he chewed. “Bones? You want bones?”

Connor nodded his head. “There’s a competition, see. I need to win it so I can get home. My costume is almost done. It just needs that little extra, you know?”

The clerk made a face. “They’ll be mixed in with the rest of the garbage. I ain’t picking them out or nothing.”

“Absolutely fine. It will make a huge difference,” said Connor through a wavering smile.

The clerk nodded. “Ninety bucks on pump four. I’ll drop the sacks out the backdoor.”

Connor slid the money across the counter. “Thank you.” He walked back to his stolen car, the truckers watching him from their booths with obvious curiosity.

“Hope it’s a decent prize,” called the clerk

He was true to his word. After filling up he drove around to the back. Several rubbish sacks had been dumped in a pile by the backdoor. Connor pushed down his pride, popped the trunk and hopped back out of the car. He lifted up the lid of the sedan’s trunk and froze. A large suitcase sat open before him holding an assortment of handguns, compact submachine guns and ammunition boxes. It was nothing like the military grade equipment he and Allan had stolen. These were the tools of a street gang, not outfitted soldiers. Connor nodded his head in appreciation.

“They must have really wanted those crates back.”

He was tempted to toss the guns in the trash. He had enough blood on his hands. Connor gripped the suitcase, ready to throw it from the trunk when he paused. He could sell them at the next city he passed through for gas money. This cache changed his dire financial situation.

His thoughts turned back to Allan and the military weapons they had stolen from the Reyes. Part of him hoped the police did show up and impound the entire lot. A smaller, more shameful part of him wanted the veteran to succeed and clean the streets of the gangs from his hometown. His xenophobic comments at the end stuck in Connor’s craw. Maybe he’d need to go back and sort things out. Saving himself from Kemprex and discovering the fate of his family came first.

He loaded two sacks in the trunk, another in the passenger’s seat and hit the road, letting the A.I take the wheel so he could scoff down chewed chicken bones and complete his set of armour.