This was where the real torture happened. They had wings devoted to diseases, another for viruses. They had an area for testing the military grade augmentations against a slew of weaponry and common disasters. He caught glimpses behind armoured glass viewing windows, triggering half-remembered nightmares, shared over a bond or witnessed first-hand. The very air tasted of pain — his pain.

His skin flushed red as a hot, prickly sensation washed over him. Connor swayed on his feet. He closed his eyes. He wanted to vomit. Internal metering told him he was running on empty. He could feel his body crying out for rest, energy and blood. It would be so easy to curl up here and forget about his task, to embrace death.

The stench of death reminded him of the price he had paid here, over and again, for five long years. Connor shook his head, banishing the treacherous thoughts. He had to save the original. He would know what to do.

“Does he…?”

He stumbled to the centre of the complex, its physical and spiritual heart, his shoulder rubbing against the walls to keep him upright. He bumped into something solid, interrupting his spiralling thoughts. Connor stepped back and looked up. Clear glass blocked his way, securing a large circular room. A cylindrical vat sat in the middle of the room filled with opaque, green liquid. Large coils of cable swirled down from the ceiling and connected with the top of the vat. He felt his sluggish heart quicken. This was it.

Connor leaned against the wall, catching his breath and meditating, searching for the resources to get him through this final hurdle. He stripped material from his internal organs, figuring he didn’t have long to live anyway. He body answered begrudgingly, giving him enough fuel to act for a few moments longer. Connor walked backwards; his eyes fixated on the vat beyond as he created enough room to get to his top speed. He stopped fifty metres down the hall. He called on the dregs of his adrenaline. His blood sang with potential.

He took off, feet pounding the solid floor like a smith’s hammer. The security door drew close. Connor leapt at it, curling back his arm to strike. He punched where he thought it weakest, where metal brackets held it. The brackets buckled and sheared apart, letting the glass panel fall inward. His momentum carried him into the panel awkwardly and he fell head over heal, losing his weakened arm as it was squashed beneath his tumbling body, the glass shattering from his weight and angular bone armour.

“Ohh….”

He lolled on the ground in a weakened daze, his breathing shallow and his eyelids feeling like twenty-kilogram weights. Sleep beckoned him home like an old friend.

“No!”

He rolled onto his back violently.

“Finish your job, Hill,” he scolded himself.

Grunting, he pushed himself to his feet. Up, he tottered over to the vat, feet slipping on the chunks of shattered glass. A hand floated by in the thick green liquid. Connor pressed his against it.

“I’m here. Just like I said I would be.”

Connor unsheathed his sword with an ungraceful flourish. He held it aloft, summoning the energy and strength required. An animalistic cry of desperation whined from his ruined lips as he swung. The long blade slashed down, striking the solid surface, its sharpened edge barely leaving a mark on the toughened glass. The cry became a scream. He struck again and again, wailing against the tomb holding his original body. Thin scratches marked his furious assault on the polished surface.

He thrust at the tank, the point chipping the glass a fraction. His sword fell from his numb hand and clattered to the floor. Connor leaned against the cool surface, pounding impotently with his fist as the first tears stung his bloodshot eyes. His body trembled, taxed beyond reason. He could feel the vitality leaching from his muscles. Darkness pulled at his mind, threatening an endless sleep.

“I can’t do any more…”

So close…

There had to be something left. Connor did a stock take of the weapons left at his disposal. His acid supply was gone. His sword was useless. His strength was flagging. His guns were long gone… or were they? He relaxed the hooks on his back. Something metal struck the floor. Connor looked down. A charcoal coloured 45. pistol lay at his feet. He extended his hand for it. The tendril spilled from its port in his wrist, wrapped around the pistol’s grip. He rocked back a step, aiming the barrel at the glass. The tendril tightened, pulling the trigger, rattling off four shots in quick succession. Connor blinked through the gun-smoke. Cracks appeared in the glass, jagged like lightning. A small jet of liquid shot out above his head.

“Shit.”

The tank erupted in a shower of glass and viscous green fluid, smothering Connor. He hit the floor, knocking his head.

He woke in a panic. How long had he been out? Slime gummed his eyes. Connor wiped at his face before realising his helmet was in the way. The articulated segments opened, exposing his head. He retracted the nerves connecting him to the interfacing of the bone armour and cast about. He was curled up against the wall opposite the hole in the glass vat. Thin tendrils extended from the wounds in his chest and the hole of his missing arm to lap up the nutrient dense liquid, giving him the material to partially heal while he had been unconscious. The original hung from the centre of the vat’s dome, suspended by hundreds of writhing red strands. A respirator had been sewn over his mouth and devices to remove bodily waste covered his groin. The original hung there shivering, eyelids flickering and shaking his head.

“Hey!” said Connor, spitting out slime. “Over here!”

Connor slithered toward the original, arm pulling him along the slippery floor amidst shards of glass. He fought his way over the metal lip of the vat and hauled himself upright by clutching at the strands hooked to the originals back. Connor gripped the other’s face.

“Hey! Wake up. It’s over.”

The original’s eyes shuttered and his body shook but gave no sign of acknowledgment. Connor slapped him gently on the cheek.

“Wake up. This is your body.”

He shook his head and made a sad gurgling noise behind the respirator. Connor took a deep breath and gripped the valve in his hand.

“This will be unpleasant.”

He tore the mask from the originals mouth, splitting his lips where it had been sewn in. A long pipe came up, covered in tacky saliva. The original choked and gagged, his naked body writhing before going slack. Connor dropped the respirator and gripped the other’s chin.

“You need to get your shit together. This is your body. Not those other ones. Trust me. You will want this one. The others… my one… it feels wrong… second hand.”

Blood and spittle drooled from his jagged lips. They twitched slightly. Connor leaned closer.

“Speak up.”

“…Kah…”

“Yes?”

“Cu…Cut…me…down…”

Connor winced and pulled back. The original looked up at him, hollow eyes set with determination. Connor nodded. “Okay.”

He cast about for his sword. It had been swept along the laboratory floor by the deluge of green liquid to rest at the base of a computer console set around the wall. Connor skated over, wary of slipping in the slimy muck and retrieved the weapon. He returned and positioned himself behind the writhing set of nerves that sprouted from the original’s back.

“This will probably sting quite a bit…” he warned.

“Do it,” said the original, tensing.

Connor placed the blade against the nerves and began to saw. The original howled an inhuman cry and his whole body tensed until his muscles looked as though they would rupture. The crimson tendrils snapped and severed, thrashing in the air as the blunted edge sliced through them. The original sagged over as his support gave way, ripping the last few lines free from his shoulder and tumbled to the floor. Connor severed the piping leading to the groin then dropped the sword and went to aid him. He turned him over, so he was on his back.

“Are you okay?”

He blinked at the light and gave Connor a wry smile though his bloody lips. “I can think again. The constant noise, the torrent of feelings and sensations… they’re all gone. It’s just me.”

Connor gave him a gap mouthed smile in return. “Thank god.”

The original frowned and looked him up and down. “You don’t look so good.”

Connor patted his mangled, shot-up chest. “I’ve been through hell to get here.”

He gave Connor a sceptical look, as if he couldn’t believe his own eyes and ears. “Who are you?”

“A clone of yours,” said Connor tilting his head. “You don’t recognise me?”

“Kind of. No. Why would I?”

Connor shrugged. “I escaped a week or so back. There was a riot. A lot of us died. I was the only one to get out. I’ve made some alterations to my body. They’ve helped me to survive.”

“Hang on a second. They cloned me?”

Connor nodded. “Dozens of you. Us…”

The original rubbed at his temple with a shaking hand. The damage to his lips healed as Connor watched. “It’s coming back to me. I thought it was a nightmare. I thought maybe I had died and gone to hell. I have all these memories… I swore none of it was real. The torture… Mom… The bald kid… Were they real or did I imagine them?”

“They had a telepath working for them. He kept us under control,” replied Connor. “He’s down here somewhere. We need to keep a look out for him.”

He nodded. “I’ve got a plan for that. Why did you come back?”

“I couldn’t leave you. Us I mean. I knew what we had been through. I wanted it to stop. I guess I wanted a measure of revenge.”

The original looked away.

“There is something else,” said Connor.

“What?” he asked.

“They’ve taken Mom and Avery.”

His hollow eyes swung back to pierce Connor. “They’ve what?”

“I made it back home. They had replaced mom with a bio-engineered assassin look-alike. She almost killed me. Avery was gone, too. I thought they might be here.”

The original closed his eyes to hide the tears. “I can’t believe this shit. Not only me but our whole family… Haven’t I been tortured enough?”

“Have you seen them? Felt them?” urged Connor, hoping for even the smallest clue.

The other shook his head.

The dizziness returned. Connor sat back down in the puddle of green liquid to rest and heal. “I’m going to sit here a minute.”

The original nodded. He stretched his arms and legs and shakily stood. “You heal. I need some ingredients to fight this telepath. And some pants, not necessarily in that order.”

Connor nodded at the machinery still attached below his waist. “It’s a good look on you.”

The original frowned back. “I can save it for you, if you like.”

“I’m not that sentimental…”

He frowned again. “Speaking of which. What can I call you?”

“I’m…” he started. “I…”

“Yeah,” said the original, crossing his arms. “Look… no offence but let’s get one thing clear. I’m Connor Alejandro Hill. I appreciate everything you’ve done, but I’m fond of my name. It might save a lot of confusion from here on out if you chose something else to go by.”

Connor looked away. It hurt but it was the truth. After this was done, he was going to need to find his own identity. Could he just be a different person like that? Poof! You’re someone else!

“I… I came up with a codename. I figured I could be a hero. I mean… that’s what I want to be.”

The original looked back him, understanding written on his face.

“Paladin. You can call me Paladin.”

The original nodded his head. “Okay. Paladin… That’s pretty cool.” He turned and walked away.

Connor sighed and let the thin tendrils his body had grown while unconscious, drink from the viscous liquid. He laughed to himself.

“Maybe I will walk out of here alive.”