His sleep was broken with nightmares of masked, violent men torturing him, interspersed with waking moments of dread and uncertainty. Denise had left him to get some rest, leaving him alone with the silent soldier guarding him. The soldier may have been relieved by another, but he was too delirious to tell or care. Somebody else came in and took photographs. Connor could vaguely remember telling them to politely ‘fuck off’. The pain in his arm was driving him insane. The drugs the nurses administered him only took the edge off for a few minutes. Connor woke again, sweat beading on his forehead. His wound felt like knives were being scoured down the length of his arm.

“Fuck!” screamed Connor, startling the soldier.

He writhed on the bed, fighting back an urge to rip the offending limb off.

“Call the nurse!” he yelled.

The soldier dropped his wall gazing to look at him. “What’s wrong?”

“I need some more drugs! This arm is killing me!” yelled Connor.

The soldier stepped forward to inspect him. He pressed the call button on the wall then stepped back to resume his position. Connor closed his eyes and tried to distract himself, counting to ten over and over. Someone in a bio-hazard suit entered after what felt like a lifetime of pain.

“What’s wrong,” asked a male voice.

“The pain is unbearable,” sobbed Connor. “Can you give me something?”

The nurse checked on his medical chart. “You’ve already had more than your safe dosage of morphine for the next couple of hours.”

“Is this normal?” cried out Connor. “Just give me something! Please!”

The nurse gazed at his arm, transfixed by the sight before looking Connor in the eye. “I’ll need to talk to my supervisor. You wait here.”

Connor rattled the handcuff. “I was going to go for a quick jog around the block, but, sure, I’ll wait.”

The nurse pursed his lips and left the room.

“God…” muttered Connor, kicking his legs on the bed.

He waited in agony for minutes with no sign of help. He checked on his wounded arm. It appeared as though the bone was growing, from both the bicep and the severed forearm, reaching toward the other in slow motion. He could feel each fibre and thread of the bone as it grew. He closed his eyes and focused his anger in an attempt to cut through the pain, seeking sanctuary within his mind. The discomfort was still there but buried beneath that feeling was something else. The glacial growth of bone and tissue, drip by drip. There had to be a way of out of this. He breathed deeply, praying this agony would be over soon. A thought came to him. What if the snail’s pace of growth was sped up? Could he force it to work harder? He laughed at himself despite the pain. “Stupid idiot…”

A voice in his mind chided him back, the voice of reason and self-doubt. Your severed arm is literally growing back. How do you know what you can do?

“Maybe I can,” Connor conceded to himself.

How would he do it? Could he force the slow drip to become a river? He concentrated on the stump, tentatively searching the active processes occurring under his skin. He flexed at what he could only describe as the movement of matter toward the wound. He applied a force to it, urging it move faster. He felt a swelling within his arm, bringing an increase in pain.

“Hurry the fuck up…” he said, breathing heavily. “Move goddamn it!”

“The nurse will come when they’re ready,” said the soldier defensively.

Connor ignored him, channelling his rage into controlling the healing of his arm. He pushed with his will, exerting a pressure on the bone. It grew by a fraction faster. Connor cried, partly in pain but also satisfied it was working. He started to shake and groan as he exerted more of himself into the process. The severed bones stretched out at a snail’s pace. An ache developed throughout his body deep within his bones and muscles along with a feeling of whole-body fatigue. He gasped at the realization that by forcefully healing his arm he was actively taking material from other body parts, stripping them, cannibalising them by his own efforts. It scared him but he didn’t dare stop.

“Come on!” he shouted to himself.

“They’re coming as fast as they can,” reprimanded the soldier.

“I’m fixing my fucking arm. Will you fuck off?” snapped Connor.

The soldier came closer, stopping at the plastic dome. “Holy shit. How are you doing that?”

“Shut up and let me do it,” said Connor, his face beading with sweat. The severed humerus joined, melding together like hot plastic. Connor gasped and fell on his back, breathing heavily.

The soldier eyed him warily. “That is fucking scary, son.”

“Still hurts,” blurted Connor. He lay staring at the ceiling, recovering from the ordeal. Amazement and revulsion tumbled through his thoughts. Growing back an arm was terrifying. Controlling it however… It sparked another, darker thought. What was wrong with him? Was it a gift or a curse?

“I’m calling the nurse again,” said the soldier.

Connor nodded in reply. He felt drained. He felt hungry. He looked at the multiple I.V bags hooked up to him. They had been drained empty.

I must be using every drop to heal myself, he thought. I’ll need more if I’m going to heal faster.

The door burst open. The same male nurse appeared suited up. “What’s going on?”

“He just re-grew the missing bit of bone in his arm,” said the soldier. “Kid was screaming his head off doing it.”

The nurse stood outside of the plastic wrap, looking at Connor. “Holy Mother of God…”

“I need some more blood,” said Connor. “And food. I’m hungry again.”

The nurse went over to investigate the infusion pump. He checked the bags and the digital face on the pump. “Why is it going down so fast?” He picked up the empty blood bag, checking the tube leaving it. Gasping, he turned on a wall lamp, holding the tube up to the light. “There is something in here!”

Connor sat up to look at him. “What do you mean?”

“There’s something inside of the tube… it’s red and furry.” He said, turning it over in his hands. The nurse dropped it, suddenly horrified. “What are…?”

He stared at Connor. “Are you doing this?”

“I have no control, man,” replied Connor. “It must be… subconscious or something.”

The nurse looked at the soldier then back at Connor. “I’ll get some more fluids.”

“And food?” asked Connor with a note of hope in his voice.

“I’m not feeding you,” he replied coldly.

Connor felt stunned. The guy was looking at him with a face full of revulsion. He slowly backed away from Connor to a safe distance then suddenly bolted for the door.

“What about my mom? Can she help me?” called Connor with a note of desperation in his voice.

The nurse didn’t reply. He pushed at the door, retreating as fast as his shaking legs could take him.

Connor sighed and settled back on the bed. He couldn’t blame the nurse for overacting. Hell, he’d probably vomit all over the floor and run away screaming if he saw this happening to someone else. He closed his eyes and shifted his focus back to healing. He could feel the process happening, much as you knew your fingers or toes were moving when your brain told them to. It was more of a reflex than conscious thought. He didn’t understand which piece was which or what its purpose was. He hoped his body or subconscious could deal with the minutia. Now that he was focused on how his body was feeling, he could also sense the thing inside of the I.V line, sucking up the available fluids.

It scared him that his body could make something so unnatural without him realising. He turned his mind back to the wound and the slow transference of matter. He resumed the pressure on a group of muscles, kicking the healing into overdrive. The hollow pain expanded in his chest and his breathing became laboured. Connor stopped his mental push. Was he out of fuel? Had he stripped too much from his healthy bones and organs? He closed his eyes, trying to distance himself from the agony.

Denise returned bearing a trolley laden with supplies and some pre-made sandwiches from the canteen. Dark rings surrounded her reddened eyes. “Connor sweetie, are you okay? I came as soon as they woke me. These suits take a while to get into.”

Connor looked at the ceiling. “I don’t know… It hurts so much. But…”

“But what?” she asked, entering the sealed plastic tent.

“I think I can control it,” said Connor. “To a degree…”

Denise went quiet. After an uncomfortable silence she reached for his hand. “Are you sure?”

Connor looked at the healed bone, partially hidden behind the growing muscle and sinew.

“Yes.”

Denise worked her mouth, her face making a range of emotions. “That is…”

“Scary? Disgusting?” said Connor, finishing her sentence.

“It’s incredible,” she replied with a forced smile. “What can I do to help, sweetie?”

“I need as much food, blood and fluid you can give me,” said Connor. “I think I need raw material to do… this,” he said, inclining his head toward his open wound.

Denise bent over, the helmet of her bio-suit an inch from his face. “A friend told me that the C.D.C is on route. It has to be bad to get them involved. Can you heal yourself before they arrive?”

Connor nodded his head. “I’ll do my best.”

“I have a bad feeling about this, Connor. Something tells me you need to get out of here,” she whispered. “Virus or no, they will want to study you.”

A lump of ice slid down Connor’s throat to wrestle with his heart and stomach. He would be an interesting addition for a lab, wouldn’t he? Scientists would have a field day testing him. He looked at his handcuffs, rattling them slightly. Denise nodded and stood up. She looked at the soldier pointedly before moving out of the sealed tent to hook up Connor’s replacement I.V fluids.

“So… Soldier, tell me,” she said as she worked. “Which outfit are you with?”

“National Guard, ma’am,” said the soldier.

Denise nodded her head. “You’re not wearing your insignia. I thought you might be S.W.A.T or something.”

The soldier shrugged. “They didn’t have any Tac-Bio suits printed up when they called us in. It’s typical with the Guard… Not that there have been any Bio threats in Idaho since the war. These are fresh off the assembly line.”

“I see,” said Denise, marking her notes on Connor’s chart. “How many of you are in the hospital?”

“Two platoons here in Boise General,” replied the soldier. “We’re just here to back the P.D up after that attack. They lost quite a few men,” he said, shaking his head.

“Do you know what happened, like for real?” asked Denise. “They won’t tell us anything.”

The soldier seemed to be easing up, probably enjoying the chance to talk after hours of boredom. “That V.I.P they were after got flown out of here by a pri-sec team. Pro-Human vets, stealth gyro, gunship, the works… The amount of hardware flying up there… Holy shit.”

Denise whistled.

“Yeah. You ever seen one of those Pros? Fucking huge,” said the Soldier, spreading his arms apart.

Denise nodded her head in agreement, her lips pressed into a thin line. “They sure are…”

“Anyway… The cops find only two dead bodies. These fuckers are dressed in old Phantom X2 stealth suits, like the A.R.C wore in Europe. No one knows if they’re resistance fighters on a mission or mercenaries wearing illegal military tech… Security cams show at least four come in through an open window in maintenance, so two are presumed to be on the run. The whole city is in turmoil, I hear. Cops are going door to door searching for anything they can find. They’ve got drones watching every inch of the city, looking for these bastards…”

Connor tried to ignore the conversation and concentrate on himself. He could almost taste the plasma and blood as his body absorbed it, thirsty and eager for replenishment. The pain in his arm was a constant reminder. He took a deep breath and started. He poured every erg of energy into the healing wound, encouraging the pre-established developments to go faster, to take on more of the raw materials he was absorbing. The sensation was unbearable. Severed nerves reconnected in his arm, firing back into life, raw and soaked in pain. Blood began to flow in newly constructed veins. Translucent skin crept from the tattered and burnt edges of each stump, covering the exposed mesh of muscle. Connor uttered a penetrating howl of agony, his eyes rolled back into his skull and his body arched. Both the soldier and Denise were taken off guard by the sudden and terrifying sound.

“Connor! Connor!” screamed his mother, aghast at both the sight and sound of her son.

As the fresh skin hardened, an acute sensation started. A tickle in his arm spread outwards, enveloping him in an inferno of feeling. The blood sang in his ears beating to a rhythm both comfortable and harried. The wave rose to a crescendo. Every biological process was made aware. Every fibre and muscle in his body screamed for attention.

Connor hit the bed, twitching as his mind overloaded.

The computer screen washed the dark room in its sickly glow, illuminating the cigarette smoke hanging from the ceiling like fog and the pile of dossiers scattered across his desk. Yelich gave a bored sigh and clicked on the next file. So many of these kids had similar abilities. Super strength. Flight. Energy manipulation of some sort. All interesting on their own, but not in the context of their numbers. They only needed one or two from each group to experiment with. The rest could go on ice until the cure for the mutated Programmed gene was found — if, in fact there was a single or even multiple genes at fault. They had spent years developing a method of adding genes to a human body, the idea of spending more time removing genes almost bored him. Yelich yawned. Another girl with abnormal strength.

He closed the file and opened another. There were so many kids to capture. So many to test. The applications for both the military and domestic markets were exciting to say the least. He just had to find the cream of the crop before they were all put away. The reports on the kids whose abilities had been confirmed or even suspected was a very small percentage. Still, he had several hundred files comprised by both local and federal authorities to go through. He was looking for those diamonds in the rough, those with something extra or new to study. His eyes scanned the screen quickly. Another strong teen, but this one underwent some kind of transformation. A little different. Yelich dragged the file into a folder marked ‘Potential’.

He took a drag on his cigarette and opened a new file. A boy flagged by a hospital in Boise, in recovery after being gunned down in a firefight with police. “What is this doing here?” Yelich asked aloud, angry that something so innocuous would be sent to him. Then things became more interesting as he read further into the doctor’s notes. The kid had survived a mortal wound to the chest and a severed arm. Witnesses described seeing something akin to feeding tubes leaving the kid’s wounded body to feed on the remains around him. Not only had the chest wound healed, but the arm had started to re-attach. The boy had been quarantined in the hospital awaiting further testing to determine the cause of his bizarre healing. The doctor overseeing the case had requested the C.D.C’s help who in turn had shared it with Kemprex due to the joint operation they were undertaking to secure the Pro-offspring. Yelich stubbed out his cigarette. This was the one he was looking for. He would kick it up to Kurniec immediately. Whatever happened to the others, he would have to get his hands on this kid.