It was still raining that night when they went to the meeting with the Lions. Connor couldn’t fit his borrowed clothes with the armour on, so he had Allan run into town and pick up something large enough to cover him. The veteran returned with a rain-proof poncho and some rag bandages to wrap his arms and legs.

“I must look stupid,” said Connor in a huff as they waited in the rain.

“You do have the air of a mountain llama farmer,” replied Allan.

Connor looked to the sky, letting the rain trickle down onto his visor. “How long do we have to wait?”

Allan shrugged and hacked a wet cough. “They probably saw how big you are on the cameras and are currently packing their drawers. Maybe they’re calling for more help.”

Connor swivelled his head, taking in the cameras pointing down both ends of the tight alley.

“Great.”

“I did warn them we were coming,” said Allan, pressing on the doorbell. “They can’t say I didn’t.”

The heavy steel door creaked, scaring Allan back. It swung open slowly to reveal two heavies dressed in modified tactical armour, spray painted a rich crimson and emblazoned with a golden lion’s head. Each had a large calibre handgun strapped to his waist, on display for the world to see. Puckered scars traced over their hands, arms and necks suggesting they both had backstreet combat upgrades hidden beneath their skin.

“Old Allan, me mate. Is this the lad?” said one of the thugs, tipping his brick shaped head in Connor’s direction.

Allan gave him a nervous smile. “Yes. This is my friend. He wants to talk to Mr Duncan about absolving my little debts.”

The thug looked Connor up and down. “What’s under the hood?”

“Take it off,” urged Allan, tugging on Connor’s arm.

Connor swept back the hood. He glared back at the Lion with his alien, immobile visor.

The thug nodded his head as he took Connor’s strange appearance in, his lips pursing cynically. “The hell is this?” His hand hovered close to the cannon on his waist.

“It’s body armour. Custom made,” replied Connor.

“Made from what?” asked the Lion, scowling. “Mr Duncan doesn’t want any funny business in his establishment.”

“I’m not looking for a fight, if that is what you’re implying,” said Connor.

“Take it off then,” said a thug.

“It’s attached to me. I can’t.”

“What the fuck is it made from?”

“Bone…”

The thugs looked at each other, a smirk appearing on them both. One finally nodded to the other. “We’re good,” he said, sniggering.

“Okay. No weapons inside. Hand over anything you got,” he said holding out a hand.

Connor reached for the sword hidden under his poncho. He held it out to the thug with both hands. “I only have this.”

The Lion shook his head, giving the weapon a second take. “The hell is that?”

“It’s a sword.”

The thugs turned to each other and burst into full laughter. “We got a badass here! Fucking samurai in the city! Can you believe this asshole?”

“Any throwing stars under there, Kemosabe?”

Connor clenched his fists. He hated being laughed at. It brought back memories of high school. Throwing stars wasn’t a bad idea though…

“Kemosabe was from the Lone Ranger,” corrected Allan. “Tonto called him it.”

The Lions laughter slowed. “Eh? Who am I thinking of?”

“Kung Fu!” said the other.

Allan made a funny face as he thought. “Kwai Chang Caine was the character’s name if I recall. Spent my downtime watching the remakes. It had great sex scenes. Was one of the only programs we could all agree on as a horned-up platoon…”

“Okay. Come in Grasshopper and Sensei Ket,” said the thug, ushering them inside.

Connor growled under his helmet and mounted the short steps. “I want that back,” he warned the Lion holding his sword as he passed.

“For what? Whaling? It’s a bloody harpoon!” said the thug, grinning cheekily.

Connor and Allan followed one of the thugs down a sparsely decorated corridor. Kegs of beer and boxes of malt whisky lay stacked against the wall. Connor looked at the ancient, faded photographs in glass frames as they walked. They were relics from the Lion’s homeland, showing pre-war England’s countryside, villages and notable buildings. Stuffy looking families looked back at Connor, dressed in their Sunday best as well as hoodlums dressed in red and white, eyes glazed and crimson faced as they hoisted pitchers of beer.

“Good call easing the tension back there,” whispered Allan. “I think they like you.”

“I wasn’t trying to,” replied Connor. “I was doing my best to act intimidating.”

Allan scrunched his lips together. “That was intimidating? Oh boy…”

They passed a swinging glass door. Music and laughter spilled through the doors. Connor caught the sight of burly ex-patriots sitting at the bar and the crowded, wooden booths beyond.

The service corridor ended at a fire door. The thug opened it, revealing the back room of the bar. Cigarette smoke hung in the air, highlighted by the feeds of a dozen security cameras. Six heavies stood around the edge of the square room; their sullen eyes glued to Connor as soon as the door opened. Scars lined their exposed skin and most bore the signs of robotic prosthetics, either as replacements or combat upgrades. In the centre of the room sat an older man, dressed in a simple navy-blue suit, his thinning hair slicked back covering boxer’s ears. His casual yet dominating posture and expensive clothing indicated he was in charge.

“What is this? Halloween come early?” asked the seated man with a no-nonsense tone of voice.

Allan stepped forward, wringing his hands together nervously behind his back. “Mr Duncan, this is the guy I was telling you about. The one who owes me a favour…”

Duncan was still looking Connor up and down. “This freak? What the fuck is that made of?”

“Um… bone, Sir. He made it,” replied Allan.

“Bone? Are you pulling my fucking bells?” asked Duncan, raising his voice.

“No, sir. Not at all. Never dream of it,” said Allan, waving his hands apologetically.

Duncan took a drag on his cigarette. “Does this walking bone talk?”

“Yes,” said Connor.

Duncan looked him in the eye. “Are you taking the piss?”

“No.”

“Good.” Duncan stubbed his cigarette out and stood, walking slowly around the room as he spoke. “This bum comes to me. Says he can clear his debts. I laugh. Junkies are always dreaming up hare-brained schemes to make more money or score more drugs. This wet streak of piss,” he says pointing at Allan. “He tells me he has a friend that can do wonderful things. He can’t die, he says. Get him to do a job for you. Utter bullshit I think.” Duncan picked up a glass of scotch and took a healthy swig. “Now I think to myself, what can this anonymous asshole do for me that my boys can’t do? It hits me…” he paused to read Connor, but the armour gave nothing away. “It strikes me that I can just pull some stupid shit that I’d never normally do. Shit that would definitely see a few of my crew pushing daisies if we so much as dared. An outrageous job an unaffiliated, un-killable asshole could attempt, without me losing any sleep over. If you fail and get your head blown off, who cares? If you manage to pull it off…” He shrugged and finished his drink. He walked back to his desk and sat down, folding his hands together as he leaned forward. “Is it true? Are you un-killable?”

Connor took a deep breath as he thought. He had seen copies of himself die in droves, had sensed others die in his shared memories. This scumbag gangster didn’t need to know his weaknesses though. “I can heal from wounds that would kill most men. Is that enough?”

Duncan nodded. “And this bone shit all over you?”

“It was grown for me,” lied Connor. “Experimental armour made by Kemprex.”

Allan gave Connor a strange look. Connor shook his head the barest fraction.

Duncan smiled at the exchange. “Whatever. I don’t care. So, here’s the deal. A junkie birdie told me the Reyes haves a shipment of military grade weaponry coming into the city. I want you to go to the exchange and steal it for me.”

Connor felt an itch behind his eyes. He feared the Lions would want something like this.

“There’s nothing else I can do?”

“Nope,” said Duncan, shaking his head. “Reyes are on the take. I want to level the playing field. Military grade guns on the street aren’t going to be good for anyone. Unless we have them, that is.”

“How good is your source?”

Duncan sneered back at him. “I don’t fucking know! Junkie info is only as good as the junkie who brings it. Two have confirmed it for the same night, so a kernel of truth may live in their addled, junkie yarns.”

Allan grumbled under his breath and hung his head.

“How many guards?” asked Connor.

“Fuck if I know. As many as they need. Ten? Twenty?” said Duncan.

Connor nodded. He wanted to rub his jaw as he thought but the act was pointless in his full-body armour. “I don’t want to kill anyone if I can help it.”

Duncan threw his head back and laughed. “Oh god! The bone-giant doesn’t want to kill anyone! Get the fuck out of here if you’re going to waste my time.”

The Lions gave a mixture of spiteful laughter. “Door’s that way, ya pale shite,” giggled one thug, pointing.

“No. I’ll do it,” said Connor, leaning over the table. “I do this and he’s free.”

Duncan sat back in his chair, a smug, know-it-all smile on his round face. “Sure. I might even throw in a little extra if you pull it off. Not that I expect you to.”

“So how do we do this?” asked Connor.

Duncan removed a burner phone from his jacket pocket and slid it across the table. “Take this. I’ll send through the location and time of the exchange. Call that number back when you have the goods and we’ll arrange the pickup. Now fuck off. I’ve got real business to attend.”

Connor looked at the fragile phone. “Pick that up,” he told Allan as he spun on his heel and walked out of the room. Allan snatched it up and followed at a run to escape the gangster’s laughter.

“Thank you,” said Allan, catching up to Connor’s long stride. “I mean that. I honestly didn’t think you’d do it. Taking on the Reyes isn’t going to be easy.”

Connor grunted in reply, his focus spiralling inwards as his mind leapt from thought to thought. Had he done the right thing? Was he doing more harm by helping the Lions? Should he get in the middle of a gang fight?

The two thugs guarding the back door stood as Connor approached. He held out his hand. “Sword.”

“How’d the meeting go, Grasshopper?” grinned a thug, holding out Connor’s sword.

Connor reached for the sword and wrenched it from the Lion’s grip. “Swimmingly,” he growled.

The thug seemed surprised by how easily Connor had taken the weapon, probably expecting a tug of war with his lab enhanced strength.

“Okay. See you boys around then,” he said standing out of the way. The other Lion opened the heavy security door to the alley.

Connor threw his hood on and stalked out into the rain; sword casually slung over his shoulder like an umbrella.

“Bye!” said Allan, waving and jogging to keep up with Connor.

Connor waited for the veteran in the middle of the alley. “I don’t like this,” he said as Allan caught up.

Allan looked up at him, spitting rainwater. “You can heal yourself if you get hurt.”

Connor sighed and sheathed his sword. “Can’t if my brain is blown to bits. And this,” he said rapping his chest, “is untested. What if they have min-ex and it tears through me like I’m butter? What if I’m surrounded by an army of the bastards? I’m not a soldier. I’ve lucked through every fight I’ve had so far…”

“You may not be. But I am…” said Allan, giving him a frightening smile in the dim light of the alley.

Connor shuddered. “Let’s go and prepare.”

Allan rubbed his hands together. “I’m going to enjoy this.”