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Five years ago, if you had asked Connor Lassiter where he thought he’d end up in life, he wouldn’t have said the basement of an antique shop. He certainly wouldn’t have expected to be in that same basement twice in the span of a few years. Life has a way of throwing you a few curveballs. It isn’t Connor’s fault if he can’t help but follow their winding paths until he ends up exactly where he started.
It isn’t like he’s back to square one. It can’t be, after all the friends he’s made and lost. Still, it’s hard to shake the feeling that he keeps getting dragged back home. As a kid, he’d always dreamed of running away and making it big, and then he’d actually had to run away when he found out he was going to be unwound. Now he’s back in Ohio, and although Connor finally has a hope for the end of unwinding thanks to the Rheinschild organ printer, he knows as surely as anyone that if this doesn’t work, the last of his luck might finally have run out. He was born here almost eighteen years ago, and he might just die here too.
Connor tries to keep his emotions light, but it’s hard, especially after being stuck in Sonia’s basement for far too many days. It took forever for them to leave the first time, and now he’s wondering how long they’ll spend trapped inside the lightless cellar now. Maybe someone will come down here decades in the future and find his old, brittle bones propped up in a corner someplace, the Akron AWOL reduced to a skeleton with a white, wiry beard like in the cartoons he used to watch as a kid.
So no, he’s not exactly doing a great job of staying optimistic, but it’s hard to get up the energy to converse with the other scared unwinds down here when he knows how this is going to end. It’s not his first rodeo. Nothing gets better before it gets worse again. Why take the time to memorize everyone’s name and favorite color if they’re just going to get ripped apart again in a matter of months? Connor might as well spare himself the heartache. If they do get unwound after all, some future client would probably appreciate it if Connor’s heartstrings were tugged as little as possible.
It’s not a funny thing to think about, but Connor’s sense of humor has gotten increasingly jagged and sarcastic as of late, if it wasn’t already bitter in the first place. When he tries to be funny, he just ends up cutting to the bone. He’s not Hayden. He’s never been good at making the jokes land when he needs them the most.
Hell, maybe that’s what’s unsettling him the most about being back here. If it weren’t enough to see the same familiar shadowy walls and low ceiling (look, there’s the place he gouged his initials in the corner two years ago), Connor has to do all of it not only with new faces but with the ghosts of the former ones.
Thinking about who had been here with him before makes his stomach roil with guilt and regret. Roland is unwound now; Connor has his arm and is starting to understand his surly temperament, his gut reaction to snap at everything around him instead of smiling. Mai became a clapper and blew up Happy Jack; Lev was there with her, chemicals in his veins, but saved himself when she didn’t. Hayden is still alive, hopefully, although Connor hasn’t seen him in ages; he misses Hayden’s sense of humor most of all.
The only repeated characters in the basement are Risa and himself, but even they are so fundamentally transformed from who they’d been at the start that they could be different people entirely. Connor isn’t sure that he’s at all recognizable as Connor Lassiter anymore. He has the same skin, or most of it, but that’s the end of the similarities. Connor is left wondering how everything changed so drastically over two years, which leaves him in a state of hazy dread.
And then, of course– well, there’s the letter, and that blows everything else out of the water.
Sonia still has his letter, the one she’d had him write to his parents when he first showed up at her antique store. All of the notes from past unwinds she’s harbored are still here. The thought unsettles him more than Connor would care to admit. Even if the kids who wrote them are long since stripped of their parts, dead and gone or maybe somehow still alive, their writing is still here. He wonders if his handwriting has changed since he wrote it last. If Connor saw a few sentences of his letter, could he recognize it as his own, or is even that last hallmark of the boy he’d been gone from him forever?
Connor can’t help but obsess over every detail. It’s hard not to when Sonia keeps bringing it up. He’s not sure if she thinks he’s dramatically different from the boy he’d been, but she must want him to return to that former version of himself somehow, because she’s offered for him to hand deliver the letter to his parents. In fact, she seems rather put off by the fact that he hasn’t leapt at the chance.
It’s not the first time in his life that Connor doesn’t have the right answer, and just like every other impossible choice, Connor isn’t even sure that there is a right way to go about this. He can take his letter to his parents, the people who had him unwound in the first place. He can be the bigger person and forgive them for wanting him clinically dismembered. Maybe, after time, they’ll even be able to move on from it and grow back together again.
Or, far more tempting still, Connor can let his resentment stand as firm and impenetrable as a fortress. This is the choice that calls to him the most. Why should he forgive them? It’s up to his parents to reach out to them first, even if they have no idea if he’s still alive nor how to contact them. Connor is not the one who wanted his own flesh and blood unwound. There’s no reason for the responsibility of breaching the immovable gap between himself and his family to fall on his shoulders.
Still, the Objective Right Thing to do is to give them the letter. Connor knows this, in a shifting, sinking feeling in his stomach, like when you tell your first big lie as a kid even though you know it’s wrong. Connor should meet his parents again. Probably.
Problem is, he doesn’t want to. The anger may not be as white-hot as it had been when Connor first found out he was going to be unwound, but it’s still there, simmering beneath his skin like a stovetop that wasn’t turned off properly. He isn’t going to burn down the house, not yet, but the possibility is there.
Risa would support him in this, Connor knows that. She immediately advocated against it, citing the immense risk posed by leaving their hiding place in Sonia’s basement. She doesn’t know the conflict in Connor’s heart quite as well as the terror of getting caught by the Juvenile Authority, though. She never had a family to love and loathe like this, and although Connor hates to say it, this will be the one time her advice won’t be as picture perfect as usual.
Sonia can sense this hesitation, and she’s been even pushier than usual in an attempt to convince him to visit his parents. At one point earlier today, Connor was helping her bring down some groceries when she asked him again when he was planning on leaving.
“I’m not going,” Connor had complained angrily, and immediately felt like a kid throwing a temper tantrum because his favorite shirt was in the wash or something stupid like that. So many unwinds here would kill for a chance to see their parents again, and here he is practically frothing at the mouth at the thought of it.
Sonia had raised her eyebrows at that, but said nothing, for once. Connor had lugged the last of the bags down and sat in silence, fuming, until he finally cooled off again. He feels bad for snapping at Sonia like that, especially when she’s risking her life for him by harboring unwinds right underneath her shop, but not bad enough to deliver the letter.
Sonia doesn’t usually check up on them during the day, electing to preserve her ruse by manning the counter of the antique shop, so Connor assumes he’ll have all day to practice an apology before she checks up on them after closing time. Maybe he’ll write her a letter. He could both thank her for shoving him in her basement for so many weeks and also say he’s sorry for being an ass. He probably owes a lot of people similar letters. He’s been an ass many times.
Connor is idly monitoring the sounds upstairs, waiting to tell when Sonia will come down again so he can have his statement ready, when he first hears the loud thump. Noise isn’t uncommon up above; customers buying large objects can be heard huffing and puffing as they drag their purchases to the door. However, this sounds wrong. The voices Connor makes out through the dusty floorboards don’t sound like people ogling antiques. One of them sounds cruel, and the other, Sonia, sounds distorted somehow, unlike herself. They’re too quiet for him to hear, but none of it can be good. Then Sonia lets out a cry of pain, and Connor knows for certain that something is wrong.
All of the other runaways in the basement perk up. Fight or flight senses are always amplified among AWOLs. Connor silently gestures for them to back away from the cellar entrance, holding a finger to his lips. This could be a Juvey-cop, so they can’t risk exposing Sonia through too many sounds. Risa picks up a wrench, testing its weight experimentally, and Connor and the others follow suit. Whatever’s going on up there, it can’t hurt to have a weapon.
They wait in tense, painful silence, and then there’s a softer thump from above as the rug is flipped off of the trapdoor and Sonia shouts down for Lev of all people to come up and help her with something. Lev isn’t here, he hasn’t been near Sonia’s shop at all. Sonia knows this, and she’s well aware that the kids know this, too.
Connor’s eyes widen as he puts it together. This is a trap, obviously. Risa, sensing the same thing, grabs a small, blond kid (Jack, maybe? Connor tried not to learn their names. Unfamiliarity makes it easier to lose them) and starts to push him up the stairs, promising that she’ll be right behind him. Connor moves to join her but Risa stops him with a single harsh look.
“Don’t you dare even poke your head out,” she urges in a terse whisper. “Whoever’s here is probably only looking for you. Don’t make a sound.”
Connor would like to argue with this, but he knows she’s right. Odds are somebody saw him through a storefront window or something after closing. It’s not right to let Risa fight his battles for him, but maybe the intruder will leave if they don’t see the Akron AWOL. It’s not lost on him that Risa and the blond boy might get taken away anyway all for the sake of covering for him, but Risa’s not taking no for an answer, and she’s gone within a moment.
Connor paces back and forth, unsuccessfully trying not to let his panic show. Beau, one of the latest wannabe top dog types, starts prying at a window in the back, which is good. Odds are, they’ll need a second way out of here than just the trapdoor. Connor is about to pitch in and help when he hears a gunshot up above, followed by an agonized cry by Risa, and then all bets are off. Risa’s plea for him to stay hidden is gone from his head. If his worst fears are true– if she was shot, if she was dead– nothing matters anymore.
Connor bounds up the stairs two at a time, emerging into utter chaos. The blond kid is crumpled on the ground, a mess of blood and gore coating his chest. A grungy man is standing over his body holding a real gun, not just a tranq. Risa is beating him with a wrench, but he throws her off of him the second Connor appears. The man’s face cracks into a leering grin, and Connor realizes that he knows this man. It’s Nelson, the cop he shot so long ago.
Worse than that, it’s not just Nelson. Half of his face has been replaced with unwound flesh. Connor discovers with a sickening lurch of his stomach that he knows the donor, too. That’s the good side of Argent Skinner’s face isn’t it? Come to think of it, Connor hasn’t seen Grace in a little while, too. He silently hopes she’s alright, then shuts off every part of his brain that isn’t wired to defend himself. Nelson looks crazy. He has to be ready for anything.
Nelson lets out a slow, cackling laugh. “Connor Lassiter. In the flesh.”
“Nelson. In somebody else’s flesh.” Connor mimics. “What did you do to Argent Skinner?”
Nelson rolls his eyes elaborately. “He got in the way. I think his fate is obvious, isn’t it? I needed new skin. He needed to learn his lesson. No one crosses me and gets away with it. You’ve been on the run for a long time, but I’ve caught up to you at last. I always catch my prey.”
To the side, Risa is slowly getting to her feet, but there’s a gash opening up on her temple. Behind her, Sonia is chained to a chair, obviously in pain. Only Connor can save them. Only Connor can save himself.
Nelson starts to glance over at Risa, following Connor’s line of sight, so Connor quickly speaks up again to distract him. “So what, are we going to fight again? Boring, but let’s get on with it. Do you want to get out your tranq gun for old time’s sake? Maybe I’ll shoot you again. They might give me a new nickname for that.”
Nelson actually growls in anger. “I’m not interested in tranq guns, Connor. A permanent solution is better for you.”
He’s still holding the gun he just used to kill the blond boy, and Connor realizes with a sinking lurch that Nelson is planning on utilizing it for a second kill. This time, Nelson isn’t leaving until the job is done. Sure, it would be good to collect the payout of grabbing the Akron AWOL, but this is personal. Nelson can make up any excuse he wants about why Connor forced his hand. In the end, this is about Connor repeatedly humiliating the guy, costing him his job, his life, his flesh and bone, everything. One of them is walking away from this, not both. Perhaps neither of them. Looking up at Nelson, Connor finally knows: this is where it all ends.
“That’s fine with me.” Connor tells him. “I’d like to get rid of you, too.”
He briefly considers going for the ‘nice socks’ distraction, but, afraid of having used it one too many times, Connor decides to ignore the pleasantries and just get going. There’s a table of antiques next to him; Connor grabs the closest heavy object, a brass candlestick, and lobs it at Nelson’s head. The former Juvey-cop manages to duck, but not entirely, and the metal clips him on the temple.
Nelson grunts in pain and angrily points the gun towards Connor, who frantically hurls himself to the floor. The shot misses, shattering a glass cabinet and sending the contents showering to the floor. Connor picks himself up and sprints away, hoping Nelson’s more interested in him than staying to finish off Risa and Sonia.
Luckily, the guy’s got blinders on for anything that isn’t his least favorite AWOL, and Nelson gives chase immediately. Unluckily, this means that more bullets are directed Connor’s way. He skids through a series of small displays, using the advantage of a few tight corners to remove himself from Nelson’s immediate line of vision, then ducks into a hiding space below a desk. There, he waits, one hand clamped over his mouth so Nelson can’t hear him breathing.
Nelson stalks slowly from room to room, Connor can hear the thud of his boots against the ground. “Come out, Connor,” Nelson calls, “Let’s settle this like men. You can’t hide forever.”
Maybe not, but he can certainly push off more fighting as long as he can. Nelson was a cop once, he’s got way more combat training than Connor. Connor’s only hope is to stay one step ahead and confuse him into letting down his guard. There’s no way he’s winning a direct fistfight, so Connor has to be as difficult as possible.
Something dense thuds on the ground, then the glug of liquid pouring out follows the sound. Connor has no idea what that could be, but there’s no mistaking the subsequent click of a lighter. “If you won’t come out on your own, I have no problem smoking you out. I hear that’s best when taking care of rats. You have to burn down their nest to kill the young.”
Connor does not know much about rats, nor the proper method of extermination, but at this moment he doesn’t like any of it. Nelson is just as stuck in here as Connor if the antiques shop goes up in flames, but Connor realizes with a sinking feeling that Nelson doesn’t care about getting out if Connor doesn’t either. As long as Connor dies first, Nelson is happy.
Connor, however, needs his friends to stay alive. He rolls out from under the desk to find Nelson crossing over the threshold of the room. The former Juvey-cop bares his teeth in a grin. “See, there you are. I knew you’d let your feelings get in the way of your own self preservation.”
He holds up the lighter triumphantly over a slick of what might be rubbing alcohol or gasoline. Connor tries to stay cool, but his hands twitch at his sides. “Easy, man. You don’t want to blow yourself up, too.”
“How considerate of you to think about me,” Nelson muses. “I won’t return the favor.”
With that, he drops the lighter. The liquid immediately erupts into flames, streaking out of the room and into the next with lightning speed. Connor shouts in despair, but it’s too late. He can only hope that Risa was able to get Sonia out, that the unwinds in the basement could get the window open. Hope is all he has left. That, and the undeniable anger coursing through his veins. Nelson wants to play with fire, does he? Connor is more than willing to follow suit.
He’s not stupid enough to start a fight in a burning house, so he runs for the back door, which opens up into a barren grassy patch hemmed in by a fence. Good; Connor doesn’t want Nelson running. If Connor is the only one that survives the fire, he will make sure Nelson pays for it.
Connor makes it out the door first, so he has enough time to pick up a rock and hurl it at Nelson’s head as the Juvey-cop chases him out. This time, Nelson doesn’t duck, and the man cries out in pain as the rock connects directly with his left eye. Whatever Unwind’s eyeball ended up in Nelson’s face, he hopes that they’re not aware of the injury. He wants only Nelson to feel the agony of the blood welling up in the ruined socket.
Nelson clutches the bloody wound, swearing at Connor. “Do you know how costly those things can get on the black market? I’ll have to replace it with yours to even things out.”
“Try it. See what happens,” Connor dares him, and lunges for the man.
Nelson’s sense of balance is still impacted by the blow to the head, so Connor manages to tackle him around the middle before Nelson is even aware that he’s attacking. They roll around on the ground for a little bit, exchanging punches back and forth, before Connor is able to force him onto his back. From there, it’s easy to keep him pinned and rain blows upon his face.
He used to get in fights a lot before the unwind order, it’s all coming back to him now. Nelson tries to shove the barrel of the gun towards Connor, but Connor knocks it out of his hand in an instant. The man’s face is almost unrecognizable by now, but Connor isn’t done yet. This man is responsible for so many teenagers being unwound, doesn’t he deserve this punishment? He, too, should be in pieces. Connor can arrange that.
Nelson tries to shout something, but the words come out garble and broken around his swollen tongue. It’s going to attract attention, if the inferno behind them hasn’t brought scrutiny already. To shut him up, Connor wraps his hands around Nelson’s throat and starts to squeeze. It’s easy at first, just a matter of applying pressure. One of his hands– the right one, Connor thinks, but he’s not entirely aware of the difference nor why it should matter– tries to back out, but Connor redoubles his efforts. Nelson is not getting away. Not this time. Not ever.
It takes Connor a long time to realize that the man is no longer moving. Longer still to realize why. Connor has never killed someone before. He didn’t think he could, but. Sometimes we learn things about ourselves later than we expect.
Connor falls to his knees, leaning back slightly as he stares at his handiwork. His heart beats an urgent, irregular beat, telling him what he has known for a while now but is certain of today: he is a terrible, terrible person. Lev wouldn’t blow up Happy Jack, even Roland couldn’t kill, but Connor could. There are no lines he would not cross, no boundaries he cannot push. He is, at last, well and truly feral. No wonder the world wants him in pieces.
People are starting to emerge from their houses, attracted by the glow of the fire and the jumbled shouts of the fight. Connor is sheltered by the fence and hedges for now, but soon they’ll come for him and find the bloodied corpse of the former Juvey-cop. There are very few people who would mourn for Jasper T. Nelson, if there are indeed any at all, but any witnesses will see a dead man and a living killer and know who is worse off at the moment. The dead rest. The living do not.
Risa finds him first. She skids over the ground to him, throwing her arms around his shoulders. Dimly, Connor is reminded of tackling Nelson to the ground, one rough arm against his throat, but this is Risa, this is different, this has to be different. Not everything in this world brings death. Still, it’s hard to remember now.
“It’s over,” Risa breathes against his ear, “It’s over. Let’s go home.”
Connor isn’t looking at her, though, he’s watching the flecks of burning paper float down around him like snow. In his head, he’s a kid again, bundled up in a parka and too-big snow boots. He’ll grow into them; so will his brother, in a few years. Now Lucas gets new clothes and Connor gets nothing at all. Lucas has had two winters now of being the first one to run out into the yard in the fresh snow, of sinking the first boot prints into the endless expanse of white, and Connor hopes to God he’s loved it.
Connor stretches out a shaking, blood-spattered hand and picks up one of the pieces. It’s an envelope, the contents either ripped away in the wind or already burnt to bits. Right now, the delivery address is damn near indistinguishable from the coarse ash rubbed against it, but Connor can pick out the words by heart:
Claire & Kirk Lassiter
3048 Rosenstock Road
Columbus, Ohio 43017
As he watches, the smoke from one corner of the envelope picks up into a spark, which turns into a flame that gnaws away the words one by one. Like unwinding, his mind whispers. Each letter ripped away to some new fate. Risa has to pluck the quickly burning paper out from between his fingers so Connor doesn’t scorch himself. He doesn’t even notice the flames are at his flesh until a dull, throbbing ache some time later.
Connor is still in Ohio. He’s within driving distance of his house, but there is something Connor has known from the moment he came back here, from the moment Sonia put that letter in his hands again, from the moment he throttled Nelson until the light left his eyes: he can never go back. That house is for the whole, and although Connor still has possession of all of his limbs, he cannot ever be described as such again. He is not his father’s son. He is not his mother’s boy. If there was ever a Connor who could return to the Lassiter family, he is not the one who just strangled a man to death. There is no place in Ohio that Connor can ever return to again.
“No,” Connor chokes out, half-gagging on the wet slurry of ash and blood in his mouth, “No. I have no home.”
Risa’s saying something soothing about how that’s not true, he’ll always have her, and they’ll find a way, they always have, but he’s not listening anymore. Instead, Connor’s face is tilted back, letting the sun wash over the gouges on his cheeks, his split lip, the bruises already flowering under his skin. He stares once into that blinding light, then snaps his eyes shut.
The elder Lassiter boy is dead. Only Connor remains.