Thomas nursed his scuffed knee.

It hadn't taken him very long at all to dirty and damage the Spot outfit he'd been instructed to wear. Dirt scraped up the side of his thigh and marked his chest. The material at his knee was torn. It was only a small hole, but he could see the skin underneath. It was sore, with spots of blood trying to show themselves through the abrasions.

He looked around, fully aware that he shouldn't be staying in one place. He needed to keep moving. David had promised him a two hour head start. That didn't mean he'd keep his promises. There was no reason at all why Thomas could trust the man. If he wanted to stay free for longer and give make the Spotter work for their money, he had to be more careful. It was a scuffed knee now, but what if he'd have broken his arm or cracked his skull? What if he'd killed himself? It would be fast and, possibly, less painful, but then the Spotters would get off lightly.

No chance.

He stood, testing his weight on his battered leg. It really was just a scuff, but when the skin stretched or creased, it stung. Thomas in another life, another time – only a day before – might have gone to his father and asked for a plaster or some sympathy. He was a new Thomas. Not necessarily improved, perhaps, but his priorities had rearranged themselves. A little pain was manageable. His life was trampling over everything else that mattered.

Well, apart from Bren. He wanted to stay alive and also wanted to see her again. He believed she'd vanished herself, utilising yet another new power. The potential for her disappearance to be because of the force field closing in upon her, crushing her into nothing, stalked the back of his mind like a hungry wolf. It kept daring to creep towards the foreground, only to be chased back by his half hearted self assurances.

His leg would be fine. It wasn't bleeding and there were no fractures. The scuff would be forgotten quickly. Man up, boy, he told himself.

Easy...

Thomas followed the cable into the office block. Many of the buildings still had power running to them. Hydro-electric, solar and wind power had been used more and more since the Outbreak, when many workers stopped working. Those with suitable powers were paid huge amounts to fill in the blanks where nature fell short.

The cable was thick and was enveloped in a rubber sleeve. Inside, it ran along three edges of the floor before going through a hole low in the opposite wall. He didn't expect it lead anywhere in particular, so only followed it because it went somewhere. To the right of the hole was a doorway, and Thomas wondered why whoever had made the hole for the cable hadn't just let it go through there. It would have saved a lot of work for not much more length. There was no door in the frame to close upon it, so it wouldn't have caused an obstruction. Maybe, when the cable had been installed, there had been one. If so, it had since been taken.

He went through the doorway, listening for any signs of movement. He was sure he was alone, but that didn't mean he actually was. Even if he wasn't being pursued by the Spotters yet, there were other dangers. Loose cannons who enjoyed picking on the defenceless or less empowered. Plus, he'd been advertised to the world. His face would be on news casts, social media and printed onto flyers. They would make sure he was easily recognised. It meant that the chase was heavily weighted in favour of his pursuers and Thomas was at a distinct disadvantage. Now, rather than the Spotters being the ones who wanted him dead, the world was taking a collective howl at the moon. He was prey to the entire planet.

The room he was in was small. His own bedroom had more space, and that was with his furniture taken into account. If he stretched his arms wide, he could almost touch opposing walls with his fingertips. There were the remnants of posters still stuck to the walls. 'AG BOD' (the only part of the item's name still showing) would stop you feeling fatigue and soften your bowel movements at the same time. Timeless Holidays would leave you feeling 'energ' and '0% bet' as a hugely discounted price. There were many others, none fully intact or bearing any relation to each other.

An opening in the ceiling swallowed the cable and offered the only other way out of the room. Thomas wasn't tall enough to reach the hole and hadn't seen anything to give him a boost. He didn't want to go back the way he'd come either. Forward was his only option. Back tracking meant he was losing time and putting himself in the places his pursuers might be. He tugged on the cable, not really expecting it to be held fast. Thankfully, it was. Taking hold, he used it to pull himself up.

Climbing was a struggle. He was unable to levitate, and hadn't climbed as many trees as he might have done before the Outbreak. Then he would have had friends and climbing trees would have still been something children did, instead of uprooting them as a show of strength or setting them ablaze with a look. By the time he was pulling himself into the ceiling, he was sweating profusely.

He sat on the edge of the hole with his legs hanging out to catch his breath. Looking down, he wondered if the drop would kill him. Maybe if he fell right or went head first. That would take care of all his troubles. He wouldn't have to worry about dying. His father wouldn't have to worry about the son he'd had to turn his back on. It might give the bullies at school pause to think about what their actions had pushed someone to do.

He wouldn't actually kill himself. He didn't want to die, even if living meant he had to endure being hunted and betrayed. Somehow, he would show them all. What, he didn't yet know, but it would be something, if only that a lack of power didn't mean you couldn't fight.

Thomas looked around. He was in a low loft space, one that was occupied by only webs and dust. There'd no doubt be spiders scurrying around, watching this intruder into their domain. The thought made him shudder. He wasn't afraid of spiders, but the fact they were hidden in the darkness and could drop on him or climb up his trouser leg wasn't pleasant. He stood, finding there was just enough space for him to do so without his head brushing the inside of the roof. Still, he bent forward a little to give more space between the two, just to be sure.

He waited for his eyes to grow accustomed to the dim light. It didn't take long and, though he wanted to hurry, he knew he had to be sensible. He would fall through the ceiling if he took a step wrong. He could hurt himself on an unseen screw or nail. He could be set upon by a giant spider with venomous fangs. He couldn't be, but he thought if he imagined something ludicrous, the reality couldn't be as bad.

He moved slowly. Luckily, the space was boarded out, so he had something firm to walk on rather than hopscotching from joist to joist. The roof sloped down to one side, the low point having a vertical section of about a foot or two. He was on the higher side, but could see he'd have to crouch. In the far corner was another hole, one through which the cable led.

Between him and the exit were odd coloured smears on the boards. They were dark streaks drawn across the boards like a line in the sand, daring him to cross. He dropped to his hands and knees and, moving slowly, approached them.

They'd be paint. Chalk. The remnants of decorating or of a child's art. Why either of those would find themselves in a loft, he didn't know, but he was trying to convince himself. Really, he knew what they were. He'd seen similar markings before. Streets had them daubed on the corners of buildings.

A mark of territory.

But it wouldn't be. Not up there. Not in a place nobody went.

Yet, someone had been there. Someone had run the cable across that loft, and they'd done it for a purpose. Instead of giving in to his curiosity, he should have kept running. Instead of hiding almost on the Spotters' doorstep, he should have got as far away as was possible.

But, he didn't and, as he drew closer, he knew there'd been no children with chalk or any decorators wanting to give the loft a fresh look. Three lines, more or less parallel, like claw marks except they didn't indent the wood and no creature had made them. They'd been hand painted. Literally. The gang member who'd made them had cut his own palm and used his own blood.