Dec was dressed in black. All black. From head to toe black. His cap was too tight and his face-stocking constricted uncomfortably around his neck. The alleyway was still and silent, holding its breath, the brickwork underfoot slowly seeping residue heat from the day. Dec held his breath too, bounced on his toes, checked his palm pod, bounced on his toes some more and swiped a drop of sweat from his brow.

7.28 pm. The sun had set almost half an hour ago. Where was Tommy?

Somewhere in the adjoining neighbourhood, a rusty door hinge screeched, high and eerie like a baby crying. He checked the time again. 7.29 pm. In half-an-hour, changeover would be complete, the limbo quiet of the streets would be filled with Nocturnals coming out of their houses and going to work. If Tommy didn't come soon ...

A tall, broad-shouldered man appeared at the end of the alley—the dark sheen of his skin seeming to swallow the SolStore streetlamps overhead. Dec recognised the top-heavy sway of his gait and released his breath, half out of relief and half annoyance. As Tommy swaggered towards him, Dec couldn't help but notice how his friend had changed in the three short years since they'd graduated school.

They used to call him Tommy Bear because of his wiry curls, pot belly and stoner eyes. He was the class clown, the life of the party, the goof who never took anything seriously, except for how many marshmallows he could cram in his mouth. Now, he rarely smiled. After his lucky escape from the horrors of the March Massacre, he'd taken up kickboxing, shaved his wiry curls to the root, and hadn't talked about his experience to anyone. In his silence, Dec had watched the soft, smiling bear of his friend disappear behind a man of lean, compact muscle, with vengeance in his eyes.

That look was in his black agate gaze now. For a brief moment, Dec wanted to retreat down the alley towards home and curl up in bed for a precious half an hour of extra sleep. But it was too late to back out.

"Where have you been?" he said through gritted teeth.

Tommy dropped the gym bag that was slung over his shoulder. "Thought I had a bot on my tail. Had to take the long way here."

"Shit," Dec said, looking around. "Maybe we shouldn't do this." He paused. "Why are we doing this again?"

"To shake shit up. Make the police's life a misery. Why else?"

"I dunno. I just think, maybe there's a better way we can 'shake shit up'."

"Well, when you come up with a plan, let me know." Tommy withdrew two crowbars from the gym bag and handed one to Dec, followed by two cans of black paint.

Dec stared down at the spray cans. "Jeez. Where did you get these? Did they ID you?"

Tommy glared. "I'm not an idiot. Janet put me on to this guy—"

"Trainer Janet?"

Tommy nodded. "At Smackdown comp last week, she told me about this guy named Lazar. Hangs out at Jupiters on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Said he can get us whatever we need."

"What's his deal?" Dec fingered the can, trying to get a grip on the nozzle between the slip of his wool gloves. "Are you sure we can trust him?" While Janet was Tommy's kickboxing instructor and nice enough—she was also an ex con.

Tommy nodded. "Janet said he's legit. A mastermind actually. He's the leader of this new group called the NYR, or Nocturnal Youth Rights group. They're a new revolutionary party—"

"Like the Bandits?" Dec interrupted.

Tommy scoffed. "Nah, nothing like those dickheads. This is the real deal. They've got money and power. Lazar even gets a say in government. He goes to their fancy parties to negotiate Nocturnal rights. Even got some sick kid daylight rights so he could spend his last days in the sun."

"Sounds like fools gold to me."

"Why don't we see for ourselves? Janet got us invited to their meeting this Thursday."

"I dunno," Dec said.

"You just said you wanted a 'better plan'."

Dec scuffed his shoe on the pavement. "It's not that. I've gotta work."

Tommy rolled his eyes. "Take the night off. Can't someone else box up grain for once."

"Someone's gotta pay rent. And I don't 'box up grain'."

"Whatever. You live in a shed. Don't your Nocturnal incentive payments cover that at least?"

Dec averted his gaze. "Mum's not working, so we can't claim them."

Tommy blew out breath. "Shit, that's right." He whacked Dec's shoulder. "Mel told me about Adele. Anything I can do to help?"

Dec jerked his head up. "Told you what?"

"About Adele's sickness. I didn't realise, sorry."

The crow bar shook in Dec's hands. "I didn't realise you and my sister were such good friends." His words came out low and defensive, almost a growl. Tommy and Mel weren't friends. Mel had no right to tell Tommy about Adele's sickness.

Tommy busied himself with re-zipping the duffel bag. "You're my best friend, Dec." He threw the bag over his shoulder before looking Dec in the eye. "I just thought you'd tell me if something serious was going down in your life."

I could say the same for you, Dec thought as he tucked the spray can in the back of his belt. Tommy's refusal to talk to him about the massacre still surprised him to this day.

"Well, if you're interested, we're meeting at Mansions tomorrow night. 12 pm."

Dec pulled a stocking over his face. His next words were muffled by the gauze. "Are we doing this or not?" He threw the question over his shoulder as he retreated down the alley.

Tommy didn't reply, but his following footsteps were answer enough.

They crept along the outskirts of the skate park towards the avenues, keeping to the unlit line of hedges on the back fence. One-by-one, they took turns squatting before the shiny surveillance cameras, proffering a knee for the other to use as a springboard to launch themselves into the air. With the right angle and nozzle control, they blacked out one camera per minute, working in the kind of synchronisation that only two people who've known each other for a lifetime could possess.

Everything was going to plan. They'd tested police response times for a month by triggering car alarms in surrounding neighbourhoods then watching for lights and sirens from Black Point lookout. Fifteen minutes was average—a number that was growing each day as petty crime continued to rise. Dec calculated that if they kept their pace, they'd make it to tenth avenue without police interference.

They reached tenth without incident—the main street of Blackforest Range, where the local supermarket, petrol station and postoffice stood in a decrepit row of bleached signs and shuttered windows. Tommy and Dec switched their spray cans for crowbars and approached the camera atop the supermarket. Tommy went first, smashed the metal casing and severed the fuse with axe-cutter accuracy.

Dec went next, aiming his swing for the camera perched atop the post-office like a storm-set weathervane. But his swing veered off-target when he thought he saw the shadow of a passerby between the roller shutters of the post-office window. "What was that?" he hissed at Tommy, who looked in the direction of his gaze and shrugged.

"Don't see anything."

Dec looked again and saw only his own reflection, wide eyed and frozen, crowbar in hand. Shaken, it took him three swings to do any damage—his first glancing left, the second, right and the third leaving only a hairline crack in the glass. Before he could line up a final swing, Tommy grabbed his shoulder. "You were right," he said. "We've got company."

They squinted into the darkness. Something moved along the side fence of the post office and disappeared into the shadows. A low growl followed, reverberating up the street, along the shopfronts like a skittish Autumnal wind.

It took a hefty shove from Tommy to regain control of his body. He stumbled after his friend, who was already making his way around the back of the complex to the carpark and behind the large industrial bin against the wall. His nose flared from the stench of garbage and rotting food scraps while he waited for Tommy to retrieve their getaway bikes. Seconds later, Tommy was by his side, no bikes, crowbar at the ready. "We've got a problem," he muttered.

Sure enough, there was an answering growl, followed by the patter of unclipped claws. The stray appeared, a wolfish breed, covered in wiry tufts of midnight black which were balding in patches on its hindquarters. Dec rose on his toes, ready to run. But Tommy stopped him with his hand. "Easy."

The stray crept forward, eyes stretched white and wide, haunches bristling and canine's bared, its panting breath dousing them in the stench of decay. Tommy took a careful step to the left, eyes locked on the hunger-crazed animal, then right. The stray mirrored his movements with carnal precision, all the while emitting a low, rumbling growl from deep within its chest.

Suddenly, the stray sprung, bared teeth slashing the bottom inch of Tommy's pant leg and taking away a token of denim. Tommy swung his crowbar in defence, but milliseconds too late, requiting nothing but air.

"Forget the bikes," Dec said, glancing towards the main street. "Let's go."

But Tommy stood grounded, the vengeful gleam flashing in his eyes. And before Dec could stop him, he stepped behind the bin.

It happened in slow motion—Tommy's crowbar drawing a leaden arc, a death scythe delivering an adjourning blow. It disappeared into the shadows with a stomach-wrenching wet thud like a meat tenderer hitting a T-bone. Again and again the crowbar came down until the stray's strangled yowls were replaced by silence and Tommy's heavy breathing.

Tommy emerged with their bikes, blood spatters making etch-a-sketch patterns on his skin. Dec turned away, stomach churning, resisting the urge to grip the steel bin to steady himself. Instead, he threw his crow bar and spray can into the iron depths of the bin, peeled off his facemask and gloves and stuffed them into his pockets before grabbing his bike and peddling away, through the carpark and down a back alley, Tommy in tow. Dec didn't look back at his friend, just iron-gripped his handlebars and concentrated on the rush of rubber wheels on bitumen, a salve against the echo of the stray's dying cries in his mind.

An apartment door swung open and he swerved just in time, brakes screeching. A woman appeared, surly-faced behind it, shaking one hand at them while attempting to tie the strings of her apron with the other. Further down, an old man opened the shutters on his apartment balcony, saggy turkey skin arms flapping as he flung a bucket of soapy water over the railing and onto the street. Dec ducked and swerved again, missing the flood of grey water by inches.

At the end of the street, Tommy's gears ground out a series of metronomic clicks as he took a sharp left turn towards Blackpoint and his home. Dec swerved right towards Blackforest Range, cutting a crooked zigzag path through the streets to avoid remaining surveillance cameras. In his minds eye, he saw Tommy in the lamplight, a dark sheen on the skin on his arms, reminding him of the man he'd held, who'd dragged himself towards the hospital in the wake of the massacre still bleeding from a gunshot wound to the abdomen. He'd gripped Dec around the middle and dragged him to the pavement, begging Dec to help him. He had midnight skin, just like Tommy's and his brown eyes had been wide with horror, even as they turned flat and glazen.

Dec pushed hard against the pedals, riding against the memory, trying to put as much distance between him, the stray, the broken cameras, and his best friend.

He burst onto his street with such speed, his handlebars quivered in his hands, only to find the garage door of his home lit by a dizzying strobe of red and blue. A trio of glossy black police cars formed a Bermuda triangle around his sister who, still in her satin lilac pyjamas, shook under the scrutiny of the wasps—police officers in black uniforms with bright yellow reflector pads on the arms. He slammed on his breaks, coming to a screeching stop—the echo of which drew the wasps attention away from his sister and onto him, followed by the white hot heat of industrial strength torchlights.

"Declan Hancock?" the shortest of the officers said, taking a dozen or so brisk strides towards him.

Dec shielded his eyes. "Yeah." There was no point in denying it. No point in running.

The officer reached down and swivelled him around with one brusque shove. "You are to accompany us to the police station for questioning under reasonable suspicion of the destruction of public property." Dec felt the familiar bite of metal around his wrists. "You have the right to remain silent ... "

Dec let the words wash over him. He'd heard them all before, when he'd been in for designing, printing and distributing a local 'rag' with first hand accounts of what had happened during the March Massacres. Though he'd been released due to the fact that they hadn't been able to prove his intent to 'incite violence', they'd done so with a warning that if he got caught up in any kind of politically motivated stunt again, he could expect jail time.

As Dec slid into the back seat of the police car, he caught sight of his sister's face and felt his stomach clench. For a second, she looked like their mum, Adele, frail, wilting, the contours of her face stricken under the flashing lights.