He understood then. This living doll was a gift from the Remedy, a bonus for his services. She was someone who would love him without question, which was all he’d really ever wanted.

So he’d thought.

Horseman felt an overwhelming empathy for her then, a sadness at the uselessness of her existence, and a deep, gnawing guilt. Because this girl, or whatever she was, had been created just for him. Yet he knew beyond certainty that he would never love her back.

And right now, she was compromising his mission.

“I have to go.” Horseman sprang out of the pillows and stood up, backing away from her. “I’m sorry. If I make it back from my job, I swear I’ll try to fix this.”

Her poised, painted face frowned as the metal door opened and the projection faded back into the freight elevator it had been.

“Come back, my love. I can help you find what you need. Just come back…”

15

HORSEMAN STUMBLED ALONG the streets, desperate to get through the winding labyrinth of tunnels, eager to start his mission. He dragged his hand against the tunnel wall and watched the colors project onto his clothing. The projections seemed less charming when you’d seen what was behind the mirage, and the canned air was starting to make him gag.

He knew too much—he understood that. Felt too much. Or more than he was meant to, at least. There was some glitch in him, like with the flock, and that was dangerous. He worried it was starting to become a liability.

The guards posted at every checkpoint resembled heavily armored tanks shaped like men, and their eyes followed him from behind their goggled masks. Horseman knew his movements looked erratic, and he tried to slow his pace, to look professional.

Not that he felt any fear.

Inside the smooth leather of his gloves, he stretched his fingers—his only weapon. Because the Remedy trusted him to get the job done. Not like these goons with their heavy artillery. He had been crafted to be superior, after all.

So what was he waiting for?

He ran past the stern-faced guards, but before they could even yell “Ostanovis!” Horseman snapped open his wings—giant, powerful things that he controlled as dexterously as his fingers—shot up into the fake skyscrapers, and burst through the ceiling vent.

By the time he heard the rapid powpowpow of their AK-47s, Horseman was soaring over land that lacked the rubble of destroyed civilization but was still tainted by layers of the ever-present ash and covered by a dense, acrid blanket of toxic air. His embedded GPS sensors told him he was in a remote part of Russia.