Keon's back slammed up against the brick wall, bones cracking under the pressure as a groan escaped his lips. The impact had him bite the inside of his cheek, the taste of iron on the tip of his tongue as it trickled down. The sudden shock had left him at a loss for breath, lungs grasping for air, vision blurred. His hands ran over the coarse stone behind him, its bumpy texture like needles to his damaged skin.
He wiped his mouth with the edge of his sleeve and glared up at the man in front of him. The stranger's black eyes looked like they were swirling in the light, staring back at him with an intensity Keon lacked. He reminded him of the thug that had tried to recruit him the week prior.
"I don't give a shit about your cause, asshole," Keon said. He stood up straighter, despite the pain shooting up his spine. He prayed nothing had broken.
The guy in front of him raised an eyebrow but did not advance. "You should. This affects you just as much as it does us. We are the same, you and I."
"You're kidding me, right?" Keon would never associate himself with the likes of them. Ever since his sudden change in location a year ago to the outskirts, away from the suburbs and farther into the city, the local gangs had made it a point to recruit him. With the law pressing down harder and harder on their kind, it made sense that they would lash out and give their all to fight. That didn't mean he wanted anything to do with it.
"You know what this makes you? A traitor to your own kind."
Uncontrollable anger rushed through him at those carelessly thrown out words. "Fuck you."
He spit the remaining blood out next to him and pushed himself off the wall and past the persistent man, but stopped in his tracks when a calloused hand squeezed his sore shoulder. It took all his willpower not to yell out in agony. His teeth ground together, eyes briefly shut-in pain.
"We won't give up." The pressure on his upper arm tightened to an almost unbearable amount. The guy's hot breath warmed his skin. He refused to grant him the satisfaction of looking. His all-consuming presence made him uneasy, but like hell, if he would ever let the person before him see that.
"And neither will I," said Keon. Strength, fake or not, was all he had.
He shrugged the guy's hand off with as much force as he could muster and limped off, the pain from earlier impossible to hide.
Although the stranger didn't follow, he could sense his eyes on his back, following him until he was out of sight. To that thug, Keon must have looked weak. The thought that anyone would want him to fight for them made little sense.
Keon did his best to blend into the background, hide amongst the shadows, and try to be as inconspicuous as possible. The government had no intention of letting clones have any real freedom.
Just then, a cough racked his body and sent a shock of pain down into his ribs. His whole life, he let others push him around.
An inevitable sigh escaped him. With one last look over his shoulder, a precaution to make sure he wasn't being followed, Keon continued on his way.
One thought plagued his mind: words that someone said to him in the past. It was something that punk didn't seem to understand.
Clones didn't have a voice, and if they did, they were silenced.