Alyssa opens her mouth, hoping to scream, cry, breathe. Blood trickles from her lips without so much as a gurgle, the air in her mouth and throat stale, metallic. Nerve bundles in her neck send out frantic pulses and yet she chokes, the fog in her brain pierced by the burning in her lungs. She hauls on the nerves, magnifying their signal, following it through. The wave reaches her chest, muscles contracting and relaxing in concert.

Her effort bears the sickly squelch of flesh sliding apart, leaving a void between her ribs. The fog thickens.

She struggles to sit up, pain shooting through her mangled left side as muscles pull inward, catching on jagged bone. Her right arm burns as it tries to obey, the muscles within torn from strain. Her eyes flutter open, slow to adjust. Ruins surround her, a cloud of dust settling among them. The muscles in her neck protest as she directs them, wrenching her head upright, chin against sternum.

Half a lung sits before her, soaking in a pool of blood amidst rubble. A gruesome wound bounds her body, splintered ribs jut out from shredded flesh on her right side, the cut arching up across her sternum and out through a once-fused clavicle, tattered fabric sticking to the edges of her torn skin. Alyssa’s eyes close, and her head hits the ground.

Other sounds reach her now: sirens, shouting. She shuts them out, focusing on her power. Blood blankets her immediate surroundings, tendrils wicking through the rock and dust beneath her. She draws on it, feeling the cells dissolve, directing severed vessels and veins to close in exchange. Not enough.

Anyone else would be dead, even with her power. She has backups, redundancies, failsafes. Muscles lining major vessels, supplementing flow; valves that close in the event of injury; vacuoles packed with oxygen. Enough to keep her alive if shot in the heart, or to stave off blood loss. She even planned for decapitation, but not like this.

Alyssa’s focus wavers and chaos greets her ears, almost deafening. Moments pass as her hearing adjusts, voices emerging from the cacophony. One stands out, barking orders over the noise, bombarding her eardrums. The pile of rubble shifts, and Alyssa manages to turn her head to look. An armor-clad woman emerges about a dozen yards away, scrapes and gashes marring white and blue paint atop once-polished steel.  The woman’s faceplate clatters against the ground as she rolls onto her back, gasping for air.

Alyssa’s eyes widen. The muscles of her throat work, desperate to speak, futile as it may be.

Cindy. Help.

Cindy’s breathing relaxes, and she gets to her feet with a motion halfway between standing and rotating upright. Sunlight glints off her helmet as she looks around, eyes obscured behind a silver visor. After what feels like an eternity, her gaze lands on Alyssa.

“…Oh my god.”

Her first steps are halting, favoring one leg, before she breaks out into a full run. She stops abruptly at the blood puddle’s edge, as if briefly pinned in place, then drops to her knees.

Steel gauntlets take hold of Alyssa’s face, cool on her skin, and gently rotate her head. Tears flow from beneath the visor, and Alyssa tries to imagine the eyes that shed them.

“I’m so sorry. I—Oh god, Alyssa, I’m sorry.”

Alyssa tries to form words, and fails. With the last of her strength, she manages a nod. Not acceptance. Understanding, forgiveness.

“Oh fuck. Oh my god. You’re still alive. Oh god. Um, okay, hold on. I’m here. Um. Don’t panic.”

Cindy brings a hand to her helmet. Alyssa can hear the buzz of radio static.

“Come on. Come on. Get through.”

A masculine voice answers, but she can’t make out the words.

“Conduit, it’s Paragon. I need help. Mitosis is injured. Badly. We’re at the financial building, what’s left of it.”

“Understood. Keep her stable. The situation’s gotten out of hand, it’s hard to track down resources at the moment.”

“Stable? She’s dying! I can’t—”

The radio buzzes, then shuts off. Cindy pulls her hands away, briefly clenching them into fists. She places one on the side of Alyssa’s ribs, below the armpit. The other on the side of her head. The lines of her face harden in focus, determination.

Alyssa feels a pulse from each hand, a ripple through her flesh and bones, and then… weightlessness, slowly rising into the air as Cindy stands.

A knife floats out of a compartment on Paragon’s armor, hovering between them.

“Alyssa. This is going to fucking hurt.”

The blade slips beneath her vision, cutting into the seal formed across her severed aortic arch. It darts out and back, opening what’s left of her vena cava. She expects blood to gush out; instead, it flows, and the fog clears.

Pain floods Alyssa’s body as dying nerves are revitalized, her face twisting and contorting, denied the release of screaming. She seizes the nerves at their stem and severs them; pain will distract, and this miracle might give her seconds at best.

Then she feels it: a ribbon of blood unraveling into countless threads, weaving together as they return, guided through the air by an unseen force, untouched by dirt or dust. The same force picks up her lung, gently returning it. Blinking back tears, Alyssa looks at Cindy, who smiles.

“It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

Cindy tilts her head, and a crackle of static echoes from her helmet. 

“Okay, now, just hold on, alright? Let’s get some help.”

Alyssa nods, barely. She focuses on her lung, sealing its edges, securing it.

The radio static clears, Conduit’s voice coming through.

“Situation?”

“I’m keeping her stable, for now.”

“Good. How long can you wait? First responders have their hands full, and we can’t spare any medics.”

“I can’t hold this for long.”

“You said she’s stable?”

“I—Here, can you see my helmet’s feed?”

“Negative. Last quake took out most communications. Tell me what you need.”

“Someone who can dig.”

“Understood. Hang in there.”

“Alright,” Cindy says, then looks around. “Alyssa, do—do you know where the rest of you went?”

Alyssa blinks twice. Easier than trying to move her head.

“Is that a no? How about, a wink for yes, two blinks for no?”

Alyssa winks.

“Okay. Well, um, you just do your thing? I’ve got you. You’re going to be okay.”

Alyssa draws on her power, shifting her awareness, feeling for damage. Neurons at the brink of death, risking their sister cells. Entire swaths of flesh starved of oxygen for too long, necrosis setting in. She uses her power to displace the effects, culling healthy cells to rejuvenate vital ones.

A sudden crack bombards Alyssa’s eardrums, breaking her focus. Her sight returns in time to see a woman drop from the air by the road. Despite being more of an impact than a landing, the woman doesn’t even bend her knees. Open-faced, militarized helmet; camouflaged armor, minimal decor. Government hero. By the flag and star on her sleeves, probably Army.

“Are you Paragon?” The woman’s voice is close in Alyssa’s ears, despite the distance. “You have a trapped teammate?”

“Yes. Um, yes, and no. She’s right here, but not all of her.”

Cindy’s voice cracks as she speaks, a trickle of blood leaking onto her chin. Her face, flush just moments ago, now teeters on the edge of pallor.

Alyssa looks down, eyes settling on Cindy’s leg. It bends in places that shouldn’t, with blood leaking from gaps and cracks in armor plates.

“Kid, are you alright? You’re not making sense.”

“I’m fine. Just, please come here. I—I need to focus.”

Dust and dirt swirl around the woman as she approaches. Alyssa can hear words muttered in Spanish, some kind of expletives.

“Paragon, what are you doing?”

“She’s alive. She needs help.”

Alyssa tries in vain to move her arm or head in affirmation, finding herself limp in Paragon’s telekinetic grip. She manages to lock eyes with the soldier, if only for a moment.

“I’m sorry, Paragon. She’s dead. You’re injured. You’re in shock. You’re not thinking straight. We need to get you medical attention.”

“No. No. She can heal. When we find her body, she—”

“If we find her body, and if it isn’t dead. Think of the long term. You’re risking your own life to prolong her suffering, if she’s even still there.”

“I can’t—I can’t leave her. I won’t, I…” Cindy chokes on the words, and then takes a deep breath. Her helmet unfolds, the visor rising out of the way. Fresh tears seep from her blue eyes, stray strands of blonde hair stick to her forehead.

“Alyssa,” Cindy whispers. “I don’t know how to save you, and I—” She chokes again, suppressing a sob. “I don’t want you to suffer. If you want me to stop…”

Moving her neck is harder now. A force emanating from Cindy’s hand pulls on her skull, keeping her head upright against muscle tension and gravity. She tries harder this time, forcing the fibers to contract, and manages to shake her head to the right.

Please help. She mouths the words, exaggerating the motion of her lips, jaw, and tongue.

“Tell me how. Show me.”

Alyssa reaches out with her power, taking stock. She doesn’t have much left. Her head, one shoulder, half a ribcage, half a lung, one arm, a tit. She can afford to lose the tit, not that much would come of it. A bit of fat, glands, skin. But the arm, with its muscles, tendons, bone…

Long term. Alyssa repeats the soldier’s words in her head. She can regrow the arm, given time and sustenance. Everything else?

There’s so little of her left, barely anything vital. No intestines; she’d have to get intravenous nutrition. No liver, kidneys…

She’d subsist for a few days, weeks even, on stored fats and external supplements. She could try to regrow lost organs, yet that would only increase her body’s needs. Most likely, her fate would be to waste away.

She has to try. Even if she fails.

Alyssa cuts the vessels and veins of her arm, shunting the flow away at the shoulder. She instructs connecting tendons to die and grows boundaries in the surrounding flesh, culling the intervening cells.

She looks Cindy in the eyes, then looks down to her shoulder, repeating the movement twice more.

“Your arm?” Cindy’s brow furrows. “I can feel… You want me to take it off?”

Alyssa nods, looking from her arm to what remains of her chest.

Muscle. Heart. She mouths.

The arm comes loose, leaving behind a pit of scar tissue. She can feel the blood streams move out of the way, as her arm is tucked into what is left of her torso. It becomes scaffolding and resource both as she sets to work, flaying the arm’s skin to seal her lung, mining its cartilage to reunite trachea and bronchi. She carves out pockets in the bicep, weaving muscle strands to create chambers and valves. An artery sprouts from one end, a vein from the other, and they crawl upwards to meet with their greater counterparts, careful to avoid the incisions. Fat fuels the process, leaving her gaunt.

A single nerve winds down from her severed spine, burning as fresh neurons come to life, and the makeshift heart beats at its touch. Cindy takes the cue and directs the levitated blood inward, allowing her to seal the last wounds.

Her chest finally rises, filling her lung with air.

“Thank you,” she whispers, and lets the exhaustion take her.

5:45 AM

Alyssa blinks.

5:47 AM

Damn.

Alyssa has slept for about six hours. Her doctors say that she needs twelve hours per day, though she reckons it’s closer to ten. Either way, six is not enough.

A pair of cords—one rooted to her vena cava, the other sprouting from her aorta—pierce her diaphragm, winding together as they leave her body. Plastic shrouds the vessels, disguising them as medical tubing connecting to the equipment behind her bed. They wind and loop, emerging from a panel behind the neighboring bed, where a short girl sleeps, snoring softly. The cord connects with what was the girl’s navel, where rings of muscle form a series of valves, and passes through connective tissues. It enters the girl’s uterus in the way the optic nerve enters the eye, splaying out into a network of capillaries all across the organ’s inner surface, where waste is given away in exchange for nutrition.

Her power lets her feel the girl’s inner workings. Cells press together where her weight settles, small hairs bend where clothes and bed sheets sit on them. The right of her chest flexes just slightly more with each breath; the bone is soft, young. That side’s clavicle straddles the boundary, one half ossified, the other largely cartilage, a mirror image of Alyssa’s own. The arm beyond is weaker than its counterpart; its muscles have yet to endure years of regular use. Her spine bends slightly from the midpoint of her torso, offsetting her neck to the left in the same way that Alyssa’s is set to the right, though months of healing have nearly straightened both.

Deeper still, Alyssa can feel the girl’s thoughts. She cannot read them, but she can detect the release and uptake of chemicals she knows the purpose of, even if she cannot name them. The girl is dreaming.

It reminds her of her predicament. Going back to sleep is not a difficulty; it is a matter of neurotransmitters, which she can create and release at will. She does not want to sleep because she will have her own dreams, and they are something else she shares with the girl.

They are not good dreams.

She blinks again.

5:50 AM

Again.

5:51 AM

Again.

“Hey,” Alyssa whispers at the girl.

“Hey.” Again, at normal volume. No response.

“Hey!” She punctuates the shout with a spike of adrenaline, wrenched from the girl’s kidneys.

The effect, if any, is brief. Another will exerts itself over her power, quieting the target glands, flushing the hormone from the girl’s blood.

She settles on the nuclear option, unpleasant as the thought is.

“Alyssa, wake up.”

The girl startles, bolting upright, putting tension on their shared tether.

“Wha?”

The girl’s voice is high pitched, nasal in tone. The girl turns to look at her, rubbing at oversized brown eyes set in a round, immature face, centered by an up-turned button nose and topped by a mess of brown hair. A cute face, were she a child. On a teenager it’s a face that’s goofy, laughable. On a woman it’s awkward, pitiable.

The girl reaches for the nightstand that unites their beds and picks up Alyssa’s phone, casting her face in a blue glow.

“Dude, it’s like, nine.” Alyssa can feel the girl scratch her head with her free hand, bringing it down to chew on a thumbnail. “‘Thought we were waking up at eleven.”

“Can’t sleep.”

The girl’s expression softens.

“Bad dreams?”

Alyssa nods to answer the question. “Didn’t want to sleep. Too excited.”

The girl cocks her head, about to ask, then arrives at the answer with the firing of countless synapses.

“Oh, right. That’s today.”

Alyssa is angered, even jealous, but she keeps it hidden, purging the emotions with her power.

The girl’s hand smacks the wall behind the nightstand, turning on the room’s daytime lighting. They both blink in unison as their eyes adjust. The girl’s hand moves to her stomach, wrapping around the cord. The double valves close and the tether separates while the girl swings her legs over the side of the bed. The girl drops the tether’s end in the sheets, and she disappears from Alyssa’s internal senses.

“I’ma go get breakfast. You, uh, need anything?”

“Kinda low on vitamin C. And calcium. Lots of calcium.”

The girl nods, stands up, and makes her way to the door.

“Hey, wait,” Alyssa says, and the girl stops. “The phone.”

“Whoops, sorry,” she responds, backtracking a few steps, handing the device off. “Forgot.”

The girl opens the door. There’s a bit of a sucking sound, a slight drop in air pressure, and then she leaves, closing the door behind her.

Alyssa holds the phone up, and it unlocks as it scans her face. She resists the urge to check her social apps, knowing they won’t be as she left them. She chooses messages, instead. Like the apps, things are different. Conversations she did not have, messages not meant for her. She selects the one labeled ‘cindyyyy’

Even here, things are amiss. Messages sent and messages received in the time since she went to sleep. She ignores them.

heyyy
its me
uh
a/2

Oh, hey.
Can you wait for, I dunno,
ten or fifteen minutes?
My plane just landed and
I’m about to go through security.
I’ll text when I get picked up.

k

Alyssa puts the phone down, flat on her chest. She scoots herself up onto her pillow with her arms, making it easier to view the room. It feels more… lived-in than a regular hospital room would, with the posters her family put up, the picture frames atop moved-in furniture, curtains obscuring the glass walls. Red tape on the floor divides the room, beds and window on one side, the door and chairs for visitors on the other. Her laptop sits on one of those chairs. The girl has been using it, because she can’t, not for more than a minute or two. But she gets the phone.

At least, she’s supposed to get the phone.

A vibration propagates through her ribs, originating atop her sternum. Text message.

I’m in the car now.
Did you just get up?
Your parents mentioned
you’re still sleeping a lot.

yeah
it sucks

Feeling alright?

talk when u get here
how soon?

Should be about an hour, I think?

dad or mom driving?

Your father’s driving.

hour fifteen then

Have you, um, eaten?
I was going to get brunch.
I could get something for you.

no need
aw getting breakfast
hospital ‘food’

Okay. Tell her I said hi.

k

Are you sure you don’t want to talk?

when u get here

Alright. See you soon, Alyssa.

u 2 cindy

Alyssa sets her phone down, picking up a stack of magazines in exchange. She’s read most of them, but as she sifts through the pile she finds some new additions. Satisfied, she returns the rest, and settles in.

Concentrated fructose and artificial maple overwhelm Alyssa’s sense of taste, the sensation of teeth cutting through mush providing the only clue identifying the food as a bite of stale pancake. A tongue moves the food into the space between teeth and cheeks, making room for a forkful of sausage, followed up by a strip of bacon. The meat gives the slurry a salty taste as it slides down a throat, washed along by a gulp of orange juice that is more acidic than it is sweet.

The girl eats ravenously, just like she would. A nerve inside the tether lets her experience the meal by proxy. Without a stomach or intestines, she doesn’t feel hungry, though she tires between meals, her metabolism shifting from blood-available compounds to those stored in fat. Now, her body eats in lieu of her, fresh sugars and proteins delivered through the tether. They do not mix with her blood directly; a small lobe of liver intercepts them at the tether’s entry point, processing the inbound nutrition.

Despite all this, the smell tempts her. She glances over at the girl’s tray and her own mouth waters in anticipation, forcing her to swallow. The excess saliva collects in a modified esophagus, where simple vessels allow the absorption of water and enzymes, and nothing more.

A knock at the door grabs Alyssa’s attention.

“Come in,” she says.

A young woman enters on crutches, a brace clasped to one leg. She is muscular and tall, about a foot taller than Alyssa used to be, with a blonde ponytail that drapes over her left shoulder and falls on her black satchel bag, just above her waist. Her button-down shirt is cobalt and navy, composed in a plaid pattern. A few pens occupy the shirt’s pocket, clips crowded together beside a teal ribbon pin.

She closes the door behind her, and her posture shifts, the crutches no longer bearing her weight. She sets them aside, leaning them against the wall.

They look at each other. Deep blue eyes greet her with warmth, free of panic, of fear.

“Cindy!” Alyssa shouts, with glee that surprises even her, and she can feel the girl smile.

“Hey, Alyssa. I’ll be right over. Let me just…” She looks around the room for a moment, fingers drumming on her bag. “Um, where should I…?”

“The chairs are fine,” the girl answers.

Cindy puts her bag down, then takes her boots off. She leaves them by the door and crosses the red tape, ignoring the bin of face masks. She passes the girl’s bed on her way to Alyssa, giving the girl a pat on the head and a high-five.

Finally, Cindy reaches Alyssa’s bed and sits down on the edge, holding out her hand. Alyssa grabs it with her own, squeezes hard. It is the first hand she has touched in two months; at least, the first hand that isn’t gloved, the first bare hand that doesn’t belong to the girl.

Cindy squeezes back. She opens her mouth to speak, but Alyssa holds up a finger.

“Wait.”

Cindy’s head tilts, perplexed, and Alyssa smiles slightly. There is something—rather, someone—she has to deal with first. She looks at the girl.

“Could you…?”

The girl nods. She knows, because she can feel Alyssa in the same way Alyssa feels her.

“Sure. Um, Cindy, I’ll be downstairs or something. Cafe, maybe?”

“I’ll find you,” Cindy says.

The girl disconnects, picks up the tray, and leaves.

Alyssa waits, savoring the moment, until she can no longer hear the girl’s footsteps beyond the door. Cindy has visited the girl several times in the past two months, always without her. She has seen Cindy each time, even spoken with her, but always at a distance. A glimpse of her from an operating table, above, observing. A video chat. Phone calls. Short conversations, through a window. Each time, the girl was there.

But this is special. This reunion is hers, and it is hers alone.

“Hey,” Alyssa says, breaking the silence.

“I missed you.”

Part of her reacts with doubt, disbelief. She buries that part, banishing it.

“Missed you too, Cindy.”

Silence, again. A normal part of conversation. Still, it bothers her.

“How’s the leg?” she asks, pointing. The brace starts at Cindy’s right hip, pressing against her jeans, and ends at her ankle, with straps at regular intervals.

“Frustrating. I haven’t gone for a run in forever. But I’m spending more time with my mom, which is nice.”

“Doesn’t she have a job?”

“She freelances, so she stopped taking contracts to take care of me. Which is weird, but nice.”

Alyssa snorts, barely stifling a laugh.

“What?”

“Sorry, I uh, I thought of her trying to help you up some stairs.”

“Hey, she’s not—she’s not that bad anymore.”

“C’mon Cindy, doesn’t she have like, a cane for every day of the week?”

“She does have a collection. About a week ago my doctor said I could start using a cane soon, if I wanted. My mom offered to let me borrow one.”

“Ha ha, ouch.”

“Yeah. I told her I’m more comfortable with crutches, even when they’re in the way. Another month of them, though… that’s going to suck.”

“Ya know, if it’s healing slow, I could maybe help? Nothing big, just some hormones and proteins.”

“Alyssa, I’m fine.”

“I know… I just, I wanna make sure you’re okay, Cindy.”

“Thanks. It’s been hard sometimes, but I’m feeling good. You don’t have to worry.”

Cindy fidgets with her fingers for a moment, her eyes take a few quick glances that trace Alyssa’s body, outlined in the bedsheet.

“Um, how are you feeling?”

I’m great

Still fighting

Having a blast

Cliche responses glide through Alyssa’s mind, failing to reach her lips. That hidden part of her digs itself out.

“I… I’m really tired, Cindy.”

“Aw, I’m sorry. Bad night?”

“No—I mean yes, but no. I’m just, I’m so tired. Of this.”

Cindy nods, slowly, solemnly. She reaches over, tousling Alyssa’s hair.

“I know it’s hard, Alyssa, but you’ve been so strong. You can do it. I’m here for you. Your parents are here for you. Everyone’s rooting for you.”

“I’m tired of her, Cindy.”

“Her?”

“You know who I’m talking about.” Alyssa’s voice is low, almost a growl. The anger isn’t meant for Cindy, and yet, it comes forth. “You call her by my name. Don’t play dumb with me, Cindy.”

“I—”

“You always visit her, and you leave me behind. Alone.”

Cindy’s eyes tear up, and her lips tense.

“It wasn’t worth the risk. I could’ve caught a cold or the flu on the plane, and given it to you.”

Alyssa hesitates. Her parents had to stop visiting in the first month, when her mother had mistaken a viral infection for summer allergies. Mom had gotten over it in a few days; Alyssa had gotten pneumonia.

She crosses her arms.

“Then why come at all, huh?”

“She’s struggling too, Alyssa. I came to support her, because she’s my friend, and so she can support you.”

Guilt and catharsis overcome her anger, returning reason to her thoughts.

“I know… It’s just—She’s been using my phone.”

“Is she not supposed to?”

“We had a deal. I can’t use the laptop, so she gets the laptop. The phone is supposed to be mine, but she keeps using it.”

“Okay.” Cindy rubs at her eyes with her sleeve, drying them. “Here. Maybe when we’re done, we can all have a talk, get some things sorted?”

Alyssa slowly shakes her head. “It won’t work. I’ve tried changing the passcode. Five times. She doesn’t even have to guess, she just, she knows, somehow, and I don’t think she even questions the change.”

She takes a deep breath, hoping it will calm her.

“I don’t have any fucking privacy, Cindy. I’m stuck to her, almost every minute of every hour, because if I’m not I won’t grow, or worse. She gets me my clothes in the morning, and throws them in the hamper when I change. She gives me showers. She has to hold me when I brush my teeth. She—She literally goes to the bathroom for me, because I can’t even piss for myself. And when she finally fucking leaves, I…”

Alyssa trails off, feeling anger rising again.

“I have to watch her walk away on my legs, watch her go talk to my doctors, to my parents. To my best friend. To my siblings, who don’t even know that I exist, because what the fuck am I going to say to them? And I fucking hate her for it.”

“I’m sorry,” Cindy whispers.

“The army lady was right,” Alyssa mutters. “I should’ve, I should’ve thought about the long term. It takes years to grow a body, even a shitty one like I had. I—I should’ve said stop.”

“What? Alyssa, no, no. Don’t say that. You’d—”

“I’d be at home right now. I’d be putting off my summer reading, instead of reading the stupid book for the eighth time. I’d be hanging out with my friends. Buying new clothes. Flying out to visit you. We’d go to the beach. We’d play video games.”

“Alyssa, you’d be dead.”

“Cindy, I—” Alyssa’s voice cracks, and she fails to hold back the tears. “I should be dead.”

“Don’t think that way. I know things are hard. I’ve been there before, when my mom was sick. But you’ve made so much progress. Things are getting better, Alyssa.”

“Are they?” she asks, choking on the words.

Cindy says something, but Alyssa isn’t listening. She wiggles her arms into her shirt, taking it off and tossing it onto the floor, throwing the bedsheets off in the process. She has an underwire bra on; stuffed with tissues, worn to create an illusion. She tears it off, breaking the clasp.

Cindy has turned away, one hand to her temple, blocking her vision.

“You have to look, Cindy. Look at me. Look at me and tell me that this is progress.”

Cindy’s head turns back, slowly, her hand lowers, and her eyes open.

Alyssa follows her gaze.

A rib cage, covered in patches of skin and scar tissue, thin enough to see muscle and bone beneath. A single nipple, flat, looking more like an oversize mole. Skin wraps around her lowest ribs, forming a cavity that pulsates in and out as her diaphragm works. Below, a column of vertebra, shrink-wrapped in flesh, protruding outward, slotted between two pillows that are roughly the size of legs. And of course, the cord. Her lifeline. Her chain.

There is only silence. Minutes pass.

“Alyssa, do you remember after the earthquake? Those first few days?”

Alyssa nods.

“The doctors said you weren’t going to make it. Even after we found your other half, they didn’t think you’d last long. They wanted us to leave your side. They said you were a lost cause. You didn’t give up.”

“But—”

“Shh. Close your eyes.”

She does.

A hand touches her chest, palm pressing in, slightly calloused. She tenses, briefly.

“Don’t say anything. Don’t think. Just listen to your senses.”

The compression amplifies her heartbeat, as the large bundle of muscle pushes flesh out of the way. Her pulse roars in her ears.

“Do you feel that?”

Alyssa nods.

“You did that. You built that. In those first few days you grew a heart from scratch. No one else, no other hero, could do that.”

Cindy moves her hand away. Alyssa pulls the covers back over her chest as she opens her eyes. By habit she reaches for her shirt collar, intending to wipe at her tears, finding nothing. Cindy hands her a tissue box, taken from the night stand.

“I, I have these dreams. Dreams that I’m still me. That I’m her. That I have my whole body back but I’m stuck in this fucking hospital. This place that I hate. That she hates. That this pathetic, pitiful thing keeps me chained here. And then—then I wake up, and I’m that thing. I’m a parasite chained to her leg, keeping her here.

“Cindy, this… this wasn’t supposed to happen. None of it. When I, or she, or we had the brilliant fuckin’ idea of growing a spare head, that’s all it—all I was supposed to be, in the end. A backup, insurance, whatever you want to call it. But since I’m such a selfish cunt, I just had to stick around, and keep her from just… moving on with her life.”

“Alyssa, from everything you’ve said it sounds like you do care. That you want the best for her.”

Alyssa manages a nod.

“Then why do you hate her?”

“Because I hate myself.”

She expects a response. An argument. The silence drags on, and she realizes that Cindy is listening, waiting.

“She’s done so much for me, Cindy, and I—I don’t know why. And all I’ve done in return is hate her for it. Hated her for… for being the person I want to be.”

“Alyssa. She cares about you. She loves you. Like family, or some kind of self-love, or, whatever, that doesn’t matter. She’s doing this because she wants you to be in her life.”

Alyssa nods, slowly. Part of her resists, but that part feels smaller now.

“Cindy, can I have a hug?”

Cindy leans towards her, practically looming over.

“No, not like that. A real hug.”

Alyssa lifts herself up, the tip of her spine brushing against the bed. It’s a struggle, but not impossible.

“Just like, pick me up. I’ve been lying down for like, weeks.”

“Oh, wow. Um. That’s, uh, that’s really weird to watch.”

“I try.”

“Do you want me to get you a shirt…?”

“Hug first. Please,” Alyssa insists. “I don’t have anything left to hide, anyway.”

Cindy lifts her up, gently, and they embrace. The anger and jealousy fade, not entirely, but enough. Enough to manage.