“…special investigative report on the earthquake that devastated Memphis. Tonight we’ll be speaking with Doctor Ursula Green from the US Geological Survey as to the unusual nature of the quake and what it may mean for the future of our country. We also have a few special guests here with us in the studio, including two who were on the ground. But first, inquiries continue in the case of…”

The anchorwoman’s voice drones on behind the half-open door as Alyssa approaches it, papers in hand, and raps on the metal frame.

“Come on in,” her sister says.

‘Sister’ still doesn’t feel quite right, but it helps to humanize their relationship, put it in a better perspective than ‘other’ had. ‘Twin’ had been tempting; it was more accurate, yet it felt… problematic.

Alyssa closes the door behind her.

“Mind if I sit?”

“Uh, nah, hold on a sec.”

Her sister sets her drink on the night table, freeing her hands so she can scoot to the side.

“Go ahead.”

Alyssa walks around the bed, passing the tee vee, the anchorwoman going into the details of various lawsuits, blame-mongering, and insurance bullshit spawned by the disaster. In other words, blah blah blah. She sits down on the empty side of the bed, swinging her legs up onto the mattress.

“Morning news must’a been awful, if you’re watching this crap from last night.”

“I wanna see the interviews. ‘Sides, it’s better than the stupid soaps.”

Her sister takes her final few sips of the drink, slurping and sucking through the straw, then sets it aside.

“How’re the guts workin’?”

“Pretty good; haven’t had to puke yet. Really had to fight it though, with how dogshit these nutrition shakes taste.”

Alyssa nods and holds the papers up, leafing through reams of doctor-speak until she finds a legible page. On it are two feminine figures, annotations and lines sketched on the abdomens of each. Planning for incisions, extractions, cuts for skin grafts.

“I talked to Doctor Nic and Doctor Ahmed. They think we’ll be ready for the next set of surgeries on Wednesday, if everything goes well.”

Being on a first name basis with doctors feels kinda weird. But this whole deal is new ground, and that meant she’d been more involved in the process than most patients would.

Her sister takes the packet, examining the diagram and the ones after it.

“Can’t we bump it up to, I dunno, Monday morning?”

“Too soon.”

Her sister rolls her eyes and sighs, tossing the packet onto the nightstand.

“But… Cindy won’t be here then…”

Alyssa scoots over and puts her arm around her sister’s shoulder in a loose hug. Her power’s awareness spreads out from the points where skin meets skin, familiar, yet alien.

In the past two months her touch had been clinical at best; most of it had been rough, flippant, boundless. Now that they’ve established boundaries between them, as two separate persons, she’s aimed for her touch to be one that comforts and heals.

“We’ll be awake for this one; I’ll be there for you, okay?”

“That’s… alright, I guess.”

Through their power Alyssa should have total awareness of her sister’s body, and to an extent, she does. But the details get fuzzy sometimes, harder to stay focused on. She’s got a sense of what’s going on, just not quite the full picture.

“Hey, um, I think you said Cindy would be over in an hour or so from now, right? Do you wanna get your checkup done now, or wait until tonight?”

“Uh… we’ll probably keep her late again, so now’s probably better.”

“When you’re ready.”

Her sister pauses the tee vee—not that Alyssa had been paying attention to it—and pulls off her shirt, naked underneath. Her sister’s body is still a work in progress, to put it nicely. Her chest is bony and emaciated—a ribcage that sits atop an abdomen in the shape of a tied-off plastic bag, tapering to wrap around a protruding lower spine. The very lowest vertebrae connect to the beginnings of a pelvis, slowly growing outward under a thin sheath of donated skin. Their next surgeries would be transplanting the remaining vital organs; after that would be muscles and skin, once she’d finished growing the grafts and copies of the muscles.

Her sister’s spine moves almost like a tail as muscles flex across it, lacking the deep ossification that would make it rigid, allowing her to lift it up as she waddles over and sets herself on Alyssa’s lap.

“Okay, ready,” her sister says, unpausing the tee vee.

With the way their power’s been acting, touch is necessary. It reminds her of when her power was new, almost uncontrollable. Focus had been key, and touch the easiest route to it. Before she’d mastered it a hand on the hip or the nervous twiddling of thumbs could elicit deep changes, drastic ones, if paired with the right—or wrong—thought or impulse. No risk of that here, fortunately, but touch had again become the tool of real awareness.

The first tasks are mechanical, gently flexing the leaves of cartilage that would give rise to the ilium, ischium, and pubic bones, testing their resilience. Then she rotates the pelvis itself, holding it by the sacrum, feeling as the spine flexes. With her power she tunnels her focus into her sister’s neural column, making sure pulses move freely, that nerves don’t get pinched or compressed.

Her hands slowly work their way upwards, lifted and placed deliberately, avoiding motions that would brush, sweep, or rub. The abdomen is where things get complicated; the skin here is a fragile blend of grown and grafted. Skin has a grain to it, an alignment going back to each area’s fetal progenitor. Alongside this pattern is a mosaic, formed on the basis of a cell’s ancestor. Each cell can only draw from one X chromosome, and like most humans she’s lucky to have two.

Their power likes to normalize, return to the baseline. It means they heal in ways no one else does, but it has its complications, too. Her sister’s body is hard at work trying to correct the grafts and growths, matching them to its power-granted blueprint, and some things just don’t turn out right.

Her sister should be able to fix the problems herself as they crop up. That she isn’t can mean several things, and none of them are good.

Alyssa draws on her reserves to fix the damage, killing off her own cells to repair and rebuild her sister’s. After a minute or two the work becomes almost automatic and Alyssa lets her senses take in the wider world around her.

“One last thing, Doctor Green. What do you make of the speculation going around, that this quake wasn’t natural?”

“While this event certainly had its share of unexpected behaviors, such speculation is unfounded. Memphis is located on an intraplate fault, making it difficult to predict seismic activity in the area. Though it is outside of my field, I think the public’s fascination with powers has led to some conflating of fiction with reality.”

“Thank you, Doctor. Up next, my colleague Jason will be leading a group discussion with our guests, right after this break.”

Her sister mutes the tee vee.

“So, um, uh…”

“Uh, what?”

“I know it’s been like half a week or something, but I can’t think of anything. Like, I looked at some baby name sites, but nothing clicks. And now the stupid phone thinks I’m pregnant.”

“It’s okay, I’ve only thought of like, one. No pressure.”

Alyssa feels her sister sigh, masses of muscle relaxing.

“But it’s important. And we’re already putting it off.”

“How do you feel about ‘Courtney?’”

“…for me?”

“Yeah.”

“Why that one?”

“It’s a pretty name.”

“I—we were saving it. For someone special. It’d be awkward.”

“There’s always ‘junior,’ when we get there.”

“That’s—that’s not what I meant. Why can’t you go by Courtney? Why can’t I be Alyssa?”

“Because that’s—”

—my name.

Alyssa bites her tongue right before the last two words leave her lips. She feels her sister’s emotions simmer, neurons firing wildly.

“Look, I still want this to work out, just… don’t erase who I am. I’m not you. I’m definitely not your fucking kid.”

“Sorry.”

“Here.” Her sister holds the phone up, waving it in her face. “I wanna go back to my show. Maybe you’ll have better luck.”

Alyssa frowns; one of her hands is atop her sister’s liver, aiding in the inspection of its regrowth and integration with the latest donor lobe. Her other hand rests above her sister’s heart, checking the overlying graft for defects.

“I’m kinda busy right now.”

“This whole thing was your idea.”

“Yeah, and I’m thinking on it, but if I stop what I’m doing you’ll get cancer or something. Again. Do you really want that?”

Alyssa feels her sister’s grumbled ‘no’ more than she hears it, then settles back into her rhythm. Her eyes and ears focus on the television, relying on other senses for her work.

“Welcome to our show; I’m Jason O’Brian. Now, I’d like to digress from our usual schedule and jump right into the thick of things. I’m sure our viewers are all wondering just what did happen in Memphis, whether we should be concerned, and how to mitigate or prevent such disasters in the future, if we even can. There’s been an overwhelming amount of speculation, and tonight I’m hoping to find some truth. WIthout further ado, our guests, ladies and gentlemen.”

The camera pans back at the host’s cue, revealing the rest of the studio, two men and a woman seated across from the host’s desk. Something’s familiar about the woman, but she can’t quite pin down what.

“Our first guest is a well know superhero, Slipstream, one of the faces of the nationwide Community Guard.”

Face being key—he doesn’t have any sort of helmet or mask on. Means he’s one of the real high-ups; most of their members are allowed anonymity, but a few corruption scandals some years ago had shaken a carefully cultivated image. As part of cleaning house, the organization’s leadership had unmasked themselves, hoping to win some trust back. It’d worked, mostly. Knock-on effects had seen the upper echelons of each sub-organization taking up a similar idea. No masks, but they kept their aliases.

Slipstream the man doesn’t look particularly heroic; a young guy with a plain face, early thirties or so, brown hair and fairly muted blue eyes. He has a costume on, a fairly practical one consisting of a tight-ish white bodysuit, vital areas protected by silver plates. Minimal decoration; a few silver-and-white wing motifs, and of course, one of Community Guard’s signature badges on his chest. The badges differed by regional division, united by a common theme: an overall shape of a shield of some kind, with two hands clasped in agreement. Slipstream is from the Gulf Division, by Alyssa’s recollection, though she can’t quite make out the other details on his badge to be sure.

“Thanks, Jason. A pleasure to be on the show.”

“Next up is Staff Sergeant Gabriella Diaz. Longtime viewers will remember her; she came on the show several years ago to discuss her experience with the aerial infantry in Afghanistan, and I’m honored that she’s able to be here with us once again. As I understand it, you’ve since transferred to domestic duty?”

The camera focuses on Diaz, and Alyssa feels her sister’s eyes narrow, if only briefly. The Staff Sergeant sure looks the part—her black hair is tied up handsomely short, and she’s wearing a rather decorated service uniform. Most of the patches and pins are meaningless to Alyssa, except for one. It identifies Diaz as a unique sort of soldier. One with powers.

Powered soldiers were… weird. The Army had a few units for them, each with a different focus. Their powers tended to be a bit too similar in function and capability, more than they should get from selection and training alone.

“That’s correct. I had the opportunity to retire after finishing my service abroad, and felt that my skills would be best utilized at home instead.”

“Such a sense of duty is one we should all aspire to. Now, last but certainly not least we have Professor Jakob Meier, a neuropsychologist and one of the leading researchers studying powers in the past decade.”

Meier doesn’t quite look like a typical egghead. More like a businessman, with the beige suit and red tie he has on. His features look old enough though, eyes wrinkled and hair graying, but not like, bucket-kicking old.

“Thank you, Mister O’Brian.”

The view switches back to the main camera, showing the stage.

“I’d like to start with you, Slipstream. Your organization has been all over the headlines due to its involvement with the rescue efforts. As someone who was on the ground in Memphis, how well do you think we, as a nation, are prepared to handle such disasters in the future?”

“Community Guard’s major branches have been working with state and federal governments for the past several years on creating a nationwide response network. Thanks to this system we were able to deploy dozens of capes to Memphis within hours of the quake, helping thousands of people. I’m sure we’ll see even better responses in the future as this network matures.”

“This cooperation with government—do you think it could lead to integration with law enforcement, somewhere down the line?”

“No. As it stands, our relationship with conventional law enforcement is complementary; we address what they cannot. While we’re happy to work with law enforcement, of course, it’s our independence that lets us focus on our mission: protecting our communities, not policing them. We already have close relations to other emergency services, and this response network is an evolution of our local efforts to the national scale.”

“It’s going to be interesting to see how this system develops, I’m sure,” Jason says with a nod. “Now, Staff Sergeant Diaz, there’s been controversy over the deployment of the Third Aerial Infantry to Memphis, particularly whether the federal government overstepped its bounds to do so. Could you give us your take on this situation?”

“Much of this is due to popular misconceptions regarding the legal standing of domestic operations involving powered soldiers. The two-thousand-four amendment to the Homeland Security Act, which allows Army or National Guard capes to be deployed domestically only at the explicit request of state law enforcement, has been cited as the law supposedly violated. Our presence in Memphis wasn’t in a law enforcement capacity; we deployed under FEMA supervision to assist the Army Corps of Engineers, per Governor Stallwell’s request.”

The memory of a scream surfaces in Alyssa’s mind, sharp and forceful. A voice that could blast apart tons’ worth of stone and even force its way through Orrery’s sphere.

Diaz’s power.

The Staff Sergeant sure looks different in dress. Something about the skirt, maybe, or how her shoulders aren’t as broad as Alyssa remembers. Not that they’d met in Memphis; just a glance, here and there. Alyssa hadn’t even gotten the chance to thank her.

She notices something else as well, through her power. Neural activity brewing in her sister’s head, muscles tensing, twitching. Excitement, or… anger?

“Thank you for the clarification, Staff Sergeant. Moving on, Doctor Meier, what do you make of the speculation regarding a human cause of the Memphis quake, particularly by one or more capes. Do you think that’s possible?”

“No. Not as a principal cause.”

“Could you expand on that, Doctor?”

“It’s a matter of energy. Broadly speaking, powers either draw from an as yet unknown source, or rely on their wielder to acquire energy from their surroundings. The former cases have been observed to only use energy at a given maximum rate, and the latter are of course ultimately limited by their environment. In every known case, none have ever come close to the energy released by an earthquake. There is some possibility for influence over geological activity in the case of powers that express via technology, however…”

Alyssa finds herself unable—and unwilling—to keep up with the doctor’s explanation. She closes her eyes and turns her focus back to her work, hands now on her sister’s sides, fingers resting in the furrows between ribs. Things seem alright, maybe not a clean bill of health, but good enough. Except… there’s something wrong.

A mass, or something, nestled under her sister’s collarbone. Heavily calcified to the point it’s not even bone anymore, a burr poking and prodding into the surrounding flesh.

Alyssa tweaks a few of her sister’s nerves, creating the sense of a tap on the shoulder.

“Somethin’ up?”

“Left clavicle. Tumor or something.”

“Really? I could swear—oh. Shit. I thought I fixed that.”

“It’s fine. I’ll deal with it.”

A skin of osteoblasts surrounds the malformed knot of bone, depositing calcium crystals with little rhyme or reason. Within the mass she can feel the remnants of a ligament, torn flesh now petrified. Had this been healing gone wrong? A process her sister started and couldn’t stop? Something else?

No use in speculating.

Alyssa culls the osteoblasts, dissolving them into their constituent chemicals and giving rise to their opposites from the resulting soup. She guides the osteoclasts manually, directing the cells’ acidic bites into the abnormal matrix, steering them away from healthy bone. As the mass shrinks away she coaxes the ligament into the void left behind, re-anchoring it once it meets the clavicle’s surface.

“Better?”

Her sister rolls the affected shoulder, muscles contracting and extending smoothly.

“Yeah.”

All that’s left is a tune-up, something Alyssa could handle in her sleep. She opens her eyes and lets them drift back toward the screen.

“You mentioned earlier, Staff Sergeant, that you’re concerned about the efficacy of Community Guard’s response network. As I recall, you were one of the early supporters of it. Could you tell us what changed your mind?”

“Firsthand experience. Disasters are often compared to warzones; you need to keep cool and stay calm, or you’re going to get in the way, or worse. Community Guard first approached the government with the understanding that any capes they sent would have the right mindset, and I can honestly say they exceeded my expectations. If their members were representative of the program, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. Somewhere in the process smaller groups—so-called ‘independent heroes’ and ‘local teams’—started to feel left out. While I admire these independents’ bravery and applaud their willingness to help their fellow Americans, many weren’t ready for something of this scale.”

Alyssa feels another shift in her sister’s internal chemistry, hormones and neurotransmitters pumping out into her bloodstream. Emotions bubbling, at risk of boiling over, but… why?

“I hope that didn’t interfere with the rescue efforts.”

“Not directly. The independents I saw were clearly skilled, and they wielded their powers to great effect. Unfortunately, power and skill are not equivalent to training and experience. I’d like to point to what Doctor Green mentioned earlier: there is a definite public fascination with individuals like myself, and I believe that fascination led certain decision makers to overlook practical concerns.”

“Hm, hm… Slipstream, do you have any comments?”

“This whole venture is a new experience, for Community Guard, our affiliates, and our partner teams. What happened in Memphis wasn’t our ideal proving for the program, but we’re already taking steps to learn from what went right and what didn’t, including revamping our training and selection criteria for future incidents of this scale.”

“May I make one last point?”

“Go ahead, Staff Sergeant.”

“The problem isn’t just a lack of training. It’s the population in question. The majority of independent teams are groups with a handful of members operating on a contractual basis with either local police or with a larger organization. A significant number of these consist of very young people. College age kids, teenagers. They don’t have the resources to meet the right standards, and it shows in the numbers. Independents suffered higher injury and death rates than other first responders. I witnessed several tragic incidents and the aftermath of dozens more, of kids getting themselves into dangerous situations without even realizing the risk. Kids who died, or who will suffer for the rest of their lives. None of that had to happen.”

The screen flickers off. Alyssa feels her sister’s mouth move, lips curling, a cuh- sound slipping through, the rest silent.

“Hey, you alright?”

“It’s a bunch of bullshit. She wasn’t fucking there.”

“What are you talking about?”

“She’s up there on tee vee blaming us for getting hurt! Blaming us for shit that no one thought would happen!”

“Calm down, even if—”

“Why are you defending her?”

“I’m not, it’s just—”

“Why do you care? Huh?”

“Please, let me—”

“Do you like her? I could feel you looking at her.”

“What? No, ew, she’s like, thirty or something.”

“Then what is it, huh? What is it?”

“She saved my life.”

Her sister goes silent, neurons simmering.

“Fuck.”

“She saved yours, too.”

Her sister pushes off of Alyssa’s lap and onto the bed, wriggling into her shirt.

“Hey, we’re not done yet.”

“I am. Get out.”

“But—”

“Get the fuck out.”

“Okay, okay,” Alyssa mutters, sliding off the bed and walking to the door. “Page me if you need anything.”

“I said get out.”

Alyssa closes the door gently behind her, leaning on it. She lets her knees buckle and falls into a crouch, the metal cold against her back.

She wants to stand up and slam the door, or bang her head against it. But even that part of her is tired now. So, so tired.

How long? she wonders.

Months? A year?

A lifetime?

Greens and blues and reds flicker across the popcorn ceiling. Light-emitting-diodes that dazzle with each blink, even with her eyes closed, but they’re not what’s keeping her awake.

Her sister is… emotional.

Neurons that spark and flash like the lights, but the patterns are opaque. They whizz by at break-neck speeds, morphing and shifting almost at random. Is it anger? Anxiety? Sadness? The uncertainty puts her on edge; fear of an outburst, or panic, or sobbing. Her own body responds in turn: juicing adrenaline from tortured glands, deepening each breath.

Messengers diffuse into their shared umbilical. Her sister’s neural patterns become more erratic, jittery.

A vicious cycle.

She does her best to counteract it, to soothe her nervous flesh, but it’s hard. She’s never had to use her power like this, or so often, even when she had to fight it.

“Hey.”

Alyssa holds her tongue.

“I know you’re awake.”

Fuck.

“I… I wanted to say I’m sorry. I just, I was really hoping you’d get it.”

“Get what?”

“Why I’m angry. The soldier lady—Diaz—she… she told Cindy to let me die.”

Oh.

“Jeez, wow. Um, how come you didn’t tell me?”

Her sister is silent as neurons stir. Her chest rises and falls for a few deep breaths.

“I don’t remember much, from before. I don’t remember the bank, or the plane to Memphis, or the whole week or two before all that shit. I know about it, but I don’t remember it. Everything about my life… it’s all kinda fuzzy sometimes. All I remember is struggling, fighting to stay alive even a second longer. Cindy helped, but she was hurt, too. And then the first person who showed up to help us said I’m not worth saving.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It didn’t stop after that. Most of the doctors didn’t really know what to do. They didn’t want to fight, like I did. I was so alone. Aaron had a concussion and couldn’t really do anything, Cindy was higher than a fucking fighter jet with the drugs they gave her. The doctors kept asking about, y’know, next of kin, living will, shit like that. I didn’t tell them anything, ‘cause you know how mom and dad are.”

Alyssa nods. Mom and dad would’ve been distraught, overwhelmed… suggestible.

“All of it’s burned into my brain. I didn’t want to tell you because… this stuff, it’s me. And there’s days where I can’t remember if I did something, or talked to someone, or if it’s just something you did that I watched, or that you told me about. I don’t want to wake up one day and not know who I am.”

“I get that, I really do. But, we can’t keep doing this, this whole… right hand doesn’t know what the left is doing, thing. And, um, I know I haven’t been good about being open, either. So, if there’s anything you want to ask me, go ahead.”

“How do you think of me?”

“…Didn’t we talk about that?”

“I mean like, now. What word?”

“Sister.”

“And it works for you?”

“It’s better.”

“Then why do I need a new name?”

“Because you deserve one.”

Her sister’s brow crinkles, and her eyes lower.

“Cindy told me how it was hard for you, sharing everything. I thought if we each had our own names, it’d help set up those boundaries. I didn’t want to change who you are. They can be between us, if you want. No one has to know.”

“I, um, I didn’t think about it like that. Thank you?”

“You’re welcome,” Alyssa says with a shrug. “Good night.”

“Sleep tight.”

Alyssa closes her eyes, letting go of the world around her. Just as she drifts to the edge of sleep, a sensation forces her awake. Movement of her sister’s throat and diaphragm. Giggling.

“Hey, uh, what’s funny?”

“Nothing, nothing. I just had a dumb idea for names, that’s all.”

“Oh?”

“They’re really dumb.”

“C’mon, tell me.”

“Okay, fine, but I’m going to whisper it.”

Alyssa can’t make out the words; she can barely hear a thing. But she can feel the muscles in play, the movement of her sister’s tongue, and she can’t stop herself from laughing.

“Oh my god, that is so dumb.”

“Right?”

“It’s great.”

“I dunno, it’s like, really silly. Like, Krissy’s gonna totally hate it.”

“Like she’d ever figure it out.”

“Yeah, okay, but maybe we should try for something more… serious? We’ve got a few weeks before we go home, maybe a month.”

Alyssa mulls over the possibilities. It’s not like they had any luck when it came to ‘serious.’

“We can try. But let’s hold on to these, if we can’t think of better ones. Okay?”

“Okay.”

Alyssa closes her eyes, almost in sync with her sister. For the first time in a long, long while, she has good dreams.