Then

The ground shakes. A tower in the distance tilts, its facade falling off, glass and metal glinting in the air. It reaches the point of no return, collapsing as its structure fails.

The soldier screams; loud, sudden, short. A wordless shout. Cynthia snaps her head around to look, closing her helmet to hide her face. The woman’s brow is furrowed, her expression stern.

“There’s gaps in the rubble, sinkholes nearby. Won’t hold up long. Paragon, can you get yourself out of here?”

“I can fly, but I don’t want to leave anyone behind.”

“How many were in the building with you? Any civilians?”

It takes her a moment to process the question, to realize what the soldier meant.

“Five. Um, I went to search the basement. Mitosis was with a team clearing the middle levels. Orrery, and, um, three others, I can’t remember. I didn’t find anyone, but—”

She feels the ground give way, falling as a sinkhole opens up. She catches herself with her power, dropping only a foot or two. The soldier hovers nearby, unphased, surrounded by a crackling maelstrom.

“Go. I’ll handle this.”

Cynthia clutches Alyssa tightly, holding her to the flat of her breastplate. Her power projects from within, permeating her flesh, the steel shell she wears. With Alyssa reduced to so little, and held so closely, Cynthia’s power manages to contain her too.

Gravity pulls on her. Not a single force, but a distribution. A field. Her power maintains a matching one: identical geometry, opposite vector. The sum is weightlessness. She creates another field on top of the first. The same volume, containing her body, her armor, and Alyssa. It faces up at an angle, directed towards safety. She adds magnitude in small, gentle steps, and the ground accelerates away.

Cynthia knows, logically, that her power’s force is uniform. That she could push hard enough to lift a car and feel none of it, save for the air whipping past. But she can feel Alyssa through the field, with a thin, reedy heartbeat and labored breathing. It compels her to be careful.

A shattered city fills her vision. Collapsed and toppled buildings. Shelves of earth, where the ground had caved in. Cynthia scans the landscape as she flies, orienting herself. Ruins give way to intact districts, streets choked with cars.

She feels blood pool around her injured leg. Her field contains it inside her armor, forces pointing inward. It stops further bleeding, yet she still feels lightheaded, even in flight.

A highrise catches her attention, tents and vehicles clustered around its base. The hospital.

She closes in, careful to keep the right altitude. The choppy wake of a helicopter buffets her as it passes above, heading back into the chaos. Others swarm the skies, joined by a few flying heroes.

Cynthia uses her power to throw a switch in her helmet, activating her radio.

“This is… Um,” she starts, “Paragon. I forgot my callsign. Requesting medical attention.”

“Number of injured?”

“Two, including me.”

“Severity?”

“My teammate, um, she just needs supportive care. I think—”

Cynthia coughs, spitting up a glob of blood. She can feel it collect in her nose from several bleeds, sliding into her throat when she moves. There are cuts on her arms, minor. Her ribs ache—bruised in the collapse. Her attention moves downward. Abdomen, some cuts, otherwise fine. Hips, fine. Left leg, bruised, beaten, sore, but fine. Right leg…

Several breaks. Splinters and chips of bone driven through muscle. Sundered armor cutting into flesh.

The awareness spreads. Her leg, numb until now, begins to throb with a deep, overwhelming pain.

Her focus falters, and with it, her power. Blood leaks from her wounds. She barely manages to keep herself in the air.

“—I think I’m bleeding out.”

“Can you land by yourself?”

“Yes.”

“Pad 5. A trauma team will meet you there.”

Cynthia spots the ‘landing pad’, little more than markings spray-painted on blacktop, a clearing in the tent cluster. She sets her power to drift towards it, focusing more on controlling the bleeding. Once above the pad she lets gravity exert some pull.

The descent is slow, like falling on the moon. It doesn’t take much to stop, and she sets down gently, weight on her good leg. She uses her field to check Alyssa’s heartbeat. Still weak, but not weaker.

Her vision is narrow, blurred. She can hear casters on asphalt, rolling towards her. She turns around. Doctors or nurses in scrubs—she can’t read their name tags to be sure. One pushes a stretcher.

The tallest, a man, starts talking. Cynthia can barely make out the words.

Remove

She picks one out. Remove what? Her armor? Her helmet?

“No, no.” She shakes her head.

Cynthia holds Alyssa out, gently.

“Please help her. Help her first.”

A few of the medics’ eyes go wide. She can imagine shocked faces beneath the surgical masks. One, a woman who kept her composure, approaches. Cynthia hands Alyssa off.

“Thank you.”

The man repeats himself, pointing at her leg.

Oh

Cynthia exerts her power, peeling the armor plates from her leg, letting them fall to the ground. Blood follows, dark on the asphalt.

She picks herself up with her power, rotating her body, placing herself on the stretcher, unprompted. She lets her power fade. Metal whines under the load, but holds.

The world moves around her, blurred. Her legs elevate, and she begins to regain some clarity. She hears the doctors talking, and feels a tool in the space near her leg.

“…have to cut…“

Instinctively she pushes out with her field. The doctor’s hand isn’t affected, but the tool is, moving both away.

“Don’t amputate. I—I need—”

The man’s face enters her vision. His mask is pulled down.

“It’s alright. We just need to cut the cloth. The undersuit you’re wearing.”

Oh, she thinks again.

“O—Okay. Sorry.”

“We need to give you an IV. Can you take off what’s on your arms?”

Her field flickers, creating small forces inside her armor. Interlocks disengage and her armor separates at the shoulders, the plates on her arms unfolding. The clothing beneath is bloodstained, but dry.

Scissors press against her skin, cutting fabric free. Needles sting as they slide into veins.

Her leg rotates as the doctor works at what remains of her undersuit. Fractured bones grind together, sharp edges cut into muscle fibers.

Cynthia locks her jaw with her power. She screams regardless, but the sound is muffled, dampened. She manages to look at her leg: deep gashes, some down to the bone. Skin that is black and purple, slick with blood. 

She loses focus. Tents and vehicles morph into white hallways clustered with beds, fluorescent ceiling replaces sunlit sky. Patients moan in pain, children scream and cry.

The stretcher passes through a set of double doors. The chaos of the hospital quiets, muted.

“Paragon, you’re in the operating room, okay? We need to get you on the table. Can you take off your armor?”

Clicks of metal-on-metal echo through the room as Cynthia unlocks her cuirass, splitting it into parts. Her gorget disconnects from the base of her helmet, folding down into the armor.

“Careful,” she says, “it’s heavy.”

“How heavy?”

“Breastplate and front are, um, about a hundred pounds.”

The doctor nods. Cynthia can hear wheels on the floor—probably a lift.

“I need you to take off your helmet, too. You’re going to be anesthetized, and we need to be able to get to your airway.”

Cynthia shakes her head. Difficult, with her helmet at its full weight.

“I can’t. You—You’ll see my face.”

“If we’re going to have a chance of saving your leg, we need to start surgery now.”

Fuck

Her helmet unfolds, loose enough to be removed from her head.

Someone lifts her helmet off. She squints, blinded by the room’s lighting.

A rubber mask moves over her mouth. She hears a woman’s voice.

“Relax. Count down from ten.”

Ten

Nine

Eight

Se-

A metal frame surrounds her leg. Pins and rods spear through her skin, passing between injured muscles, screws securing them to bone.

It makes Cynthia nervous, looking at it, feeling it. Worries of muscle damage, of scars.

Her right leg had always been slightly shorter than its counterpart, but the way it had been crushed left gaps after reduction. The frame holds the pieces in place, in hopes the bones will heal to their original length. If she is lucky, perhaps they can lengthen it just that little bit.

She pulls her mask out of the way, rubbing at her eyes. The painkillers make her drowsy, but not tired. She catches her reflection in a monitor screen and uses it to adjust her mask. It resembles her helmet, a hybrid of angles and aerodynamic curves, coming to a point at the tip of her nose. It hides her face above her cheekbones, her eyes behind silvered panels. A sky-blue arrow dominates the facade, split down the middle by a white stripe. The design is derived from notation, symbolic of the vectors that describe her power. Her light blonde hair flows from underneath the mask’s cranial dome, sprawling over her shoulders and back, the longest strands reaching the tips of her shoulder blades.

There is a knock on the door, and Cynthia tenses. She moves the bedsheet quickly, covering her leg.

Her phone buzzes—long, short, long, short—and she relaxes.

“Come in.”

A man in costume enters. Taller than average, though an inch shorter than Cynthia. His costume is composed of onyx plating atop a black bodysuit, bronze circuit traces placed strategically, a lightning bolt emblazoned on the left of his chest, framed by circuitry. He turns around to close the door, and she can see an array of bronze cylinders protruding from the back of his chestpiece, capped in black. His helmet matches the aesthetic, a sleek dome that sweeps back, dominated by a bronze faceplate. Bits of dust cling to the edges of plates, dirt buried in the gaps.

He puts both hands on his helmet.

Cynthia raises a hand, one finger out, and shakes her head.

“I was hoping we could speak face to face,” Conduit says.

“I’d like to, but…” Cynthia wrings her hands, mulling over her words. “It’s just, the nurses knock, but they don’t wait.”

Conduit nods. He takes a step back, placing a hand on the door’s RFID scanner. The green light on it flashes orange twice, then settles at red.

“They won’t notice?”

Conduit shakes his head and takes his helmet off, clipping it to a hook on his belt. His face is worn, sporting a few days’ worth of five-o’clock shadow, and his short black hair is slick with sweat.

“This”—he points to a wound near his temple, held shut by several stitches—“kept me cooped up here until this morning. I occupied myself by helping the hospital with their technical problems. I know their system better than they do, now.”

Cynthia lifts her mask off, setting it on her lap.

“Are you okay?”

Aaron nods. “Minor concussion. It scrambled a few circuits, but I’m functional.”

He pulls a chair over and sits down. Despite his costume his posture is small, guilty.

“I am sorry that I didn’t come to see you sooner. The energy grid is still a work in progress, and when they cleared me for duty this morning, we had the chance to get one of the main substations online. It took longer than I thought it would.”

“It’s alright,” Cynthia says. “I’ve been a bit… loopy, since my last surgery. They’re short on opioids, so I’ve been on morphine. Takes some getting used to.”

“How is Alyssa faring? I attempted to see her, but she’s in isolation, and I couldn’t locate her doctor.”

“She is? Finally.”

“Finally?” Aaron asks.

Cynthia inhales deeply, then exhales slowly.

“They didn’t want to treat her, just give her palliative care. ‘Injuries incompatible with life’ or some… some bullshit like that. I said some things that I’m not proud of. I might’ve hurt our reputation. Sorry.”

He shakes his head. “Don’t be. I should have been there to support both of you, but there was—and is—a lot of work that has to be done.”

Aaron breaks eye contact, for a moment.

“Is she recovering?” he asks.

“I hope so,” Cynthia replies with a shrug. “I managed to speak with her before my surgery, which was… two days ago, I think? She wasn’t all there, not really. She has a real heart now, but she was struggling to stay awake. Her nurses told me that they’d let me know if anything changed, and I haven’t heard anything. I hope that’s good, but I’m worried she’s gotten worse.”

“I might be able to check the hospital’s records, if you’d like. They won’t notice.”

“I don’t know…” Cynthia trails off, hesitant to answer. It feels wrong.

Not knowing feels worse.

“Don’t look at anything private. Maybe just what’s been sent to her room? Medication?”

“Sure.”

Aaron’s eyes move slightly, resting parallel to each other. After a minute they refocus on her.

“Saline, dialysis solutions, intravenous nutrition. A ventilator. There’s a request for a liver support device, as of yesterday.”

Her heart sinks.

“Alyssa said she was working on a liver. I guess—I guess she failed.” Cynthia feels a wetness in her eye, and pauses to wipe the tear away. “I don’t know why I’m surprised. I, just—God, what have I done?”

“Cynthia, it’s not your fault.”

“She’s in pain, Aaron, and if she dies here, she’ll die alone and afraid. I’m responsible for that.”

Aaron shakes his head. “No. She asked you to help her, didn’t she?”

“Yes.”

“She trusted you, and the best thing you can do is extend the same trust to her.”

Cynthia lets out a deep sigh.

“I know, it’s just, when we talked, Alyssa told me she was working with scraps. I barely recognized her. It would be easier, if I knew she had what she needs.”

“I spoke to one of the rescue crews this morning. They were heading over to excavate the financial plaza and search for survivors. I understand it’s a long shot by now, but I asked them to keep an eye out for any bodies matching her description.”

“Let me know, if you get something?”

“Of course,” Aaron says with a nod.

A moment passes. Cynthia dries her face with a tissue, and then fiddles with her mask, examining how the room’s light falls on it. Unlike her helmet the surface is more diffuse, the edges rounded slightly. Lines that start with curves, a form that is smaller overall, easy on the eyes.

“Thanks, Aaron. It’s been hard, sitting here. I just feel so… useless.”

“Actually, I might have a project you can help with. Give me a moment.”

She sees Aaron remove an object from a compartment on his belt out of the corner of her eye. Cynthia looks over—a phone, consumer model. He holds it out to her.

“What is this?” she asks.

“One of the department head’s phones. Cardiology, I believe? He dropped it, and now the display doesn’t function properly.”

“It seems fine to me.”

“I probed it. There’s a chip loose on the board. Specifically, the graphics processor. I’m honestly surprised it boots.”

Cynthia takes the phone, weighing it in her hand. Within moments her power penetrates it: the phone feels like a part of her, on some level, like everything else in her power’s half-foot range. She sends pulses through it, small forces that probe the device, mapping it in her mind. Something rattles inside, bits of solder that had been worked from their pads. The spatial image feels fuzzy, and it starts to slip as she tries to make out the details.

“If you can seperate the solder from the chip and the board, I should be able to heat it.”

Cynthia shakes her head. “I don’t know. I might break it.”

“Here, I’ll get it opened up.”

She can feel his hand as it enters her field, as her power soaks through the fabric of his glove, slowing, but not stopping, at his skin beneath. He picks up the phone, turning it over with his hand.

The room flips upside-down. Acid burns Cynthia’s throat as she barely holds back vomit, and she scrambles to find something to hold onto, one hand clutching the bed’s railing, the other wrapping around Aaron’s wrist.

“Are you alright?”

“I—” She pauses, letting her heart settle. “Give me a moment.”

Cynthia lets go of Aaron’s wrist, resting her arm on the bed. She closes her eyes, waiting for gravity to return to normal.

“Can I help?”

“Water. Please.”

She holds out her hand in anticipation, wasting no time once the bottle is in her grasp. Water sitting in her mouth and flowing down her throat helps reorient her as much as it helps wash the acid away.

“Thanks.” She blinks, opening her eyes cautiously. “That—that was… something.”

“That wasn’t the morphine, was it?”

“It was making me dizzy, earlier. I used my power to try and ground myself, like when I’m flying. The phone felt a bit fuzzy, so I focused on it, and then when you moved it… I felt like I was falling.”

“My apologies.”

Cynthia shakes her head, taking one last swig from the water bottle, placing it on the nightstand.

“It’s not your fault. But I don’t think I should be messing around with my power right now. Sorry.”

Aaron nods.

“Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“Keep me company, for a bit? Talking’s nice, but―” Cynthia yawns, briefly interrupting herself. “But I’ve had my mask on for a few days, now. It’s hard to get a good rest while wearing it.”

Concern crosses Aaron’s face, for a moment. Cynthia ignores it.

“If you decide to leave while I’m out, could you wake me, so I can put it back on?”

“Naturally,” he says.

“Thanks.”

She closes her eyes, and lets the world slip away.

Cynthia’s eyes open slowly, adjusting. The windows are dark, the room dim. She looks around: the door lock is still engaged; Aaron is still sitting in the chair, his head supported by one arm. She glances at the clock—five hours have passed.

Aaron appears to be sleeping, though Cynthia knows better.

“You didn’t have to stay this long,” she says.

His posture straightens as he lifts his head up, putting his hands in his lap.

“It’s quiet here, and I decided it made a good opportunity for some programming.” He smiles, and taps the wound on his temple. “Already patched up the bluetooth controller.”

“No news?”

His smile fades, and he shakes his head.

“Nothing. I spent some time getting caught up, though. Sent a few dozen emails. I’m talking with teams neighboring ours, seeing if they can cover our jurisdiction while we get back on our feet. How long is your recovery time?”

“For the leg? Um, two months, if I’m lucky. Three or four is more likely.”

“Hm.” He hums for a moment. “I’ll have to put in extra hours, even with cover from other teams. I could pull some favors, but then we’d owe them once you’re back in action.”

Cynthia shakes her head.

“Aaron, I’m not—I’m done.”

“Done?”

“With this.”

Aaron’s expression darkens. Bits of confusion. Hurt.

She expects him to say something; he doesn’t.

“I’m sorry. I wanted to tell you differently, somehow, I don’t know.”

Aaron mutters something, too quiet for Cynthia to make out, shaking his head.

“I’m aware of how important it is, for you to keep this separate from your civilian life, and I know that’s been difficult at times. But I’ve always been mindful of that,” he says.

“Aaron, the past few days have been… a lot. When I pulled myself out of the ruins of the bank, when I found Alyssa, it was a soldier who reached us first. One with powers. The way she acted… she expected me to act like a soldier, because of what I am. We’re civilians, Aaron. Just like the police are. Having powers doesn’t make us soldiers.”

“I never asked for you to be one.”

Cynthia nods.

“No, you didn’t. That’s why I agreed to be on your team. Because you weren’t just about the fights, or defeating supervillains. You were there for the aftermath and the interim. Working on infrastructure. Contributing.”

She pauses, letting her words sink in.

“And I loved doing that. And I’d love to say that this past year and a half has been fun, but, I can’t help but think of all the close calls. I’ve fought people who could turn me into a bloody pulp on the ground, if it weren’t for my armor. I’ve been shot at. I’ve been shot. And now? I might never walk naturally again. My best friend, who I’ve known since before I could read, might be fighting a losing battle. If I brush this off as yet another close call, what happens next? When do I draw the line? When I lose an arm? An eye?”

The plates of Aaron’s armor rise as he inhales, letting the breath out in a long sigh.

“I’m sorry, Cynthia. I started the team out of hope that we could change things. I suppose that was naive.”

“It’s not your fault. This… It just made me realize that this, being a hero, it’s not a future. Not for me. I need something reliable. Something constructive. Maybe once I have that, I’ll reconsider. But I can’t risk everything, not for this.”

“I understand,” he says, quietly, “it’s something I wish I understood a few years ago. I’ll get your retirement papers in order.”

“Thank you. I’m transferring to another hospital, soon. Maybe I’ll be stable enough to be flown home. If I don’t see you before that happens, then, I guess I’ll see you on campus?”

He nods, then puts his helmet on. “Naturally. I’ll keep in touch.”

Conduit moves towards the door. He reaches out to the RFID sensor, then stops. His hand moves to the side of his helmet. Cynthia can make out the sound of a radio speaker, the words unintelligible.

“You found her body?”

Cynthia’s heart skips a beat. She has to fight the urge to stand.

“Hold on, hold on, what do you mean, you found her?”

Cynthia opens her mouth to speak. Before she can, her phone starts to ring. She grabs it—a video call. She frantically pulls her mask on, and answers.

The footage is distorted, partly pixelated, but Cynthia can fill in the details.

A girl’s face is on the screen, with red hair and light blue eyes, wearing a pink domino mask. Mitosis’s face, derived from Alyssa’s, courtesy of powers. The shot excludes most of her body, but enough is visible. Her head is offset to the left, a patch of scar tissue covers where the right of her rib cage would be, tattered fabric of her costume lining the wound.

“Hey, it’s meeeee.”

A hand enters the shot, a few pixels that must be a thumb point to where a second head should be.

“I’m guessing righty didn’t make it?”

Now

“That will be three-ninety-nine, please.”

Cynthia reaches into her pocket, or tries to. She can’t just drop the crutch, so she attempts to reach through it, but it converges just where her hand needs to go. She shifts her weight onto her left crutch and leg, giving her the room to twist the right one around and finally grab her wallet. A bit too late; she can feel the line growing behind her.

Of all the times to not have a purse.

“Sorry,” she says, handing the kid a few dollars.

“It’s no problem, ma’am.”

Cynthia hurriedly shoves her wallet back into its pocket and retreats to the pick-up counter. It’s not far, a few paces at most, but the crutches make her movement awkward, her hips tilting left to keep her right leg from bearing any load. With her power she could float, or even walk. All she’d need is to mimic the forces on her left leg, transpose them to her right, and cancel the load as her weight settled on each leg. There’d be imperfections, little differences thanks to asymmetry, but nothing harmful. No one would notice.

She uses the crutches anyway.

Alyssa is somehow still at the window, arms crossed over the countertop and her head resting atop them. She glances at Cynthia, then returns to gazing through the window.

“What exactly did you order?”

“Just a tiny little treat,” Alyssa says, licking her lip.

“There were five people between us in line.”

“Well, she dropped the first one. I told her I could wait, since you weren’t here yet.”

Cynthia puts her crutches out, letting her lean down to peek through the window. She sees a teenage girl carefully place the finishing scoop on top of a waffle cone, already stacked high with what looks like half the flavors on the menu. A matching technicolor smear of melted dairy product adorns the teenager’s uniform. Cynthia expects the girl to bring the finished cone to the window. Instead, she puts it aside and gets a second waffle cone, filling it with scoops from the next row of freezers.

“Jesus, Alyssa.”

“Cindy, I haven’t had real ice cream for two damn months. I’m sick of that—that fuckin’ colored ice at the hospital.”

“How much did you order?”

“One of each.”

“You ordered… what, thirty scoops of ice cream?” Cynthia asks, shaking her head. “I can’t believe they let you.”

“They weren’t going to, but General Grant paid a visit to their tip jar and said a few words in my favor.”

Cynthia refrains from commenting. She knows Alyssa’s extremes, but this is a new dimension of excess.

“Oh mama, here it comes,” Alyssa says, picking herself up off the counter, visibly biting her lower lip.

The girl appears in the window, carefully passing the waffle cones through. She holds one out to Cynthia.

Cynthia waves it away.

“Um, sorry, I got the medium rocky road.”

At the same time Alyssa reaches out and grabs the second cone, fast enough that the girl jumps a little.

“That’s mine, thanks.”

A second girl arrives next to the first, holding out a sugar cone with two scoops. Cynthia holds her hand out, then hesitates.

“Hey, um, could I have that in a cup?”

“Sure thing!”

The girl pulls the cone back, flips it into a paper cup and adds a plastic spoon, then holds it back out. Cynthia leans in to take her order, then notices the second girl’s customer service cheer has vanished and been replaced by mild horror, eyes focused on Alyssa. She can make out bits of whispered conversation: ‘Holy crap’ followed by ‘I told you.’

“Girls, it’s fine, I’m eating for two,” Alyssa says through a smirk, jabbing an elbow in Cynthia’s direction. “All thanks to her, too.”

Cynthia feels her face flush as the two teenagers laugh nervously.

“How about we go sit over there?” she says, pointing towards a table. It’s in the shade, and more importantly, it’s far away from here.

She starts to crutch away, only to realize a problem. She can’t grip the crutch and hold onto her ice cream with the same hand.

“You uh, need some help there, Cindy?”

“Nope. Nope. I’ve got it.”

She brings the cup to her mouth, grabs it firmly between her teeth, and then sets off towards the table in earnest.

The air is cooler than she expected, though it does little to dull the sun’s heat. Not enough to make her sweat, even with her wearing jeans, a button-down, and undershirt, but enough to make her uncomfortable. It’s worse for her leg, the brace pinching where her jeans bunch up around it, jarring little movements that propagate through her bones as fabric catches on the ends of fixation wires sticking out of her skin.

Wires weren’t advised for someone of her age; they would hold the bones in place, but not support weight well. Still, Cynthia had insisted on them, because they weren’t permanent. The request had perplexed her doctors; with a well done procedure, internal fixation felt no different. And maybe she wouldn’t have felt it. But her power would.

A few extra months on crutches were worth avoiding that lifetime nuisance.

Cynthia takes care sitting down at the table, easing herself into the chair, letting her good leg bear the load. She then starts on her ice cream, savoring the frozen treat.

Alyssa has stuck one of her waffle cones into one of the gaps in the table’s surface, and is engaged in consuming the other in half-scoop bites, wielding the cone in both hands as she works her way through it.

“Could you not do that again?”

“Do whath?”

“Make jokes like that.”

“C’mon, Cindy,” Alyssa says, shrugging, “it’s not like I said something wrong.”

Cynthia sighs, then frowns.

“Everything I said was totally, one-hundred-percent-true. Whatever those little shits make of it is their problem.”

“You knew exactly what you implied, Alyssa, and you included me in it.”

“Yeah, like, that’s the point. It’s true, but what they think is so obviously ridiculous. You shoulda seen the looks on their faces.”

Cynthia shakes her head and returns to her ice cream. Between her measured pace and Alyssa’s one-scoop-is-bitesize approach, she manages to finish just as Alyssa is licking the remnants out of her first cone.

A mischievous idea occurs to her: a little bit of payback. She smiles as she reaches over and grabs Alyssa’s second ice cream.

“Hey!” Alyssa says, futilely groping for the cone as Cynthia pulls it past her friend’s reach. “Cindy, what the fuck?” 

“You made a joke at my expense, I’m just taking my due.”

To Cynthia’s surprise Alyssa clambers onto the table, following the cone. The table bends under the load, yet holds as Alyssa crawls across it. Cynthia swings her arm out, getting the waffle cone well outside Alyssa’s reach, and uses her free hand to grab Alyssa’s forehead.

“Give!” Alyssa mutters as she tries to push forward, throwing her hands out in a futile attempt to grab for the ice cream. Cynthia pushes back in return, hooking her good leg around the table’s central support for leverage. 

“You already had yours, Cindy!”

“And do you really need another fifteen scoops?”

“It’s not just mine, it’s hers.”

Cynthia relaxes her grip, and brings the waffle cone a bit closer. Alyssa takes the chance to get off the table, but she doesn’t grab for the cone.

“She can’t eat.”

“I told her I’d remember a flavor for her, but she couldn’t pick one out. So I figured, I’d remember all of them.”

“Alright. Here,” she says, handing the cone over. “Just, don’t make me the butt of a joke, okay?”

“I’m sorry, Cindy, it’s just, I dunno.” Alyssa pauses as she sits down, slumping a bit. “I’m kinda going through a lot, ya know?”

Cynthia nods, silent in spite of herself—now isn’t the time to pry.

“So, uh, how’s the leg?” Alyssa asks, pointing.

Cynthia blinks, taking a moment to process the sudden deja vu.

“Hello? Earth to Cindy?”

“Um, sorry. I just—I’m pretty sure she asked me that exact question.”

“Damn…” Alyssa mutters, taking a few more bites of her ice cream. “Guess we are identical, huh?” 

“You aren’t, and I’m really thankful for that.”

“Aw, c’mon Cindy, I’m not that bad.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

Alyssa makes a face.

“She’s not bad, either, it’s just… God, I hate to bring this up now, but she’s not in a good place.”

“I could kinda feel it,” Alyssa says, nodding slowly.

“Has she talked to you about it?”

“Nah. We, uh, we don’t really talk much. Or we haven’t in the past, like, month.”

“Wait, you haven’t talked with her in a month?”

“I mean, we’ve had like, smalltalk and shit. What she wants me to eat, or when she wants a shower. Normal kinda stuff, but nothing like, deep.”

“How was she, emotionally?”

“She kinda… wasn’t. Like, she’s depressed. Which, like, duh. She was kinda chipper last night, though. She was really looking forward to seeing you, and having some time to herself.”

“That’s…” Cynthia trails off, pieces coming together. “…Oh my god.”

She scrambles for her phone, going for her right pocket. Except, it’s not there, because the brace is in the way.

“Whoa, Cindy, what?”

She finally pulls her phone out, rushing to unlock it.

“Hey! Cindy, wait!”

Her thumb hovers over the call button.

“Alyssa, I left her alone. She told me she’d rather be dead and I fucking left her alone!”

“Look, I know you probably know her better than I do, but I’ve learned a lot about myself these past two months, and if you call her, she’s going to be really upset.”

“I—I know, but, if she did something, and I just let it happen…”

“Cindy, you’re her emergency contact. If anything happened, you’d get a call. Have you?”

Cynthia looks back at her phone—no missed calls, no messages.

“No.”

“Then just trust her. And I know how ridiculous that probably sounds coming from me, but—”

“Last time I trusted you in a situation like this, you almost jumped off a bridge.”

“Yeah, almost. And, like, I totally would’ve survived that jump.”

“This is serious, Alyssa.”

“I know, I know, but what am I supposed to do? This hasn’t been easy for me, either. It’s been a huge mind fuck. Like, balls deep in the graymatter. And right now I just want to hang out and forget about all that shit for a while. Is that too much?”

“I’m sorry,” Cynthia says, cradling her head in her hands for a moment, “I’m worried.”

“Look, how ‘bout when we’re done here, we’ll get some movies for the three of us, and I can think about this stuff and we can talk on the way back. Okay?”

Cynthia looks at her phone, Alyssa’s contact still open. She hesitates, then puts it away.

“You promise?”

“Promise.”