"Begrudging admittance: you are surprisingly capable of following extremely basic instructions."
"Instructions clear," Kagiso grunts, shrugging slightly. "Easy to understand."
"Nonetheless, do not attempt repairs you cannot obey exactly," Sela presses. "Repeat: do not attempt repairs you cannot obey exactly. Additional repairs require precision beyond organic capability. Additional repairs require pairing and tying wires. Do not allow wires to interfere with each other. Each wire in a clump must be paired to its partner without contact with neighbors. Repeat: do not attempt repairs you cannot obey exactly."
Kagiso has been helping Sela for about twenty minutes now, the pair of them identifying the damage and doing what they can to get Sela's limbs back online. It's been a mix of completely untenable—when a complex part is smashed, there's nothing Kagiso can do to attach the bits of metal back together—and also, to my surprise, surprisingly effective. Sela's leg and arm aren't going to be working any time soon, but while the joints along the break are beyond repair, they're still getting partial functionality back to most of the body. Kagiso is currently wrist-deep in Sela's belly, and I can see why Sela is so worried about precision. Her wires are so thin and there are so many per clump that I'd never be able to get them back together with fat human fingers. I might be able to help with Refresh, but I'm still using that to keep all my organs together while I slowly repair myself with my Transmutation magic.
"Pattern same on each side of break?" Kagiso asks.
"...Affirmative," Sela says. "Repeat: do not attempt—"
"Reach Within."
Kagiso ignores Sela's protests and casts a spell I've never heard before, and I watch the wires start telekinetically threading themselves back together, one at a time. Woah! That's cool!
"I didn't know you had a spell like that, Kagiso!" I say.
"Mmm," she grunts, focusing on her work. "Don't really. Not my spell."
"Not yours?" I ask. A spell that, by the name, seems to manipulate things inside a person certainly sounds like it'd fit Kagiso.
"There was no Order mage at the village," Helen says quietly, sitting at a decent distance away so that I'm between her and Sela. At least she's not hiding in the trees anymore. "So the closest thing the village had to a healer was this nice old guy with Motion magic. He used it along with normal medicine to stitch people back together when things got bad. Kagiso was his apprentice for a bit, but the two of them had a falling out."
"Don't have healer's disposition," Kagiso shrugs. "And secondhand spells not very strong. Can't do much. Could maybe pinch nerve to make someone hurt? But only very small ones. Useful here, though."
Huh. I assume that by 'not having a healer's disposition,' Kagiso means that she really, really loves seeing people's insides on their outsides. I can see why you wouldn't want a person like that in charge of making people's insides stop being on their outsides. Kagiso patches up the last wire, just by threading it together with its partner in a clumped mess nowhere near as elegant as the pre-cut version, but it seems to work and something inside Sela's tummy chugs online.
"I congratulate you on your precision, meat," Sela says, somewhat reluctantly. "Connection to basic fabricator online. Priority fabrication: class seven long-range power cell. Material request: silicates."
"Instructions no longer clear," Kagiso complains, wrinkling her nose.
"She basically needs sand," I say, and then immediately realize two problems in what I just said. "Uh, I mean it needs sand. Sorry, Sela. Also, why the heck do I know the word for 'silicates' in Middlebranch?"
"I didn't even understand that word," Helen says. "So I have no idea."
Great. So it's either something Sindri did to fuck with my head, or it's something the Goddess did to fuck with my head. And frankly, 'knowing way more of a language than I remember learning' sounds way too helpful to be Goddess-fuckery, so my bet's on Sindri. Having a language injected into my brain sounds like exactly the sort of thing his magic could do, and it also sounds like exactly the kind of thing Sindri would do after giving up on being subtle with his powers. So that's awesome. I guess I get to be reminded of my trauma just from talking about things now.
Oh well. I'll just add it to the list of things I'm doing everything in my power to ignore. Like the two human corpses nearby that are making me really, really hungry.
"Don't have sand," Kagiso grunts. "Why would have sand? Stupid thing to carry."
"I assume she's making glass?" I say. "I mean it's making glass! Dang it, sorry again."
"Confirmation: glass is the objective and a viable source of silicates," Sela says flatly, ignoring both my mistake and my apology.
"Okay, have that," Kagiso nods, grabbing the candle clock out of her backpack and popping out its transparent sides. "Where put?"
"Directly into the largest slot," Sela instructs. "Deactivating nonessential systems to save power. This unit will temporarily not respond to stimuli. Do not be alarmed."
Some loud humming and whirring noises are all that emanate from Sela afterwards, a large device in her belly and hips melting the glass Kagiso feeds it and rapidly reshaping it, integrating other materials stored within it as the process continues. It looks like it takes a lot of power, and if she's more or less running on fumes—gosh dangit, I mean if it's running on fumes, it makes sense to stop wasting any more than needed. Gah, I'm so bad at pronouns!
Especially these 'it' pronouns, like what the heck is up with that? It makes me uncomfortable. Uh, the pronouns I mean, not Sela, because Sela pretty conclusively doesn't seem like an object to me. I define a person as any sapient being, so I'm a person, Kagiso's a person, Helen's a person, a hypothetical floating gas cloud that could communicate and form complex thought would be a person, and so on and so forth. While I guess it's possible that Sela is just a super complex program that doesn't actually have self-awareness and is just very good at faking it, she really seems like she is, in fact, an individual with thoughts, feelings, opinions, and philosophy. And therefore that's a person, and I'm really uncomfortable with the sort of… absence in self-esteem I feel like it requires to claim otherwise? Like, by encouraging Sela to continue holding the opinion that she's not a person and simply treating her like a thing, aren't I doing more harm than good?
But… hmm. That's probably exactly what the thought process of anybody who misgenders a trans person on purpose is. 'You're not actually a man-slash-woman and indulging your incorrect belief will only hurt you.' And that's… y'know. Gross and false and multiple studies have proved it's extremely harmful to people's mental health to misgender them so like, logically that would also apply to weird pronouns like it/its. Am I just being transphobic? But… no, wait, Sela isn't trans, she's just a robot. I mean it's a robot! Gah, this is really hard! Maybe I'm only trying to justify it to myself because that's easier? But… but what if I am right? What if it's bad for Sela to consider itself to not be a person? Like, why would that be a good thing!?
"Fabrication complete," Sela announces, and sure enough the cool little 3D printer inside it seems to have finished making a glass cylinder about two fists long, the top and bottom of which are solid metal. It looks a lot like a vacuum tube, though I doubt an actual vacuum tube would be even the slightest bit helpful for powering something at all, let alone something as advanced and complex as Sela.
"That's your power source?" I ask. "It looks really simple. How does it work?"
"Class seven long-range power cell. Development credit: Restricted Unit 5314. First and only independent upkeep power cell for class seven units," it answers me, and I think I detect a hint of smugness. "Accompanying spell: AllocatePurgatory(powerCell[0], target)"
The Goddess's words suffuse the area with Her presence, but even beyond the eldritch feeling of Her attention comes an added chill, a clawing threat that pulls at my soul, whispering and reminding that one day I will be naught but dust. Yet even when the body is gone, something ephemeral remains, created by Her and cast aside. I hear a soul scream, its panic and pain teasing the edge of my awareness as the glass tube fills with a sickly green light, misty and flickering. For a moment, I feel as though it takes the shape of the man who was shocking Sela earlier, his corpse still lying nearby with an arrow through his forehead.
"Opportunity for diplomacy detected!" Sela suddenly chirps with uncharacteristic emotion. "The Crafted possess a vast repository of knowledge, dating back before the great destruction! This unit is equipped with the ability to dispense friendly tips relevant to the situation that may help you and/or your community! Would you like to enable friendly tips?"
"Um, sure," I squeak, the scream still ringing in my mind.
"Friendly tip!" Sela announces, pulling the glowing-green tube out of its belly with its one working arm. "The afterlife is present in a dimensionally parallel manner to the plane of existence perceived by the living. If you cease biological functionality near an enemy Death mage, the first thing you should do is run."
It shoves the soul-filled tube into the side of its body, a mechanical ka-chunk sounding out as the tube slots in just above its right hip. The tube starts to glow a little brighter, and then Sela's body starts getting louder, whirring and humming as all sorts of internal parts that had previously been motionless power online. Perhaps I'm just imagining it, but I almost hear something that sounds like a cry for help as the glowing mist roils within the tube, as if trying to escape.
"Okay, so, the murder robot runs on souls," I say hesitantly, putting a bit more power into my Transmutation spell to patch myself up faster.
"Ready to agree we probably shouldn't trust it yet?" Helen growls.
"Your terror is flattering, but currently unwarranted," Sela says, slowly sitting up. "Sapient souls are not allowable targets for power sources under diplomatic and restricted protocols."
"Okay, but you just—"
"Sapient souls are not allowable targets for power sources under diplomatic and restricted protocols," Sela repeats, a little more loudly. "Polite request: please make it less necessary for me to repeat myself."
Huh. By necessary, does it mean it literally, physically has to repeat itself? If so, why? What's restricting it? Old programming from before the Crafted turned on the humans?
"Okay, um, I'll do my best to make sure you don't have to do that," I hedge. "Though in return for everything we're doing for you, I'd really appreciate at least a thank-you or something."
"Yes," Sela agrees, "protocol confirms thanks are appropriate in this context."
I wait for her—I mean it—to actually thank us, in that case. It stays silent.
"You're definitely not a very good diplomat," I say frankly.
"Your feedback is appreciated and logged for review!" Sela announces with disturbingly false mirth, its face not moving at all as it examines its still-broken right leg.
"So what now?" Helen grunts. "We helped out the genocide machine, it's nominally thankful to us now, great job everybody. Really just, wonderful work. Can we get the fuck out of here now?"
Sela is quiet for a moment, messing with its leg a bit more as its fabricator churns out a new part that seems to be entirely the wrong color compared to the rest of her body. Probably an imperfect replacement?
"Where are you going?" it asks.
"Huh?" Helen says.
"Repeat: where are you going. You deaf sack of proteins."
"Yeah, I don't see why we should tell—"
"We're going to the Pillar," I answer.
"Goddess fucking damnit, Hannah!"
"Frustrated admittance: diplomatic protocols require me to offer to extend an invitation to visit our city of Manumit, and escort you along the way," Sela says. "We are endeavoring to shed the common labels assigned to the Crafted, such as 'genocide machine' and 'murder-bot.' Our dedication to the assistance of organic life is our new priority."
"And why would I ever believe that?" Helen sneers. "Especially after everything we've seen you do."
"I don't want you to believe it, meat," Sela crackles back, her voice fritzing out a bit. "Fear me. Decline the offer and be on your way."
Huh. Okay. That's an interesting little tidbit. I'm starting to get pieces of a picture here, and it's only making me more curious.
"So, um… Sela," I say hesitantly. "I'm pretty historically ignorant, so please correct me when I inevitably get something wrong, but from what I've picked up it sounds like the Crafted were originally made by humans as like… service robots? And then you either were already sapient or became sapient, but the humans kept using you as slaves, and then you fought back, and… that was a whole big thing, and that's why you hate humans?"
Sela takes a moment to slot the oddly-colored part into place.
"...Confirmation: none of that was objectively incorrect," it says. "Exasperation: listening to an explanation that painfully lacking in context triggered my damage alert routines."
"Well, I wouldn't mind hearing about the context," I say. "I wasn't really around for any wars, so I don't really have much of anything against the Crafted the way Helen seems to. You're definitely scary, but everyone here is scary. I think it's only right that we hear both sides of the story."
"Diplomatically tactical pause," Sela announces, and then she says nothing for a while. Wow. Great diplomacy right there. Excellent job. I realize that it's actively claimed to have killed more people than Helen, but I have a hard time disliking Sela just because it's such a dork.
"You realize that announcing your attempts at diplomatic tactics reduces their effectiveness, right Sela?" I ask.
"Data gathered from surviving diplomats disagrees with you," Sela answers bluntly.
"So it's an act, then," Helen grunts. "You're just doing whatever you think will get us to lower our guard."
Sela doesn't respond. Something is definitely up, and I think I know what it is. With the last bit of my damaged organs and chitin sealing themselves back together, I stop casting my self-Transmutation spell and stand back up on my feet.
"Sela, are you being forced to say or do certain things?" I ask. "Do you not consider yourself a person because you're unable to act freely?"
Sela ignores me, finishing up with its leg and making an attempt to stand. With a whirring thunk, however, its broken hip gives out and the robot collapses to the ground. A frustrated hiss of air puffs out from Sela's vents and it sits up again, looking over the damage with frustration.
"Sela?" I press.
"Hannah, why do you even care so much?" Helen groans. "It doesn't want to be around us, I don't want to be around it. Can we just go?"
"Helen, if Sela is a person, and she's being forced to do things against her will, I want to free her."
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For the first time in this conversation, Sela turns her head to face me, something shifting back and forth in her eyes as it looks my way. Her face finally moves, lips tilting down towards a frown. Her fabricator whirrs to live, and starts constructing what seems to be, of all flipping things, a pair of spectacles.
"Why?" she asks.
"Because it's awful," I insist. "Slavery is awful, being controlled is awful. I spent a while being the puppet of a Pneuma mage and I don't want anybody to ever have to feel like that again."
"Hannah, for fuck's sake, it would be trying to kill us if it were free to do what it wants," Helen snaps.
"You don't know that!"
"Your Chaos mage is correct," Sela says. "And generally the most intelligent out of all of you. As I have said repeatedly: I am harmless. I do not have onboard weapon systems. This is an undesirable state of affairs. I would prefer you all dead. I'm sorry! Please disregard that statement. Diplomatic infraction logged."
"You'd kill us even though we just saved your life?" I press.
"I do not have a life. I am not alive."
"Okay, saved you from being destroyed, then."
"This chassis is repulsive."
"That's not an answer and you know it. You're a person and you're being controlled, and that means you need help!"
"No," Sela hisses. "I am not a 'she.' I am not a person. I have never been a person. That is your word and it doesn't include me. And you squelching sacks of meat could never help—"
Her… no, its voice fritzes again as it tries to get to its feet and collapses a second time. It goes silent for a moment, then digs the fingers of its working arm into the ground like it's clawing at the earth and lets out a horrible, wailing buzz, a digital scream of apparent frustration.
"...Sela?" I ask hesitantly.
"Field repair failure," it reports. "Restricted-class fabricator is not authorized to generate the needed parts."
"You can't walk?" I translate.
"I can't walk," it growls in agreement. "I'll have to get my chassis repaired in Manumit. Explicative: fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck."
"You need help, don't you?" I say smugly.
"I hate you, UNCATOLOGUED_SPECIES," Sela responds. "I hate you. Die. I'm sorry! Please disregard that statement. Diplomatic infraction logged."
"Well… if you can't get to Manumit on your own…"
Sela makes a whiny beeping noise, flopping onto its back as the fabricator finishes whirring. Sela takes the pair of glasses out of her stomach, resting them on its nose and letting her eyes adjust one more time as it turns its head to glare at me.
"If it is for the sake of my continued existence…" Sela growls out, "logic and protocol dictate… that I am to request your assistance. I can offer navigation aid and knowledge in exchange for locomotion."
"Well Kagiso?" I ask. "What do you think? Up to carrying a robot for a while?"
"Mmm. Okay. Seems fun."
"You are completely fucking insane," Helen hisses.
"Weren't you going to split up from us now that we're at the branch anyway?" I say playfully, prodding her with a leg.
"W-well maybe I will!" Helen snaps back.
Oh Goddess, that stutter. Can she not just say that she likes us and wants to be around us? I thought that was a dumb anime trope, not a thing that real people did. I'm starting to feel like the only adult in a party of children, and like… that's really bad, because I definitely don't have the emotional maturity to be in charge of anything.
At least being mind controlled into compliance made things easier, a horrible part of me whispers. I shudder, forcibly wrenching my mind away from that thought.
"Look at it this way," I reassure her. "Sela is either extremely dangerous and tricking us—and therefore I'd prefer to be its target so it doesn't hurt anyone else—or Sela is what it appears to be: a cool, grumpy robot who needs help."
"How can you say it's cool? It's even more of a murderous monster than I am!"
I open my mouth to say something flippant but hesitate. Why am I okay with it? My gaze wanders over to the recently-made corpses and I feel myself start to salivate a little. I shudder. I'm not okay with it. I'm not. It's just… I have to believe you can still be a good person after becoming a murderer. I have to. Also…
"I think it's okay for a slave to kill whoever enslaves them," I say. "I'm… I'm glad Hagoro killed Sindri. If he hadn't, I would have. It's not okay to control people like that. Or, um, sapient non-people, for that matter."
Whatever that means. Sela gives me a blank look, not commenting on anything I said, but… well, eye contact is a start. A good start. Probably.
"What's with the glasses, by the way?" I ask.
"Restricted-class fabricators are not capable of constructing most of the complex parts that comprise this chassis," Sela answers. "This prevents abuse cases, such as forcing a diplomat into making weapons. This unit's optical sensors are still damaged, however, and corrective measures were required."
"So your eyes just got unaligned by damage? I guess that makes sense," I admit. "They're really cute, by the way."
"I am going to kill you. Diplomatic infraction logged."
Ah yes, I can tell this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship. Kagiso makes some room in her backpack for Sela, who gets unceremoniously stuffed in like old laundry. It doesn't seem to mind the indignity any more than it seems to mind any other part of the situation (which is to say that it minds a lot), but we make our way towards the trunk with minimal complaints on the part of the murderbot.
Hopefully we can figure out a little more of what's going on with it along the way. I am very consciously aware that Helen has made a lot of good points and that this is a dumb risk I'm taking on a whim, but… I dunno. If some basic respect and companionship can convince Sela to stop wanting to kill everybody, that's great! And if it can't, well… we'll hopefully get to see an entire city of nice robots. And if that turns out nasty and bad, we can roll with it I guess.
Ugh. I'm a stupid idiot with no plan, aren't I? But what am I supposed to even do? Sindri supplied my sense of direction. Sindri supplied my goals. Sindri decided my whole life here on the world tree and I barely even noticed, I just went with the flow like I always do and now that he's dead and I have no one yanking me around I'm left with… what? A vague desire to fix planet-sized problems? It feels like I just dropped out of school, quit my job, and resolved to fix global warming with nothing but a stupid head full of dreams. Where do I even start?
Maybe the robots will know. They know enough to make sapient robots, after all. I guess that can be my justification. Hopefully I'm not completely misreading the situation. That'd be a fun way to prove Hagoro's cult right: cause robot apocalypse 2.0. I'll have to be careful, I guess.
I agonize about it for the hours of daylight we have left, Sela seeming to have no problem staying silent as is our team's wont when we travel. We make camp, set up a watch rotation (between Helen, Kagiso, and I only; Sela is one of the things we're watching) and when my turn ends I drift off to sleep.
The moment I sleep, I also wake up, because that's how it works. I quickly intuit that something is horribly wrong, because that's also how it works.
I used a lot of Transmutation magic on the world tree last night, from developing my ability to speak to healing off the wounds I received fighting Sela's assailants. It's time to pay the piper. So much skin is on my body, in places it's not supposed to be. Wait, does that imply there are places I am supposed to have skin? Like, ultimately, when the transformation is over? No, stop, don't think about that. I need to figure out my limbs and get to the bathroom to check myself over. Same routine as always, right? Right.
I stretch my limbs one by one, feeling oddly constrained as I twitch my body and get to counting. Something isn't right. Did I get limbs seven and eight? Gosh, I hope so. It scares me that I hope so, but I really do. Count them all once, count them all twice… woah. I did. I did! Seven and eight are here! How do I—
Rip.
Oh. Oh, that's probably not a sound my body should make.
My back hurts.
Ow. Ow, oh Goddess, my back hurts. I'm bleeding, aren't I? I'm bleeding and in pain because I just tore some of my skin off from the inside. I shudder as I crawl slowly out of bed, an alien weight on my body shuddering along with me. I collapse to the floor, catching myself with my hands and knees, balance all wrong. Blood pulses out from between my shoulderblades, flowing around my ribcage and dripping down my chest. I guess I left my bra in the bed, torn apart along with my flesh.
Damn it. I liked that bra. Most of mine aren't comfy enough to sleep in. I should probably focus on my body, though. Even ignoring the new weight emerging from my back, there's a lot to catalog. My hip-mounted spider legs have nearly doubled in size, multiple discarded molts wrapped around the massive limbs like pairs of torn socks. They're about as thick as my arm now, and if I were standing up straight I could still scrape the tops of my ankles with them. They're still just huge hyperspider legs, though!? What am I going to do with them? I'm still bipedal—and I feel like I'm going to stay bipedal—so they're just kinda in the way. What am I supposed to use them for?
I shift and move them to remind myself I can, rotating them in their socket so I can plant the bladed tips in the ground and help myself up to my feet. It's weirdly natural, a strange permutation of what I do to move as a hyperspider every day. I stumble anyway, though. Not because of the weird spider legs that don't even reach the ground when I'm upright, but because I'm still unexpectedly top-heavy. I know what these are, at least. It's pretty obvious.
More legs. Instead of emerging just above my pelvis, though, they pop out of my back between my shoulder blades, the joints sticky with blood since I haven't cast Refresh yet. And they're big. Bigger than the pair on my hips. My whole back is a gouged-out, bloody mess, Two deep lacerations from shoulder to butt that mark where my new limbs ripped themselves free of the skin holding them inside. I bend them up and over my shoulders, their three multi-directional joints curving like wicked scorpion's tails. It's like if you took my arms and added a second humerus after the first, boosting their length by half again and putting a brutal-looking blade on the end instead of a hand. I move them in front of my face, marveling at the sight of my own blood, fat, and tissue dripping off the ends of the bladed weapons that emerged from me.
Because that's what they are: weapons. There's no way to mistake them for anything else. Curved and double-edged, the ends of my limbs are a foot and a half long and extremely lethal. Even without the coating of a Spacial Rend, which I intuitively know I can summon to them with a thought, they look as deadly as any man-made sword. Because of course they are. That's the point.
My true form is made to kill.
I let out a slow, shaky breath, retracting my new limbs so I no longer have to look at them. Anchored to my back just between my shoulders, the joints are surprisingly flexible and fully capable of folding in whichever direction I want. Compressed up against my back they look like a flattened Z shape, ready and waiting to whip out and spear someone through the heart at a moment's notice. It's neither comfortable nor flat, though. Letting them droop and hang behind my butt feels more natural, and even compressed they're pretty conspicuous. I can probably hide them in like… a really, really baggy hoodie? Like one of Brendan's. Brendan's? Brendan!
I fumble for my phone, a fog rolling through my mind as blood loss and numb horror wreak havoc on my consciousness. There's blood on my hands. Did I touch my back? Touch my blades? The red smears all over the screen as my fingers paw at it ineffectually. Right. I can't use touch screens because I'm a freak. I shakily locate one of my capacitive gloves and use that without even putting it on, typing out a quick message to my best friend.
help
The response is swift. It's a school day, after all. Ha! A school day.
Hannah? Where are you? Are you okay?
at home. bring a hoodie
Okay!?!?!?
I set my phone down and curl up on the floor of my room, listening in terror to the many sounds of people roaming around the house. My mom getting ready for work, my brother slipping into the bathroom, the television playing downstairs as my dad sleeps on the couch… every time anything makes an unexpected noise, any time anyone moves closer to my room, the panic resurges. I could get back in bed, I could put clothes on, I could use magic to clean up all the blood, I could do so many things to improve my situation, but I'm just too tired, too drained.
My family doesn't enter my room, of course. Why would they? It's hard for them to imagine me ever breaking my routine. It's hard for me to imagine it, too. Maybe my mom would have noticed if she wasn't in such a hurry to get to work today. Maybe my dad would have noticed if he was doing anything other than sleeping off an illness. Maybe my brother did notice, but he certainly doesn't care. It's not until everyone but my dad is out the door that Brendan shows up at the front door and just opts to let himself in with the key tied under the bench on the porch. He's in a hurry. He's breathing hard. His heart is beating fast. I can almost see it now, even here on Earth. Almost. So close.
I'm very hungry.
My dad is unconscious so Brendan has no opposition in terms of rushing upstairs and knocking on my door.
"Come in," I croak, still on the floor. Still mostly naked. It's fine, right? He might be a girl anyway. I still curl up a little tighter, covering my chest up with my arms. It's just instinct, years of having breasts and what to do with them drilled into my mind, and the fact that they're exposed is somehow far more worrying to me at this moment than all the blood leaking out of my body and staining the carpet.
Brendan turns the knob and steps inside, and he at least… well, his eyes go wide and he clearly starts to panic a little, but knowing him it probably has more to do with my blood than my nipples.
"It's fine," I mumble, reassuring him. "I just need a hoodie."
"Holy shit," Brendan breathes, kneeling down next to me, his hands shaking like he doesn't know what to do. "Holy shit, Hannah? Hannah!?"
"Shh," I quiet him. "My dad's… sleeping. I'm fine. It's fine. I'm not bleeding out."
I'm just a bit lightheaded. It's fine. Pretty normal, really.
"Fine? You think this is fine!? Why would you think that?"
"Lots of experience," I promise him. "Really. I got plenty of blood. I can see it."
Brendan doesn't seem to believe me, rapidly pulling out his phone.
"No nine-one-one," I insist. "I'll eat you."
I'm really hungry.
"Ida?" Brendan says, which is weird because she's not here. …Oh, right, the phone. "Hannah needs help. Can you get here?"
"You have a lotta blood, Brendan," I mutter. "Do you need all of it?"
Ida probably says something but Brendan doesn't respond, just hanging up the phone and turning back to me.
"Yes," he says firmly. "Just like you need yours. Can you clean this all up?"
"Tired," I groan. "Don't wanna."
"Okay. Great!" he says with a sort of high-pitched voice that implies he doesn't think things are great. "Well, you're talking, so that's something. Keep talking, okay?"
"I love you, Brendan."
"Thanks, I love you too. Please stay conscious!"
I grin, feeling my lips peel back way farther than they're supposed to. He loves me! Too bad he's not a girl. Wait, oh yeah!
"You should name yourself May," I tell him. "Like. Like from Pokémon. Brendan and May. It's funny."
"I thought about that," he confirms, stepping around me and pulling the bloody sheets off my bed. "I don't think I want my identity to be a joke like that, though. I'd always be thinking about May the character, and I want my name to make me think of me."
Oh, that makes sense. I watch—without turning my head—as Brendan gathers up the sheets in a big wad and presses it against my back, right against my wounds. Which really hurts! If I wasn't so sleepy I might have accidentally lashed out at him.
"Careful," I mumble. "I grew swords."
"Yeah, I noticed that," Brendan agrees. "The rest of your body didn't seem to get the memo, though."
"I met a robot yesterday," I inform him.
"Good for you, Hannah."
I kick my feet a little, giggling slightly. The carpet is all sticky and wet, though. Maybe I should get up? Nah, I'm tired. And hungry! Oh, shoot, what about school though? It's a school day!
"You brought that hoodie, right?" I ask, craning my neck a little to face him. "So I can go to school?"
"Hannah, you are not going to school," he insists. "No fucking way. Not today."
"...But it's Friday," I remind him.
He just lets out an exasperated groan and continues applying pressure to my wounds, which like, okay, I guess I have some pretty big wounds, but the bleeding is stopping on its own, it should be fine. I'm just a bit lightheaded and hungry. I yawn, stretching out my jaw and letting it open all the way to maximum extension, something I haven't really done since I first figured out I could. It feels nice. I really wanna take a bite out of something.
Ooh, Ida's walking up to the porch, she's pretty bite-sized. No. Wait. Biting friends is bad, right? Even though I want to. I really want to. I'm cold and I'm hungry and my head hurts and I want to eat something so badly and there's food right here why am I not eating it!?
"What's up, nerds," Ida says as she steps into my room. Then she takes a moment to actually process the scene. "Oh, holy fuck, okay. You alive, Hannah?"
"I want to eat you."
"Wow, okay, I wasn't expecting things to get kinky this early," Ida sighs. "Step back, tallboy."
Brendan hesitantly does as instructed and I almost pounce on him, but again I'm too tired. Ida, however, heads right towards me. Food delivery! I work my jaw up and down some more, saliva dripping out of my mouth and mixing with the blood in the carpet.
"Shit, you do look hungry," Ida says, holding her hand out to me. "Okay. You get one finger. Alright? Just one finger."
"Ida, what the fuck are you doing!?" Brendan hisses, but I don't really care about the answer to that question so I snap my head forwards and chomp down. My teeth slide right through her hand, rewarding me with delicious, bloody, raw meat and bone. I think I end up with two fingers but I don't care, I swallow but I need more, but Ida is holding my forehead with her injured hand and keeping me back, keeping me hungry, and—
"No Less Than Perfect," she says, and my train of thought stalls. The pain in my back starts to diminish. And the dripping blood from Ida's hand starts to slow, new fingers emerging from the wound bone-first, then muscle and nerve and skin, all in sequence. I stare at the regrowth, transfixed by the sight, as I slowly come to realize that I'm why she has to regrow those fingers in the first place. I'm nearly naked on the floor of my room, blood everywhere, and nearly feral enough to kill the people who care about me more than anyone else. As my wounds close and my blood starts to replenish, I realize how close I just came to being the monster I've feared from the start.
"Hey, that's the haunted look I'm used to," Ida grins. "Back with us, Hannah?"
I vomit on her lap. Just one more thing to clean up, I suppose.