SILAS

It was all a dream. Had to have been. I know, because I'm back in my old bed. My comfy, slightly over-soft bed. In my old room. In the old house.

No bright, exploding lights. No overturned vehicles on the highway. And perhaps—could it be?—no 'Granite Falls'. After all, if I can imagine a devastated post-apocalypse, so vividly, perhaps I've imagined the deaths of the people I love. Is that really so farfetched? So outside the realm of possibility?

So open your eyes, then.

But why should I? Why can't I just lie here, in this Schrodinger's Cat of a moment, where my sister and mother can be just as alive as they are dead, to me? Why should I open the box?

Because there is no box. You already know.

There's no going back. You can't put the toothpaste back in the tube. And you can't bring the dead back to life. Not by means of some convoluted thought experiment. Or anything else.

I can continue to lie here. Indefinitely. Or I can move.

I can live. Or I can die.

You deserve to die.

Maybe. Maybe I do. But that doesn't change the fact that the choice exists.

I can stay here, in this moment of death. Or I can live. I can see what tomorrow will bring. For good, or for ill. I can try to make use of what I have. To make the world a better place.

Even if you fail.

Yes. Even if I fail. I still have to try. Because...what else is there?

With that thought, I open my eyes.

And immediately shut them again, against the onslaught of blinding light from a rectangular lamp overhead.

I turn my head to the side, away from the lamp, and sit up in the bed.

It's a tiny room. Smaller than my old bedroom. From the grey walls and floor, I can tell I'm still in the Cloister. There is some color to the space though, in the form of a bookshelf in the corner, and a few framed photos on the walls.

A heavy thud sounds from the door. The shifting of a bolt as the handle turns.

I jerk to my feet. Without thinking, I activate my Blast Protocol, turning my arm into a lethal cannon, pointed at the door.

The door wedges open, Shiloh pushing against it with her shoulder and leg, holding a steaming ceramic mug in each hand. She kicks the door shut, then turns around to face me.

"Whoah!" she says, joking. "Don't shoot!"

She seems surprised to see I'm up. In a good way.

"S-sorry," I say, retracting the arm cannon.

"Don't sweat it."

She's wearing her trademark navy jumpsuit, with her hair tied back behind her head. This time, her collar is down, for some reason, and I can see the little Jacktech thing in the side of her neck.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

She stands there, awkwardly, looking at me. She keeps opening her mouth a little, then shutting it again.

I don't blame her. I have no idea what to say, either. I mean, what's the protocol here? What's the procedure?

Finally, she takes a couple of steps toward me, holding out one of the mugs. "Coffee?"

"Uh...sure, I guess?"

I take the cup.

"I've been bringing an extra cup every time I come back, just in case. Cade says you don't have to eat or drink, but that you can. And that caffeine should have an effect. Not entirely sure how he knows that, but..."

She trails off, her gaze drifting. The awkwardness is back.

Gee, thanks for that.

"Oh!" she says, excitement flooding into her face as her eyes snap back to me. "He also told me sunlight is one of your primary energy sources. Did you know that? That's why I hooked up that UV lamp above the bed. Thought it would help. I think it made a difference."

"Oh. I...didn't know that. Thanks."

It's not just the weirdness of this, or the fact that I'm socially awkward in general. There's a dark cloud hanging over this interaction. A topic we both seem to be avoiding.

I decide to ask her about what happened to the people in the caravan. But when I open my mouth, I find myself saying something else.

"Where's Daimon?"

"In a holding cell," Shiloh says, between sips from her mug. "So are Gavin, and the rest of the Watch. Until we decide we can trust any of them again. If that's even possible. We're not entirely sure what the next steps are- hey, where are you going?"

I'd set my cup down on the bedside table. I'm halfway to the door.

But...I stop.

Not in response to Shiloh's question, but because I've just walked in front of her mirror on the wall. And got a good look at myself.

It's always bizarre, being aware of this bionic body of mine. Earlier, in Gavin's mirror, I was able to see the top half of my body. But now I'm getting the full-on view.

I'm completely naked. Smooth chrome. Connecting and overlapping metal plates, in some places. All the way up to my collarbone. My neck and head are the only fleshy parts—the only skin—I can see. And that goes for my lower parts, as well.

How the hell, through all of this, did I not once think to look at myself down there? To see if I still had...'parts'?

Because apparently, I don't.

This should freak me out. It really should. Especially considering the fact I'm technically a virgin. But I can't seem to get myself worked up over it. Maybe because there's already so much I have to deal with, mentally. My life is non-stop existential horror, right now. What's a lack of reproductive organs, on top of that?

If anything, I feel...embarrassed. I think that's the word.

I was, and have always thought of myself as, a man. Or, a young man, if you want to word it that way. I'm a guy. A human guy.

Yet, as I stand here, looking at my un-clothed reflection, yet another thing, something that should be evidence of my humanity and personhood, is missing entirely.

I'm naked, alone in a room with this girl. And it doesn't matter. And that's weird. Because it should matter.

Shiloh's standing there, openly looking at my unclothed body, as if trying to see whatever it is I'm so concerned about. To her, I might as well be an appliance. To her, there's no sexual component to this, at all. And why should there be?

"Clothes?" I say.

"Hmm?"

"My clothes."

"Oh," she says. "They're pretty beat up. I ran them through a wash, and dried them, but I haven't patched them up, yet."

"Can I have them?"

"Uh, sure!"

She darts over to a cabinet next to the bed. She opens the top drawer, pulls out my shirt and pants, folded, and tosses them to me.

I catch them. "Thanks."

I start to put on the shirt. But there's something about the way Shiloh is standing there, plainly watching me do it.

"I'm sorry, could you just..." I make a twirl motion with my finger.

"Um...yeah. Yeah, okay," she says, despite looking somewhat confused. She turns her back. "I already know what you look like. It's not like you haven't spent the last day and a half without them."

"Humor me," I say. I try to keep the bitterness out of my voice, but I can tell some of it's leaking through.

I start pulling the shirt over my head. Which is more difficult than I anticipated, because apparently one of my arms, the one impaled by the sword, still doesn't want to function properly. I would go so far as to call it near-paralyzed: I can barely lift the arm itself, let alone get the fingers to move properly. Whatever damage that sword did, I think it's gonna take more than soaking up some rays to get it fixed.

Shiloh clears her throat. "I can take you to the holding cell, if you want to talk to Daimon. Though I doubt he'll tell you anything useful."

"Thanks," I say, pulling up the second leg of my pants and snapping the belt.

"Before we go, though," Shiloh says, turning around, "There's something you should know..."