This wasn’t the first ti that Sera had lost a limb, and she was sure that if it was up to Dr. Davis, it wouldn’t be the last.
But this was the first ti that she was actually able to see the process as it happened, since the last ti she was fighting for her life.
The nub that was at the base of the cut in her forearm split like a seed coming out of its shell.
Like any plant, it branched out into multiple roots, each one having its own purpose. A crease suggested a palm. The five islets flattened, then rose, then ringed out as the bones started to form under the still lavender skin.
The assistant’s whisper sounded like prayer gone wrong. "Phalangeal scaffolding... that’s— that’s a distal phalanx—"
"It’s patterning to template," Davis replied, and if there was awe in him, he strangled it before it reached his mouth. "It’s not random stem cells regenerating but not knowing what its purpose is. It’s not a tumor or lump. It is a complete functional replication of the limb that used to be there before."
"Because it’s been done before," Sera sneered. "You’re late to your own party, daddy. This is really nothing special."
He leveled a look at her. "You were an infant when I carried you out of a condemned building with soldiers wanting to kill anything that moved. I am the one that saved your life and let you live like a normal child. You never would have had that without . If I want to take your limbs, you will accept that because I raised you. If I want to kill you, you will accept that because I saved you. Your live belongs to , don’t kid yourself by thinking otherwise."
"Oh, please," sneered Sera, rolling her eyes like she used to do as a teenager when her father or mother said sothing she didn’t agree with. "You were nothing more than a thief, an egotistical scientist that couldn’t bear to see your life’s work go up in a cloud of smoke. In fact, you still are. You just went from babies to adults without a second thought."
The assistant’s hands trembled toward the saw again, as if holding it made him feel like soone else could be the monster in the room. "Further testing?" he asked, his throat dry.
"Yes," Dr. Davis quickly agreed. "Elbow disarticulation will give us better data on proximal patterning."
The assistant recoiled. "But she’s— it’s— the hand is still—"
"Developing," Dr. Davis finished for him. "Which gives us a lovely control. We can asure two sites concurrently."
He rolled a tray closer.
The tal sang softly when it bumped the table. The new hand wavered, as embryonic as a nightmare, as stubborn as a weed forcing itself through asphalt.
Sera’s mouth tilted, almost impressed at her own body’s refusal to obey.
"Why so thodical, Daddy?" she asked. "You could always just throw down the stairs and see if I bounce."
"Because you’re finally useful," he said. "Or you aren’t."
"Those were your choices when I was five, too," she said. "I still rember how you taught to hold a fork—like you were waiting for to pick up a knife."
He didn’t answer. He didn’t look at the place where the strap bit into the soft underside of her wrist.
He looked at the line between bicep and forearm, calculating where the cut would be cleanest.
The assistant couldn’t help himself. "Please," he said softly, to no one and everyone. "She’s a—"
"Subject," Davis said, without heat. "You will write subject."
The assistant nodded, small and broken. "Subject."
Sera sighed, as if bored again. "You should have kept in the cage if you wanted docile," she said. "You should have cut my tongue out when I started talking back in the car seat."
Her brows lifted faintly. "You’d be amazed how early girls learn what n like you are."
The bud that would beco a thumb twitched. Not from muscle movent, just an unconscious motion, like a fish beneath a pond film.
It was almost comical. It was unutterably obscene.
"Record growth rate," Davis said.
"Two milliters per... minute?" the assistant said, disbelieving his own math. "It’s accelerating."
"Good," Davis grunted. He reached for the elastic again, snugged it around the upper arm one notch tighter than before. "Then we can test systemic limits."
"aning what?" the assistant asked, though he already knew.
"Blood volu. Shock. Thermal tolerance," Davis said. "How much can it endure before replication fails. How far before it learns to stop."
Sera laughed under her breath. "You never learned to stop, why should it?"
"No," Davis agreed. "And that’s why you’re still alive."
The assistant lifted the saw.
His forearms were steady now, the tremor burned out of him by obedience. He placed the blade against the soft inside curve of her elbow. The EKG ticked. The new hand’s half-ford fingers glead, trying to decide which way to bend.
Sera turned her face to the light. Her eyes were very black in the glare, almost bottomless. "Hey, Daddy," she said conversationally.
"What."
"You’re going to run out of limbs before I run out of surprises."
"Begin," Davis said.
The saw scread. The blade kissed skin—
—and the fire alarms went off.
A single chirp at first, distant and uncertain, like the building itself had to think about whether this counted.
Then a full-throated howl swallowed the room, red strobes splitting the white into blood and snow. Sowhere beyond the observation glass, doors slamd.
Boots hit tile. The assistant startled, the blade skittering, drawing a crescent of shallow teeth across her skin without committing.
"Hold position," Davis barked over the noise, and the command was strong enough to pin a man in place. "Do not move. This room is sealed."
The assistant’s eyes blew wide behind fogged plastic. "There’s an evacuation—"
"Chemical drills happen every Thursday," Davis said. "We set them. Cut."
The assistant swallowed, placed the blade again, pushed—
—and Sera, smiling up at the light as if basking in a sun that would never love her back, finally breathed out a laugh that sounded like the beginning of a scream.
The saw bit. The alarm scread. The new hand twitched.
And the creature inside her opened its eyes.
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