Chương 96: 6.17 How many Samanthas does it take to change a lightbulb?

2104: 03: 22: 09: 45: 22 I was, in fact, not fine. The broken ribs – though no punctured lung – were bad enough, especially with the strain I'd put them through during the whole ordeal; they'd gone from cracked to splintering to outright falling apart inside me. While still not piercing my lungs, they'd shifted around a bunch and shards of bone had gotten stuck in muscle and other tissue, some even finding their way to scratch at my spleen. Yet this was the least of it, medically speaking.

Other, more novel symptoms were much more severe and difficult to treat. No osteoplastine injections, mysofibrinogen sprays or flexi-cast plastered over the breaks could help with my 'overworked nerves' problem, whatever that meant. But the worst was the doctors discovering a strange, unrecognized form of brain injury. One they said looked like an ischemic stroke that had long since healed over, while also looking as recent as, well, three days ago. I had no idea what they were talking about.

And, I suspected, neither did they. In that way, and that way alone, Amber was luckier than me. Her wounds had been far more severe, her pains more painful and breaks more, ah, broken than mine, so much so that she'd been dragged into emergency care before I even arrived at the hospital. Yet she'd been lucky in the sense that her wounds were severe enough for a reanimator to spend some of their precious time healing her.

Unlike resurrectors, who could simply stuff one's soul (or something else; the debate was still ongoing) back into a person's body once it was patched up a bit; or professional healers who could feed the patient 'life force' or whatever; or a master – in the powered sense of the word – doctor or surgeon curing whatever ills they had; reanimators did things a bit differently.

And by different I meant that reanimators molded the human body like putty; biology their playground, and human limitations a suggestion, if given enough time anyhow. Generally speaking, reanimators were either makers or combination master-augurs with a highly specific focus limited entirely to human anatomy and biology. So much so that back in the day, they were often conflated with necromancers.

True, some had voluntarily leaned into the shtick for a while – most didn't get that choice – and had begun animating corpses, creating plagues and the like, but nowadays they preferred to be 'masters of the human body' instead. Much more profitable that way, and with the added benefit of the reputation as one of the most beloved superpowered in the world.

Indeed, when resurrectors, healers and reanimators all worked together, there was very little that could let people stay dead – brain, heart or a few other organs getting obliterated, skeletonization, too much decay, 'unwilling souls' preferring to stay dead and, most strangely, old age. Not 'health complications stemming from old age', but just the number of years a person lived by itself hampering powered healing for some reason.

But outside of that, reanimators working together with their counterpart meant you wouldn't stay dead, let alone sick or injured, for long. Too bad reanimators were even rarer than resurrectors, to the point where whole teams of teleporters were supported by the Unified State to get them to where they need to be. So rare that my case wasn't interesting enough for Amber's one to see me, thank God. But yes, in that sense Amber had been lucky.

A reanimator had been coincidentally present in Bayside's Grant-Morrison Hospital, and her case was severe enough to draw their attention. She'd been allowed to leave the hospital the very next day after her surgery, and even then only because they wanted to keep her overnight for observation. Their only advice to her had been to, according to her, 'take it easy for the next few days'. Unlike me. So far, I'd had to stay in the hospital for three whole days.

Not out of any real concern – according to the doctors at least – but so for observation and tests. Even though I understood none would reveal – or at least definitively prove – me to be an android, their examinations were still triggering my paranoia. Maybe even triggering my Heroic Impulse's systems – I couldn't tell. Still, after all was said and done, the results were as heartening as they were disappointing; that is, no results whatsoever.

Ultimately, it was all chalked up to that most nebulous category of injuries: trauma by power strain. Speaking of nebulous-"Hi Sammy," Mom greeted as she entered the hospital room.

"Hi Mom." -the whole sequence of events leading up to my internment in the hospital hadn't just been a blur; it had been deliberately obtuse, the procedures so byzantine that even the most difficult of bureaucratic labyrinths would seem quaint in comparison. After the ambulance arrived, I was first taken to one hospital for emergency treatment while still masked.

Then I was given an anonymized file – a real, physical, paper file – with assurances by the Guardians that its digital counterpart would be completely destroyed. From there I – by myself, ribs still smarting from the break – was allowed to remove and leave my costume to be picked up later in a private room, given clothes by the hospital and directions to the 'inconspicuous' black van outside.

Then, at some street I didn't recognize, I was unceremoniously put on the streets and told to wait before being put into another ambulance for transport to another hospital, registering there under my own, civilian name with the anonymized file copied – without needing to provide details as to how I'd gotten hurt – put in my medical dossier under heavy restrictions, before then, too, being destroyed.

It all felt incredibly dumb and, after thinking about it more than a second, I realized it doesn't – or shouldn't – even work. The presence of such a file in and of itself was surely enough to, for lack of a better word, indict me as a masked. The driver of the black van no doubt knew who his young passenger was after the Sentinels broke the news Jester and Crowsong had gotten hurt – even if we were not the only masked to be hurt that day.

It was also doubtful that all the files were fully, well and truly destroyed beyond all recognition and recoverability. But above all: the doctors taking scans and examining my brain knew I was a masked. How else would they eventually conclude – and subsequently inform me that they concluded – the issue was power strain?

It was all a nonsensical bureaucratic performance, a ritual designed by some mad bureaucrat decades ago more less to obfuscate truth than impress on its participants that thou shalt not know that they were dealing with a masked here.

"How're you doing today?" Mom asked. I put away my tablet.

"Same as yesterday," I said, frustrated.

"And the day before."

"And the day before that, hm?" I sighed and rolled my eyes, eliciting a chuckle from Mom. She took a seat next to me, placing her purse on the floor and, from a second bag, taking out an assortment of fruit: four tangerines, an apple and a banana. She gave me a tangerine, also taking one herself. I began peeling.

"It's just so boring, sitting here all day. Especially when they say that everything's fine and that there's nothing to worry about – like I don't know that!"

"Yeah?" she said, then made to poke me lightly in the rib. I grabbed the offending digit before it could reach.

"Doing so well you can't stomach a poke to the rib?" She'd been visiting me every day, both the mornings and evenings and even at noon for lunch, schedule allowing. Though her first visit had been a nervous one on her part, the subsequent ones… not so much. Once she saw I was fine, and once the doctors concluded the brain stuff was from overuse of my powers – which I'd had to share because of course the doctors couldn't – she relaxed, simply glad I was doing alright. This story originates from Royal Road.

Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

"It doesn't hurt," I defended.

"It's just tender. And it's not even like that's the reason they're keeping me here. It's that stupid-" I gestured toward my head, "-brain stuff they keep asking me about." I sighed.

"Why did you have to tell them about the migraine on the lake? I could've been enjoying spring break with my friends right about now." Not that I hadn't seen them. Mom hadn't been the only one to visit, Amber visiting the moment she could – right after her surgery, in fact, and looking much too fine and unbothered from what should be a harrowing experience. Jolie, Saga and Millie visited the day after I informed them what had happened and where I was.

And just yesterday, Amber had taken her group of friends – barring Jewel; she was off to a different region (Greater Texas?) with her family for spring break – with her on a visit, which had been… well, couldn't exactly call it fun all things considered, but it'd been nice. Only Naomi had been absent. She lived too far away for a quick visit and our relationship outside March and Jester had not yet been established, making it difficult for her to find a good reason to come visit in her unmasked identity.

She'd sent plenty of messages through text though. The Sentinels too had given me their well-wishes after the fact – even Doombell, although hers was the most perfunctory. That, or she was just awkward. Mom shrugged.

"Play stupid games, win stupid prizes."

"Heroing isn't a game."

"But it is stupid?" I blew a raspberry, and before I could prevent it, my mouth moved to say, "You know, you sound a lot like Michael right now." I blinked, taken aback at my own words and made to apologize. Mom prevented me with a dismissive wave and a chuckle.

"You don't have to look at me like that. I'm not gonna fall apart by being compared to my own son." Again, she laughed.

"Though speaking of…"

"Hm?" I shifted in my hospital bed – the most comfortable one so far – and started eating my tangerine.

"Yesterday evening," Mom said, taking a wedge from hers, "I got a late-night call all of a sudden. Totally unexpected of course, but you know how it is with-" she 'stealthily' looked around, leaned in and whispered, "-masking," before leaning back again. I rolled my eyes at her antics, causing her to snort. She continued, "I picked it up expecting you-know-who to be calling for another shift-" I cut her off; I didn't need the performance.

"Michael called?" Mom rolled her eyes and threw the wedge into her mouth.

"Way to interrupt my monologue," she complained, chewing with her mouth open. Gross, and no doubt done out of spite.

"But yes and no. It wasn't exactly Michael that called, but Guardians New York- well, Guardians Northeast, but it's not like there's much of a difference." Indeed. Besides the great island-city of New York, what else was there in the Northeast? Ottawa, Newerhaven and the other refugee cities around Lake Mishigami didn't count; they weren't part of the Northeast Region.

"What'd they say?" She swallowed another piece.

"That this evening at around nine, I could expect another call." I now straightened up in bed completely.

"Could you-""I'll be right here." I nodded thrice, leaning back again and thinking.

"Did they say anything else?"

"Not explicitly," she said, "but it's safe to infer some things, I think. I mean, why the shadiness if whatever was going on wasn't a secret?"

"And why would it be a secret if it was a simple arrest?" I concluded. Mom smiled.

"Exactly." I leaned back, relieved and looking forward to later today. The idea that Michael had one way or another helped the heroes against the Jannacht was tantalizing to say the least. And to get confirmation of that fact…

"Nine PM?" I asked.

"Nine PM." X It was, in fact, 21: 22 when Mom and I got the call. We were in the middle of an episode of Calico's Run when it finally came, though I doubted either of us were truly paying it much attention anyway. Speaking for myself, while I wasn't as fidgety as Mom, I was still nervous. Besides getting confirmation surrounding my brother's situation, this was also… a test, in a way. A test of faith, a test of which ethics was better: mine or that of the Heroic Impulse.

Not that the outcome mattered in any practical sense. Whether it was me, my Heroic Impulse or the both of us that were degrading into the titular Mad Android, the answer to which of us was right in how to 'deal' with Michael-Darkstar wouldn't change anything. But emotionally? Spiritually? Personally? It mattered a whole lot. Mom picked up the phone.

"Hello?" she began tentatively. Yet when the voice on the other side said whatever they said, all the nerves bled out of her, replaced by that watery smile I hadn't seen since… since she and I first met in that municipal office seven months ago, on the second day of my existence.

"Yes, I'm fine – wait, let me put you on speaker." Mom placed her phone on the small bedside table next to us.

"-'s there?" I heard Michael say.

"Hello," I said.

"Well, that answers that. How're you?"

"I'm in the hospital." Michael coughed, air going down the wrong pipe or something through sheer surprise. Mom snorted.

"The hospital?" he said, baffled.

"What do you mean you're in the hospital?"

"Well, what else can it mean?" I said, frustrated.

"Got into a fight, got beat up, and now the doctors won't let me leave until all their little tests come back and they're sure that I won't suddenly keel over and die the moment they aren't looking. I mean, sure, brain damage or whatever is serious, but it's clear I'm doing fine. They said so themselves!" I let out a huff in frustration.

"Thankfully, this is my last day before release. Like, honestly; I'm getting more brain damage cooped up in here than anything else!" An, "Aha," was all he said.

"Aaaaanyway," Mom cut in, "what's going on with you? What happened over there for all of…" She gestured vaguely, which of course didn't translate well over the phone, " this, to happen." He groaned in frustration.

"Yes, well, unfortunately I can't really-" he stopped and paused for a second.

"No, you know what? Fuck it. It's not like it's literally in the contract that I can't tell people. Especially other, ehhh, people in the business, let's say." Mom and I exchanged glances.

"You two have a private room?" Michael asked, and we confirmed.

"Good. So, it's like this: when I returned to New York I all but immediately contacted the Guardians and told Wildsurge to come meet me over the Atlantic, alone. Well, he didn't do that, obviously – come alone, I mean – but either way, once there we managed to negotiate a deal for me to turn, ah… well, turn traitor, I suppose." He sounded uncomfortable at the word, but he perked up again right after.

"I even went with the whole 'surprise unmasking', you know? Like in-""Alinear Boundaries," Mom said fondly, teasingly.

"You always were a theatre kid." He groaned.

"No I wasn't."

"At heart, I mean."

"Yeah, well, anyway," he said, quickly moving past it, "we struck a deal and- you heard what happened in New York?" We affirmed.

"Yeah, I helped them set it all up, even helped capture Ritual Master in person and-" he sounded conflicted before cutting himself off again. He sighed, tired.

"The details don't matter. What matters is that I've struck a deal. Rather than prison, I'll be transferred and sort-of 'join' the Guardians on a probationary agreement while under strict surveillance. Likely to East Asia, though the Pacific Guardians in the Micronesia have also been mentioned as a possibility. They think my powers have some useful applications there, but… well, it's all up in the air still."

"How many years?" Mom asked.

"Twenty." Mom sucked her teeth while I blinked in surprise.

"That's… heavy, I think?" I said. Even if it wasn't prison, that was a long time. Morality aside, killing masked – even heroes, even multiple heroes – while not exactly carrying a light sentence, wasn't among the heaviest. Usually, it was the crimes besides harming or killing heroes – racketeering, fraud, money laundering, smuggling, tax evasion, assault of officers in function, etcetera – that carried most of the resulting sentence.

And since Michael got a deal, I doubted they would lay the burden of these crimes on him. Not when he handed them Ritual Master. Thirty years was the practical maximum total sentence – barring specific circumstances like existential threats, which heroes would prefer to outright kill anyhow – so for Michael to get twenty years was a lot.

"Eh," Michael said.

"It's a maximum, contingent on lots of things. Behavior, compliance with orders, integration with the team and into society as a whole, effectiveness, personal growth, openness with the oversight board, going to therapy; it all depends. I think the minimum is three, but in order to achieve that I'll basically need to get so involved I'll do the rest of the sentence out of sheer patriotic duty!" He laughed. It surprised me how-"You don't feel bitter about it?" Mom asked. Yes. That.

"Bitter?" Michael said.

"Honestly, I've never felt happier. Freer." He chuckled, though not for long.

"Not since a long time, anyway. I don't really understand the why myself. Maybe it's the clarity of everything? Even if the specifics of what the future holds are still, you know, somewhere in the future, it's… It's like it's all done and over with, you know? I know what to expect, and what's to be expected of me – it's all there; in black and white, even. I know the shape of what I'll be doing for the rest of my life; what I can and can't do; who and what I'll be interacting with; what is and isn't allowed…

"I mean, there's still uncertainty, but it's all just so clear to me now. Laid out plain in front me, a straight road to walk on, a clear journey ahead – even if someone else decides the destination.

"But I'm alright with that, you know? It wasn't like-" A pause.

"Part of it is similar as going into the Jannacht – but it just feels different, somehow. Less burdensome, maybe. Less weight on my shoulders? Or something like that anyway. Certainly less fear, less dread on the day to day.

"Also helps I don't have to deal with Ritual Master again – or any of the other higherups for that matter. That's probably the biggest upside to it all, come to think of it." He laughed.

"Besides, it wasn't like there was much left for me there anyway – certainly not a bright future. Especially with my junior captured in Charm, and Soliloquy's, ah… well, you know." A thoughtful silence.

"Well," Mom said, "good, I think." Michael hummed affirmatively from the other side. And after another moment of silence, "Just, eh…" and some hesitation, he asked, "Can I… Can I speak to Sam for a minute? Alone, I mean?" Mom didn't look surprised and rose from her seat.

"Of course." Then to me, "Give me a shout when you're done." She left the room. I picked up the phone, put it off of speaker and pressed it against my ear.

"Yeah?"

"I just…" he began.

"I wanted to thank you, you know? Personally – or as personal as I can, anyway." He chuckled.

"I don't think I- no, I know I wouldn't have done this without you pushing me back then."

"Really?" I asked. Though I felt vindicated in my decision, I was hesitant to accept.

"I don't think I said anything exceptional. Nothing you couldn't have thought up by yourself, anyway."

"Maybe," he admitted, "but sometimes it's more about who says it than what is said – the medium is the message, you know? If I came up with those arguments by myself- well, you were there; you heard how I immediately went on the defensive. And without someone to push back, that's where I would've stayed, and if it'd been anyone but you saying them I could, and would've, just dismissed them out of hand."

"So you did it because of me," I said, disappointed. Then it was false, my belief that sparing villains was better than killing them. Darkstar was the exception; it wasn't like every villain had a previously-thought-deceased sister around I could pretend to be.

"Maybe?" he said consideringly.

"Actually, no. Would I have stopped being a villain if you'd simply asked? Maybe. But that would've been it. I would've left the Jannacht and stopped being a villain; stopped being a masked; and that would've been it.

"Without you countering my arguments? Without you telling me to do what's right not just for myself, or for our family, but for everyone; to do the best possible thing; do the right thing and be a hero? Well, Ritual Master and all of Jannacht New York would still be out and about. And I would've never agreed to become a Guardian, that's for sure." Then, more gently, "So you were right, you know?" I swallowed heavily, releasing a shaky breath, saying, "Thanks," in a voice rougher than sandpaper.

We continued talking privately for a moment longer before asking me to call Mom back in. Then they started talking off in the corner, privately, with me deliberately not paying attention. My mind felt heavy, sluggish like molasses, and it was perhaps the closest I'd ever come to falling asleep. In that state, it fixated itself on one single thing Michael had said, my memcordings playing it over and over again with barely any input on my part.

"Do the right thing, huh."