He was looking at himself. A replica of himself. A living, breathing, copy. A copy which was smiling up at him, seated in a wheel-chair, while he was expressionless, standing, staring down at… it. Expressionless, but not emotionless. Never emotionless.
It was speaking, stuttering through its words, choking on every syllable. "Hi. I'm," a throaty cough, "Mmm-malcolm." It was using his name. What right did this thing have to his name? His only name. His face remained expressionless. "Wh-wh-who are you?" Its head slumped to the side before the copy righted it. The standing boy did not offer it a response. "Ok-okay. You d-d-d—You d-d-don't like t-t-to t-talk." It was wrong. He loved talking. He just wouldn't talk to the thing that had taken his place. "I'm n-not guh-good at t-t-ta—I'm. Not. Good. At. T-talking." The copy coughed the word out. "Are yu-you good at t-t-talking?"
"Malcolm!" A woman's sing-song voice was calling. He reflexively looked up, as did the… clone. "Who are you talking to, sweetie?" She was coming closer.
"I m-made a new friend!" Should he hide? She kept coming closer, and closer. There was no place to hide. "He d-d-doesn't t-talk." Should he run? He was a SPARTAN. SPARTANs never ran. The clone—yes, that's what it was—the clone toggled a switch on his armrest, and its chair moved around Malcolm. The first Malcolm. What was there for him to do? He remained facing away from her. Them.
"You made a new friend? That's great, sweetie!" She walked past the clone. "Why don't you go inside now? Dinner's almost ready." The wheelchair hummed as it moved away. He could hear its wheels spin, hear its engine hum. He could hear her footsteps on the grass, stepping loudly, holding no fear of danger. Should he run?
"Sorry about his speech, it's gotten worse over the years." Apologetic, but happy. "He's such a good boy, and he tries so, so hard." She paused. "I'm sorry, but I don't think I caught your name." She was facing him now; he could see the top of her blond head. Any second now, and she would look up. Should he run? She held out a hand, and began looking to his face. He could still flee, still run. "I'm Anna. And you—" Too late. Her voice, melodic, choked, strangled her last words. Her hand fell back to her side.
"Hi." He could still run, he could still flee. He could still get away from there as fast as he could. When was the last time he had been this scared—this anxious? He couldn't hold in his expressions anymore. They exploded in his eyes. "I'm Malcolm."