The curve of a shoulder into an arm. The smooth features of legs, delicate hands. An oh-so-sweet neck, a bountiful bosom.

Again and again and again, stacked and curved and twisted, spilling out across the ground, growing.

Inside her is a seed, or a spore.

The seed became a garden.

The spore became a plague.

We feel the flesh against our skin and recoil. It wants something from us, a lot of things, maybe everything.

The devil is lonely. We kicked out the devil and it must miss us. It keeps begging to be let back, for us to let it in.

And Amy did.

She reaches out for us, a sea of flesh and humanity, a garden of desire. Thousands of fingers, hundreds of lips, pulling, demanding, taking.

No one can escape this infection.

Jupiter won't. She's the devil, too. She reaches out with a hundred hands saying I know how you feel.

But a chorus of silently screaming lips responds Then you know what I have to do.

Venus won't. She's the devil, too. She reaches out with a flurry of warm wings saying Don't worry, I can see you.

But a hundred beautiful eyes say That isn't enough for me.

Riley won't. She's the devil, too. She reaches out with a kind gaze and a forgiving smile saying simply It's okay.

But a hundred and fifty angry gestures say I don't believe you.

We are the devil, but we don't have what Amy wants.

And Carol does.

Amy reaches for her, and she recoils in fear until she has nowhere to hide but a ball of indestructible light. The garden of flesh crashes against her, reaching and sobbing and begging, let me in, please love me.

There is nowhere to run. The flesh consumes her, envelops her in wailing need.

Her concentration slips, or maybe Amy finds a way in through the armor somehow. It doesn't matter. Desperate hands find human flesh again, pull her so very very close until they can't be separated, so that she can never escape, so that she'll always be there to love Amy, so that-

The words fall from her lips without her consent.

"I'm sorry."

Everything stops, even the sound of her own heartbeat. The garden is stilled.

The only sound is her own sniffling, buried in the mass of Amy, frozen in place around her.

She'd wipe the tears away, but her hands aren't exactly free.

"I'm sorry I couldn't love you."

Amy says nothing. She can't say anything. A million expressions war across countless faces, yet she can't move.

Jupiter brings the hands, gliding across aching sculptures, saying Are you sure this is what you want?

No

, the lips murmur.

Venus brings the light, healing the broken skin of the plague, saying You're not the only one who's hurting, can't you see?

Yes,

the eyes admit.

Riley brings a scalpel with which to carve away the sickness, saying It can be okay. I promise. Trust me.

There is silence.

Then a long exhale from dozens upon dozens of lungs.

Okay.

Amy pulls away, and Jupiter helps. Venus helps too, her light warming and soothing as Riley cuts out the disease and rot, saws off the feverish desire threatening to consume everyone she loves.

We free Carol from the garden. So much of her flesh is no longer her own, but she's still herself.

She meets Amy's eyes through two layers of tears.

"I'm so, so sorry."

I'm sorry, too.

The devil's still a little lonely. But it's at peace for now.

Maybe they can finally begin to heal.