8. Survivor
Dead bodies were supposed to be treated with respect.
Of the four pillars of medical ethics, autonomy was the one to prioritise whenever possible, according to professor Ainsworth. It meant respecting the patient's wishes, as long as it was safe to do so, and didn't go against the three other pillars: benevolence, non-maleficence, and justice.
Unfortunately, Riley's weekly bioethics classes had never covered the proper thing to do if you were the one to render the body dead in the first place.
The spider box busied itself dissolving the foam. It had made enough headway freeing Riley that she was pretty sure she could sit up, but she remained there, laying on the ground beside J– the body.
Whenever a body was brought to her lab, the first step was always to make sure they were really dead (no, not like that, the supervising doctor had hurried to add the first time when she reflexively grabbed a scalpel).
That step had been implemented a year ago, when they found out the hard way that the broken trigger that had been brought in for a post-mortem was still, in fact, very much pre-mortem.
She'd almost made a friend, that day. A shame they had to die on the table.
Jack was dead. That much she was sure off. No power meant no shortcuts, but she still had medical knowledge even if it wasn't bolstered by her passenger.
Fixed, sunken eyes were starting to cloud over, and pallor mortis was already developing. The poison had caused spasms and convulsions as it progressed, but now, every muscle was relaxed. He'd even soiled himself, she could smell. Not a testament of fear or any other emotion. Just one of the many biological facts of death.
His leg had stopped bleeding, a slight film forming over his injuries.
Blood.
It reminded her. The parasite she'd ingested was the same one she'd devised for Cherish's test. It would take away her power for forty-eight hours, then return it on the condition that she drank enough blood in the meantime.
Human blood, of course. Bonesaw didn't do things halfway.
Riley was no stranger to the taste. It was a perfectly fine diagnostic tool, despite what some people kept complaining about.
Still, the thought of drinking Jack's blood had her stomach twisting with unease.
It would be a sensible solution. It wasn't like she could just file paperwork in triplicates and get ethically sourced blood delivered to her lab like before.
It was just blood. She was immune to the poison, and he wouldn't be needing it anytime soon.
It wasn't Jack anymore. It was just a body, nothing more, nothing less.
A mean to an end, in a situation no one could have foreseen, especially not her supervisors. What was one man's bodily autonomy compared to everything she could do with her power and future knowledge?
Didn't that count as benevolence?
The spider box was all done, waiting by her side for a new order.
Riley sat up, and immediately regretted it. Things shifted in her midsection, in a way that made no sense without her power, and she found herself retching until her morning cereal came back up to say hi.
She laid back down, facing away from the body, until the nausea subsided.
There was blood at the hideout, she was pretty sure. She always kept a reserve of it on hand. She didn't need Jack's.
There was already too much of him in her. She didn't want more.
She glanced at what she could see of her shredded front, then looked away. The lack of information was more unsettling than the injuries themselves. She knew on an intellectual level that everything was fixable, but her body didn't look like a sculpting medium anymore, and the damage existed by itself rather than as a spark of inspiration. The absence of power-assisted certainty translated as doubt.
She snapped her fingers and pointed to her abdomen, commanding the spider box to patch her up. A handful of adventurous tendrils had wandered out through the cuts, and she carefully tucked them back in as the spider began to work.
It reached into her gut, cauterizing and stitching deeper layers of tissue with all the care and bedside manner that could be expected from a toaster-sized tin can of scavenged brains.
Clearing her throat, she gave her minion a significant look, and it mercifully dosed her with painkillers.
She didn't like using the pain switch, especially now that it reminded her of Jack's final moments.
Her eyes fell back to his body. In movies, people often closed a person's eyelids after they had died, and she never understood why. Maybe it was so they couldn't stare at you.
She was tempted to do it, but it would mean touching him, and the thought repulsed her.
Disgust in the presence of a dead body was an evolutionary impulse she'd never felt before thanks to her power, and she wasn't entirely sure that it was what she was feeling now, but it was the closest thing she could think of.
She swallowed. The acid burns in her mouth itched.
Careful not to touch him, she unclasped the chain around his neck, retrieving the biocide dispenser and putting it on. She couldn't be too careful about leaks, given the damage she'd suffered.
The spider box tugged at something deep within her, half of its legs holding forceps while the other half tried to stabilize the injuries.
The body was still staring at her, unseeing.
What would happen to it next?
Every time she completed an autopsy, the body was wheeled out of her lab, never to be seen again. By her, at least. Presumably the families did get to see it again.
She didn't know what happened to those who didn't have anyone to claim their remains.
Were they buried? Cremated? Was it done anonymously? In a mass grave?
What would he have wanted? Did it even matter? She was pretty sure whatever he'd envisioned would violate the other pillars, but respect was still mandatory, even if the patient's wishes couldn't be fulfilled.
What would the authorities do with Jack's body? Would they treat it with respect?
It was only a matter of time before they found it. The Nine's infighting had already drawn attention, and reinforcements might be on the way.
She'd have to be gone before they showed up.
The spider box was almost done. Riley would have to go over the work once her power came back, but for now, it would suffice.
She took out her phone and pinged her location to Murder Rat.
The cartoon mouse moved on the map, much faster than the creature could on its own. The distant sound of trees being annihilated on impact quickly became audible, growing closer by the second.
In less than a minute, Siberian arrived, laying down Murder Rat and rushing to Riley's side to swaddle her with her power.
Was she ready to put the mask back on?
Whether it was the exhilarating flush of painkillers running through her body, or the fact that Jack was dead and she could finally breathe, she found it much easier to pretend.
"I'm alright," she said in Bonesaw's voice, sounding as cheerful as ever. Giggling, she lifted the clawed stump on her left arm. "Get it? All right!"
Siberian caressed her hair, a tight smile breaking through her worried expression.
"I'm fine, really," Riley lied. "It's just a flesh wound!"
Siberian delicately lifted her, one arm under the knees and the other behind her back.
Riley snapped her fingers twice, then pointed at her severed hand for the spider box to fetch as they left the clearing.
She couldn't help but take one last look at Jack. Dead eyes stared back until she looked away.
Siberian walked slowly, taking great care not to jostle Riley's body. Invincibility wasn't worth anything against pre-existing injuries. Murder Rat trailed behind them, machete fingers and toes clanking with every move.
Riley glanced at her, then pressed her face against Siberian's shoulder to avoid seeing more. The arm supporting her back shifted to trace soothing circles on an intact area.
A light drizzle was falling from the sky, but the water beaded and slid off of them.
With the calm, even rhythm of Siberian's steps carrying her, Riley allowed herself to fully relax for the first time since she woke up this morning.
Her sole focus for the next two days would be to ensure that her power returned. Everything else could wait.
She snuggled against Siberian.
When they emerged from the forest, a speeding truck came to a halt, plastic sheeting over the windows and dust trailing behind it.
Siberian opened the back door. Coffee cups, plastic bags, greasy food wrappers and used tissues came tumbling down. It stank like something had died in there several months ago, and Riley reflexively turned off her sense of smell.
In the driver's seat, Manton looked away in shame.
More junk littered the seats, but Siberian brushed it aside. She sat Riley down, taking care to adjust the headrest and buckle the seat belt, then climbed in to open the door on the other side for Murder Rat.
Manton glanced at her from the rear-view mirror as Siberian sat down in the middle seat. Riley grinned and offered a wave, to which he gave a small smile before looking away.
He'd done the same thing after revealing himself the first time, preferring to interact with her through Siberian whenever he could, even as he talked to Jack like an equal.
"We need to go back to the hideout. To get my stuff," Riley said, not quite sure whether she was addressing Siberian or Manton.
It was risky, with the others being unaccounted for, but she had to get blood.
Siberian nodded, and Manton drove in silence.
She'd forgotten how frail and damaged he was.
He wore a ratty old coat that might have fit him a decade ago, before he wasted away. Her eyes lingered on the hands gripping the steering wheel, tattoos peaking under his sleeves. The skin that clung to the swollen joints of his fingers was off in color, and she didn't need her power to know that his diet came with a side order of multiple vitamin deficiencies.
Her clones had been inaccurate by design and accident both. Healthier. Sturdier. More lucid and functional too, but that was just the natural consequence of how little time they'd had to use their power. Over the years, Manton had poured so much of himself into the projection that he had very little left.
On the flip side, the clones' Siberians lacked any personality of their own until she programmed one in, and she could never get it right. Again, most likely a matter of time. What Manton lost the more he used his power, Siberian gained.
Through her experimentation, she'd found out that the form of the projection shifted depending on the focus of the simulated trigger event. Daughter for outward focus on consequences and loss, and Manton for inward focus on failures and self-loathing.
She'd made selfish changes too. She'd tightened the affection for the daughter and aimed it solely at the projection. A bit too much in some cases, but she had to make sure none of the clones would seek her out as a surrogate daughter the way the original had. She wouldn't have known how to handle it.
Riley realized that she was fiddling with her severed hand when Siberian reached out to stroke it inquisitively.
"I can't fix it for now," she explained. "Turned off my power. It was the only way to beat Jack."
There was no point in letting the spider box clumsily reattach it now when Riley would have to re-do it properly when her power came back. Besides, she could still move her hand from a distance, even if the sensations were strange and muted.
"I guess someone will have to lend me a hand in the meantime," she added. Siberian smiled, but it wasn't quite enough to eclipse the worry on her face.
By the time they reached the hideout, the light drizzle had turned to sleet.
Riley insisted that she could walk on her own, and slipped as soon as her feet reached the ice-covered ground. Siberian caught her, and they compromised with one arm around her shoulders to help her keep her balance. Manton and Murder Rat stayed in the car.
The house looked very much lived in for an out of season summerhouse.
The corkboard with family pictures opposite the coat hangers had been repurposed with clippings and printouts of research about nearby parahumans.
The living room had obviously doubled as Crawler's lair, and the less said about the slime, the better.
The kitchen remained as they'd left it this morning, what felt like half a lifetime ago, with dishes in the sink and an abandoned mug of coffee on the table. One of Shatterbird's pet peeves, that no one but Jack could get away with.
Riley removed her coat and boots, and made a beeline for the stairs.
"We can't stay here for too long, in case one of the others comes back. Can you grab some food while I pack my stuff?" Riley asked Siberian, who nodded. "People food, not people food this time." Siberian had the decency to look sheepish.
Upstairs, a dragging trail of dried blood lead to the bathroom. She followed it out of curiosity.
The tasteful, floral shower curtain was adorned with a large smiley face in dried blood, as well as a few handprints. She pulled it open.
Hatchet Face laid face down in the bathtub. He was technically dead, but she suspected the wiring going in and out of his body and the foul, murky solution it bathed in were to stabilize it and prevent decay, keeping it fresh until she was ready to work on it.
What would he have wanted after his death?
He held no beliefs as far as she knew, was never very bright, and only cared about killing capes. All in all, she was pretty sure he'd been fine with his reanimated corpse pursuing his legacy.
Some of the life-support apparatus could be useful, especially if she wanted to fix Murder Rat. Riley made a mental note to grab it on the way out, and pocketed her toothbrush in passing. For some reason, she appeared to have been the only one who used this bathroom.
She went to her room.
Riley's room with the Wardens had been pared down to the essentials. A twin bed with some drawers underneath for her clothes. A nightstand. A desk that Riley only used for sketches and homework, as active tinkering was forbidden without supervision. A small adjoined bathroom.
It hadn't been all bad. With time, she'd earned money and some shopping privileges and was able to give the space some personality and make it her own.
Then there was the lab. It was so nice to be able to work on long term projects without having to worry about lugging them around from town to town. It allowed for a much larger scope and better, more stable working conditions.
Bonesaw's ongoing projects were comparatively much more limited, but still impressive by their number. It became somewhat problematic as Riley tried to cram them all into the special backpack made by Mannequin to protect them from Shatterbird's song.
She had a responsibility to dispose of them.
The organ display and the fish bowl with floating brain matter could be carried separately, she decided. Everything else could go into the backpack.
Meanwhile, the spider box collected the tools and mechanical parts scattered around the room and placed them in a box.
Siberian arrived while Riley was retrieving a plastic jug that had fallen behind the desk. Words scribbled in red sharpie read "Bonesaw's bloodless detergent, great for getting blood out of fabrics and people alike!"
Riley looked down to the current state of her clothes and hurried to pack it.
Her eyes fell to the reservoir of blood under the desk. Bingo!
"Mind giving me a hand?" she asked Siberian. "I'm a bit short on those right now."
Siberian grabbed the reservoir, then the backpack Riley had zipped up, the organ display and the fishbowl, and left to bring them to the truck.
How much blood did she need to drink? It had been an afterthought as she took the vial, but now, the answer felt just out of her reach. Was it proportional to weight? A set amount every hour?
Probably not. Numerical goal weren't fun.
Panic was fun.
Desperation was fun.
Cherish making herself sick from drinking too much blood, then doing it over and over again out of fear of losing her powers was fun.
That was probably it. A fun two days to look forward to.
Gathering her clothes took only a fraction of the time it had taken to pack her ongoing projects. Then again, Bonesaw's wardrobe violated significantly fewer international treaties than her experiments, and therefore required much less caution.
Riley grabbed her hair brush last, and took a look around the room.
All of Bonesaw's possessions fit in a travel bag, a backpack and a box. None held any sentimentality, ready to be abandoned in a narrow escape from superheroes, then replaced with more stolen goods as needed.
It had been easier to get attached to material things when she lived with the Wardens than on the road with the Nine. In her new life, even though she didn't have much to call her own, every scrap meant something.
The rainbow assortment of post-it notes and pens she bought on her first shopping trip to brighten up her notebooks.
The clothes she experimented with to figure out her own style away from Bonesaw's.
The posters and fairy lights she'd strung across the bland white walls to liven them up.
The new fluffy sheets to replace the scratchy ones the Wardens had provided, and the weighted blanket her therapist had recommended to help her sleep.
The bookshelf, to hold her growing collection of books, something she'd never been able to accumulate before.
Her tea set that could serve up to six people. Quite the ambitious number, if you asked her, but she'd been up for the challenge. Unfortunately, despite her best efforts, only five people had ever used them, never all at the same time.
Amy, Ashley, Jamie, Valkyrie, and herself.
Her friends. She missed them already.
Siberian returned, taking the travel bag from Riley and placing it on top of the spider box's box. They left the room.
"Hatchet Face is in the bathroom. We should bring him along!"
Siberian dutifully headed to the bathroom while Riley took a quick look at the other rooms for stuff to loot.
In Shatterbird's, she found a scrapbook of research on potential recruits and interesting capes. Another was composed solely of articles about herself. Riley picked up the former and left the latter.
Burnscar's room was a mess, with nothing useful to loot.
Jack's…
Riley paused in front of the closed door, hair raising on the back of her neck. He wasn't behind her, she told herself. Because he was dead, and she could go in his room all she wanted.
She found that she didn't very much want to.
Siberian came out of the bathroom, balancing the bathtub and Bonesaw's packed possessions, and Riley was grateful for the interruption.
Downstairs, Siberian's pitiful food haul awaited her on the table. She inspected it while Siberian struggled to fit the bathtub through the door.
Half a box of Frooty Toots, some pop tarts, a Tupperware of charred leftovers barely recognizable as pasta, a bottle of chocolate syrup, granola bars, trail mix, and a few wrinkled pieces of fruit.
Riley grabbed Burnscar's pasta and dumped it in the trash where it belonged. The rest went in a bag.
A small bookshelf between the kitchen and the living room held a pile of board games. Scrabble was on top, a remnant of Shatterbird's compulsive need to show off her superior vocabulary. Under the game, there was a shoe box with a stash of money the Nine used when they didn't want to draw undue attention by murdering their way through their grocery list. Riley added it to the bag of food.
She removed the clippings and printouts on the corkboard, stuffing them in Shatterbird's scrapbook, and put her boots and coat back on.
Whoever owned the house would have a bad surprise come the summer, but they could count themselves lucky that they hadn't been there during the Nine's stay.
Riley left, locking the door behind her.
Hatchet Face's bathtub was now secured with straps in the truck's bed. The door on her side was open, the others waiting for her in their seats. She climbed in.
"We'll need to lay low for a while. To see if any of the others will resurface."
She glanced at the blood reservoir Siberian had stuffed between the driver and passenger seats.
"Oh, and you're gonna love this part…"