“AAAAHGG! FFFFUUUUUUUUCK!!!” John screamed and shouted without anesthesia.

  Amy tries to distract herself by looking out the window, looking down over the charred sands of Mania. Formerly Utah.

  It didn't rain. Or at least… no. It rained very, very faintly. Yet the cloud cover was all the same.

  You'd think somewhere in the world there would be sunlight.

  She wears John's headphones, one of the few things they were able to bring with them. She isn't listening to anything with her digiphone.

  They just muffle the outside somewhat, and help her hear SERaMACs clearer as they talk intermittently.

  “Are you sure you do not want me to play something Amy? I have access to the entire history of audio and music stimulus.”

  She can't tell if that was John's scream in the background, or just some turbulence from outside as she answers.

  “I don't know SERaMACs. I just want this to be over.”

  SERaMACs waits for her to continue, which she does. She speaks as the iron dunes north into the eroded badlands.

  “How much longer will John be?” She asked.

  “Approximately three minutes. His pain should subside by that time. Positive signs are indicating that he has suffered acceptable levels of blood loss. His cortisol levels remain elevated. I am sorry I could not locate a hospital that would be willing to operate under these circumstances.”

  SERaMACs told her. It's voice was quite monotone. She could tell it wasn't faking real emotion. And she likes it that way.

  “And his hand? It'll be like his old one right?”

  SERaMACs takes a second to respond. “I am afraid I cannot answer that for you Amy. That is something you will have to ask him once he arrives.”

  It was dull bass. Completely indeterminable noise came from the outside of the headphones, ripped of all region as it entered her ears.

  Whether it was the burr of that motor, the turbulence of the air, John yelling, something hitting them; it was all the same. Just as every landscape, every mountain, every dune and every single piece of mother nature was either black, gray, dark and carmine, or dead. No green. No white. No blue. Not like in the virtual devices. Not like in her emergent dreams. Not like anything. Perhaps her dreams are real, and this is the real nightmare.

  “Tell me about how the others are doing.” Amy asks of SERaMACs to take her mind off of literally anything it's sensing. SERaMACs replies, it's voice cutting through the drone from the inside of John's headphones.

  “Of course Amy. Allow me one moment.”

  It took three seconds to come back to tell her.

  “Crosby, Chad, Lex and Yukon are on route to the Quebec Provincial Government territories. They have yet to decide their exact location of drop-off. Lex remains in a critical condition.

  Gary, Gilbert and Delta are on route to Corsica, with the exact location not yet known. Is there anyone else you would like to know the location of?”

  “What about Lou?” Amy asked. SERaMACs only took a second this time. “Lou is on route to Yakutsk, Federal Siberia.”

  And… that's all who she got to know during that time.

  She recalls the offer she'd made upon their first arrival to the hangar about being available to talk to.

  No one did. Not even SERaMACs without her reaching her hand out. All she did was research. Alone. And if not? Cry.

  She looked out the medicopter window. She saw nothing.

  Rocky mountains, fog and desolation. And it meant nothing.

  She wishes the sun would rise. And perhaps it does behind those clouds. But what difference does it make?

  She stares. And she shares. And she stares. And she stares. And she felt… nothing. Until something touched her shoulder from behind. She looks at it. It is a metal hand. It was hard— more like a claw than a digit. Her eyes traced up the arm from whence it came, until she turned around fully to see John standing behind.

  He held her shoulder with his new hand. The look on his face almost wished for death.

  “Are you… are you okay John?” Amy asks, actually feeling something. His expression doesn't change as he replies.

  “No Amy. I don't think I am.”

  He replies, his voice expressionless. Broken. Changed.

  Lightning crackled all around them outside. But it doesn't make a difference as Amy stands, or as Amy hugs him.

  He is slow to hug back, and when he does, his embrace isn't particularly strong.

  She lets him go so they stand apart, a meter barely separating them. It's hard to look into the eyes of someone when you know they are deeply woeful, or full of dread. No less when something has remained unspoken between you two for what must've been years at this point.

  Yet she did anyway. And she spoke. “Do you… your hand. How does it feel— your new hand?”

  “Cold.” John replies. He extends it out for her not to hold, but to feel. She caressed it lightly. The metal was warm— still hot from auto welding. A surgery without staff.

  She slid her fingers between where his once was. Nerves replaced with circuitry and joints replaced with hinges. Tech older than they are.

  He put his real hand over hers and held it there. Her attention was totally drawn to it.

  “It might feel warm to you Amy. But not to me. It feels like frostbite.” His voice, a little wavy in confronting the phantom pain. His phantom pain, “And do you wanna know what's worse? I still feel it. My… taken hand. I can close my eyes. I can... click my fingers together. And yet…”

  His brief pauses yield silence.

  “I can't… hear them.”

  He pauses again. His eyes are closed. His face cries even if he doesn’t.

  “Because they're not real anymore. They're just… not there.”

  He removes his real hand off of hers to let her free his fake one.

  Her arms fall to her side, and she watches as he moves his fake fingers. “And it itches. It itches. So, so bad. And so does my leg but… that one was different. I can move these fingers. But it's like I'm asking them to. I can't even control my own body Amy. How…”

  He chokes up for just a moment.

  “How the fuck did I command other people while I was leader?”

  He puts his fake hand down. Amy looks back up to him. His face, slightly bloodied. Dirty. And hurt, more mentally than physically.

  “I… I don't know what to say John.” She admits.

  “But it's… but it's good to…”

  She chokes up as well.

  “Its… Its really good to see you're— still— here.”

  Stolen novel; please report.

  “You too Amy.” He says back, his face softening slightly. They embrace again, his grip more tight. She wants to squeeze him, but she holds back due to his surgery, which, wasn't even a minute ago by now.

  And here he is, forced to talk with her just after screams.

  They held each other for a little bit. But Amy lets go of him again.

  “I'm sorry. I'll let you go and rest if you want.”

  “Thanks Amy. I could hug you all day— if… if I could.” John replies with exhaustion. He turns around and heads towards the cockpit.

  “Hopefully SERaMACs bring us somewhere far away from everyone. I could use some alone time for just you and me for a while.”

  “So could I.” She whispers under her breath.

  She watches as he closes the cockpit door behind him.

  Just before he does, he asks the machine another question.

  “Hey SERaMACs. Since you're always listening. How close are we to Darsa Island?”

  “I'm afraid you will not be going there. At least, not yet. It is reserved only for the uber-rich, and thus is dangerous. I will be rerouting you to a better location.”

  “Great.” John utters before resigning behind the door.

  She wanted to join him. But she also wanted him to be alone.

  SERaMACs come over the local speaker intercom.

  “I am sorry to hear about his complications, Amy. I would hate to know how that must have felt.”

  “For me or for him?” Amy asks the machine in the ceiling.

  “In general.” SERaMACs clarified. She went back to her little corner and sat again. Staring out the window as they remained in transit. She put the headphones on again, watching the weather and some clouds pass by.

  She asks the machine a question. “Do you know where you're taking us yet SERaMACs?”

  It is quick to reply again. “Stuart island, in the territories of New Zealand. It is an uninhabited memory cell of my many faculties. You and John will be safe there.”

  “A memory cell? How are we supposed to live in that?” Amy asks the thing, the outside totally obscured by thick rainfall. As such, as SERaMACs spoke back to her, she saw more of her own imagination than she did from the outside.

  “I have begun construction of a household for you both. Furthermore, there is much information I am sure you both would love to learn about there. I promise you, it will be something. I want to treat you both well, as you have with me.”

  She didn't actually know what a memory cell was. In her mind, it came off like some small prison to rot inside of. Unfit for humans— yet SERaMACs descriptions and promises bring her some assurance, at the cost of weighing mental fatigue.

  Where is Stuart Island? How far away is it? Questions which she asks herself in emotions, yet cannot manifest as she lacks the will to know.

  She watches outside, the entire world a liminal space.

  She is tired. She just wants it to be over. She speaks.

  “SERaMACs? Can you could play some music for me please? It might help make time go fast.”

  SERaMACs took a while to form a reply.

  “It seems John is about to play some music of his own. Would you like me to play that through the local medicopter speaks instead?”

  “Yeah… sure.” Amy replies as she thinks of what he might listen to.

  She unfolds her legs as SERaMACs replies to her prompt.

  “He is still deciding and will not be a moment. For best audio experience, sit closer to the center of the room.”

  “Thank you.” She tells the machine as she takes his headphones off and puts them in her bag. It was like a little satchel. Also in there was parts of their virtual device, some food, and the Versa’s gear stick. He'll likely never see it again, so she figured John might want it as a moment.

  As she stands, the outside volume of the world seems to lower.

  Almost like noise canceling or sudden sound deadening.

  She didn't question it, for she'll take whatever she can get.

  “Now Playing: Can’t Be In Love by 10ci.” SERaMACs said softly over the speakers.

  As the percussion began, she moved further to the center.

  Her walk, a painless struggle; she instead decides to sit closer to the door of the cockpit. There was no bench, so she sat on the cold hard ground.

  It wasn't any colder than where she was previous.

  She rested her head on the wall and closed her eyes.

  “I can’t be in love. So don't forget that. This is just a silly phase, I'm going through...”

  How painful.

  One day, this medicopter ride will end, she thinks to herself.

  One day, she and John will be able to stay where SERaMACs was talking about. She imagines the Sun in the sky and its life-giving warmth.

  She thinks of the fluffiness of the once-great white clouds.

  While all that surrounds her is dark and desolate, her imagination is unchained by the grace of the music.

  She recalls how John used to call her from work, what once was a brief period from a long time ago. She recalls how she didn't often answer, too absorbed in research to listen. She wonders if she should try reading those stories he’d wrote for her, so so long ago.

  Not likely. They’d just make her feel worse.

  She'd got it figured out when it came to the truth of what was once the world, and that's what came of that research. She can see that imaginary Sun in the sky, and she imagines herself basking in it.

  If she opened her eyes, it wouldn't be worth it.

  And so she keeps them closed; happy with fantasy for now.

  Her imagination unchained from the lulls of the music.

  And the lyrics and instruments spoke to her.

  “I like seeing you, but. Well, then again. It doesn't mean that you and me, mean much to me.”

  Still so painful...

  She can't imagine what it's like to lose a hand. And she is thankful for that. Though, when it comes to John, she wishes she could if it’d mean he didn't have to.

  But why is that, she asks herself. Why is John so special?

  He is just a friend, even if he's been there since close to the beginning. The setup seemed simple for so long; she fools him into thinking she's not annoying, and he lets her tag along for the ride.

  Yet now, he sits behind her behind this wall. The two listen to the same song, even if he doesn't know it. On their way to somewhere they don't know, all due to a machine that has chosen them for no reason.

  No reason; in her head. Kindness should be expected.

  She wants to ask SERaMACs what it means by kindness. But that would mean breaking her imagination. And this just isn't the time for that.

  “Can’t be in love, nuh-uhh. It's because…”

  John is sitting next to her as they basked upon that beige beach.

  That far off island, not too distant now.

  The soft wind of the sea blowing across them.

  That tall, tall mountain right beside them to the right.

  And that river flowing past into the sea, separating her from it.

  John is... reclined. And smiling for once. For no other reason than just being happy.

  It made her happy and smile, not that she had realized that it did.

  But then, something goes undone.

  His right leg is fleshly.

  His left hand, his old one. It's hard to imagine him without them.

  Besides, what would brutal prosthetics be doing in such a place?

  And so she reminded herself... unwilling.

  This place in her head is not real.

  Nor can this ever be real.

  Not as she imagines it.

  She opens her eyes. She sits in a medicopter behind the cockpit on the floor. All is gray, other than synthetic lights of circuitry. And the benign glow of the outside leaking in. All is cold other than her flesh, and the flesh of someone else who is dear to her.

  All was silent from the outside other than it's homologous drone.

  It was silent, because it conveyed nothing meaningful.

  “Be quiet, good girls don't cry.”

  The lyrics tried to reassure her.

  She sat there, her eyes open to the soul-sucking real world.

  She shook her head as she listened. It was hard not to.

  “Good girls don’t cry. Good girls don’t cry. Good girls don’t cry…”