"It's OK, Mom." Amy surveyed the room. Her clademates surrounded them loosely. Some were clustering, whispering to each other. Forming teams. Soon, those teams would decide a plan of attack. Amy had to have herself and her mother in the air by then. Otherwise, the flesh would be ripped from their bones. "I came here to save you, and that's what I'm going to do."
She jumped again. Fell again. Her vision lost another percentage of colour. Why was she so tired? What had happened in that game? They were getting closer. Their ranks were closing. Portia remained strangely silent. Amy bent her knees and braced for another leap.
"I can do it, I swear, I just–"
"Amy." Her mother's arm slid away from her shoulder. "You can't carry me."
"Yes, I can! Mom, just hold on–"
"Let me go." Her mother stood as tall as her injuries would allow. "I'm your mother. It's my job to save you, not the other way around."
"But–"
Her mother kissed her forehead. "Amy. Let me be the mother my own mother never was."
Her hand left Amy's. She turned to the crowd. Her face hardened, became someone else. She ran for her sisters with open arms. They emitted a delighted squeal – the same sound Amy once made when opening Christmas presents. Watching them, she realized she would probably never make that sound again. Her mother would never hand her a present again. She would never hug her or kiss her or squeeze her hand. Never again. Her clademates converged on her mother like ants on spilled sugar. Her head went down silently, drowning in the surge of bodies. There was a puff of smoke. She was bleeding.
Amy started forward. Her hands reached out. Her yell died in her throat because her legs were moving.
Idiot.
Amy's body sailed over the crowd's most ragged edge. She crashed into a wall and slid down. Her vision had turned the colour of old photographs on real paper. A group of her clademates had split off from the main body and followed her. Amy squinted at them. She thought she recognized them, though whether it was from her own life or Portia's she couldn't tell. Struggling to her feet, she made another leap. It carried her another few feet. The sisters adjusted trajectory and continued following. They walked briskly, almost trotting. They wanted to get to her first, she realized. They wanted what she had. Portia. Her legs. They would devour Amy and she would live inside each of them, a fraction of herself, trapped forever.
It won't work for them.
Amy jumped again. Her fingers trailed the wall. It felt too smooth. There had to be a door somewhere. The room was so big; she'd be dead before she found it.
It's not a glitch.
Amy didn't care. Not now. She kept jumping. The jumps were a little shorter each time. She staggered and pushed. The walls were so bright. Her hands tingled. They were behind her, now. Close. She heard their quiet giggles, like mean girls gossiping about the slow kid limping down the hall at school.
I could help you.
Amy paused. Considered. She knew the damage Portia could do. Damage she had no idea how to do. She couldn't eat them all. And her mother had warned Amy not to, only moments before. Before Portia carried her away.
"Help me? Like you helped my mom?"
Fine. Die your own way.
The first one grabbed her by the hand. Amy swung around awkwardly, and tried to punch her in the face. It didn't go well, barely skimming her chin. Then another aunt had her other hand, and her arms, and the other two grabbed her legs. She kicked them off for a moment – the new legs were still so strong – but they came back, gripping tighter this time. They lifted her twisting body over their heads. They carried it into the centre of the mob.
They laid her on the remnants of her mother's skin.
Amy spoke to the scores of herself, their faces black with smoke, their heads wreathed in industrially bright light: "Portia says it won't work."
Their smiles bared their teeth. They hunched over her, blotted out the light. Their hands gripped her limbs. Slowly, they began to pull. She struggled, but they held her down. They made cooing sounds. They petted her hair. It was a cruel, awful parody of what her mother would have done. Her right shoulder was the first to pop. She heard the bones moving, shearing. Her right knee gave way. The balls had separated from their sockets. The skin had begun to stretch. Her vision pixelated, and her clademates were no longer anthropomorphic in her sight, but compound, as though Amy were simply an insect they were torturing. In her memory – in Portia's memory – they had done that as girls. Pulled the wings off moths. Pulled the legs off spiders. It was their favourite game. Helpless creatures were what they had instead of toys. She closed her eyes. At least Portia would die with her.