A H.E.R.O.S PROJECT 12

12. Sunday

"They will take over our brains and make us their minions! I don't want to be a robot!"

I slap Tris's face, and she falls, laboring quietly. She rubs her red cheek.

"Shut up! Shut up! We're not turning into robots, and no one is taking over our brains! I'm still me, and that smart ass is Richie." I point at Richie, and he somewhat agrees. Richie pats his face, not sure if he still looks the same. He counts his fingers and toes next.

Uhhh—

"Let's calm down," I say, feeling nauseated. My stomach churns, looking at the monster on Richie's back. I inhale, holding it together for them. We need a plan, and crying like a bunch of confused babies won't get the job done.

"Richie."

"Uhhhhh," Richie dumbly says, wiping his tears, sniffling, and rocking on the bed.

"Get up, man! You're smart. This is a machine." Richie straightens his broken glasses and stands from the bed. I turn so he can see the wormy robot on my back. We're in the same predicament. "Can you figure out what this is and how to take it off, possibly? Without starting a fire?" I add.

Richie nods, partially agreeing that he can do the impossible but shaking his head no because I'm asking too much of him. He takes my hand and guides me to the bathroom. Tris walks quickly behind us. He cries a little more as he leads the way, pitifully exhaling out his mouth, getting it all out of his system. It's time for him to get serious, and he knows it. Big boys don't cry.

Here, I wish I was the smart one and could devise a plan. My best idea is to cut the wormy things off our backs. It would be painful. We would lose a lot of blood, and I would go through with it, but I'm sure Richie can think of a better idea that doesn't involve playing surgeon.

Richie opens the bathroom windows, switches on the lights, and knocks the toiletries off the counter, except for his toothbrush. I scowl, picking my toothbrush off the floor. Like a mad scientist prepping his workstation, I will be his first test subject.

Richie pats the counter. It's time for me to sit.

Richie studies me.

I cross my legs and sit facing the mirror, watching Richie's small hand touch my shoulder, trembling the closer his fingers etch towards my spine. After ten minutes of waiting for him to do it, to touch it, Tristian punches Richie's arm, and he finally feels the machine on my back. Richie screeches, his hand entirely on the metal centipede concealing my spine. He screams, snatching his hand back. Something about the metal creature moving freaks him out. Richie instead pokes one of the centipede's many sharp legs, then pulls on it. Richie pulls harder, trying to rip the creature's leg out of my back. Richie yanks the creature's leg, it's a tug-of-war battle, and Tristian cheers Richie on, yelling at him to pull harder. The pain is excruciating, and I repeatedly blink to stop crying. I keep still, biting my bottom lip so I don't open my mouth and scream.

Richie tussles for short few minutes before giving up, panting out of breath. I turn around and reach for his hands, but he wipes the blood on his pants, playing it off. It's his hands I am remorseful for because Richie should have told me he was hurting himself. They're bleeding, sliced where he gripped the centipede's leg the hardest.

Richie softly taps one of the metal centipede's legs, "A number," Richie says to me, maybe to himself. Richie spins me around on the counter, the blood on his hands staining where he touches me, and I sit, my legs dangling. "And a logo, 'H.E.R.O.S.'"

So there's writing on the centipede.

Richie grasps the back of my head when the centipede shifts, and I feel its many legs drilling into my flesh as if it's trying to hide from its two observers. I would feel sorry if it wasn't trying to hijack my body.