Alex blinks quickly, his hand jerking away from Clara’s shoulder with a mumbled “sorry”. Christ. Jesus Christ, she can’t be serious. Somehow he’d assumed if his face was fine – ignoring the way it was too smooth, like he’d never had a five o’clock shadow in his life – then the rest was fine, too. Suddenly she has him wondering about skin grafts and facial reconstruction, why he’s never felt anything like pins and needles in his legs. Why he hasn’t even had to take a piss. All the stuff he’d assumed would come back and now Clara is telling him it won’t.

“So…” Alex’s voice wavers, forcing him to swallow and try again. “These aren’t my arms and legs. That’s what you’re saying.”

He drops his hand to his side. One hand he thinks might still be his. There’s skin. The other one might be prosthetic. It might not be the only one. Alex’s still blinking rapidly as he struggles to adjust to the news. Can’t get out of this. If – when – they get back to Detroit, he can kiss their old life goodbye.

Alex closes his eyes. He thinks about Clara’s wince passing across her face and, this is the part he could’ve done without, the HUD brings it up in a tab as if he needs to see it again. When he opens his eyes, he’s back in Cop Mode again, because that’s the only way he knows how to deal with his world being shattered. He keeps his distance from Clara, half-turning away from her as he clears his throat, voice feeling strange. It’s easier this way.

“Doesn’t change the fact we’re stuck here. Let’s check the upstairs and see if there’s anything we can use.”