Shortly before I met Captain Fantasy, I sliced the end of my forefinger off while dicing cucumber for a salad. I shouted and shook my hand, splashing blood on the counter and tearing the thin strip of skin that held my fingertip on. The tiny lump of flesh tore loose and flew into the sink, down the garbage disposal, gone.
I cursed, then concentrated on my nerve endings, switching off the pain. My whole finger went numb. I had trouble controlling the nerves on such a small scale. Holding my finger in the air like a "we're-number-one" fan at a basketball game, I urged new flesh to grow over the wound. I'd make a few big hamburgers to go with my salad, supply some mass and calories for the healing ... my new fingertip should be grown by morning, though the nail would take longer, and I'd have to either keep the nerves dead or be careful not to scrape the sensitive under-nail skin.
The phone rang. I answered it left-handed, clumsily. I expected my director, Jack Harrah, to call and remind me of that night's dress rehearsal, as if I'd forget. I was playing Orestes, the lead, at Harrah's Greek Revival theater. "Hello?"
"Hi, Li," Brady Doolittle said.
I almost hung up. But why bother? They'd found me. "Boss," I said, neutrally. "I tendered my resignation."
"Not accepted," Brady said cheerfully. "We need the best Metamorph available, and that's you. We let you run loose for nearly a year, never bothered you. Be grateful for that."
So they'd kept tabs on me all along. Well, of course. The Facility didn't lose track of people. "Tomorrow's opening night. Can't it wait until--"
"Your understudy, Bill Monroe, he can handle it. By tomorrow night, you'll be playing a much more important part."
Brady knew everything. Always. That's why he ran the Facility. I looked at the spots of blood on the counter and gave in. "When can I expect you?"
"A car's waiting outside. Pack a bag." He paused. "I think you'll like this one, Li."
"Sure." I hung up. I didn't have to pack a bag; I already had one ready, a change of clothes, travel-sized toiletries. Old habits die hard.
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