The Multi-Limbed Dilemma

Chapter 3: The Second Evolution Copy

The air in the library felt heavy, thick with the scent of decaying paper and the copper tang of Diego’s own mounting panic. Nadiya’s footsteps slowed, the soft squeak of her sneakers on the polished linoleum sounding like a countdown to his social execution.

"Diego, look, I’m not trying to be a jerk," Nadiya said, her voice dropping into a conciliatory murmur. She was just on the other side of the row of encyclopedias. "You’ve been acting like you’re falling apart since the first bell. If you’re sick, or if you’re in some kind of trouble, just tell me. I’m good at keeping secrets."

Diego pressed his forehead against the cold metal of the bookshelf. The pain in his right shoulder had shifted. It wasn't just a pulsing ache anymore; it was a white-hot, searing pressure that felt like white-hot needles being driven into his shoulder blade.

Mutation level: 14%. Integration acceleration imminent.

The voice in his head was cold, detached, and utterly indifferent to his misery.

"Nadiya, please," Diego gasped, his voice tight. "Just... give me a minute. I’m having a medical emergency. I need to get to the bathroom. Just walk away, okay? Please, for my sake, just walk away."

"Are you serious? You sound like you’re dying, Diego! I’m calling for help if you don’t come out from behind there."

"No! No teachers, no nurses, no anyone," he shouted, his voice cracking. He felt a sickening pop—a sound like a joint being violently dislocated—emanating from the center of his shoulder blade. His back arched involuntarily, his spine spasming as something wet and heavy began to push against the muscle tissue, fighting for space.

"Diego?" Nadiya sounded genuinely scared now.

"Get away!" he screamed, lunging to his feet. He stumbled, his movements jerky and uncoordinated. He didn't look at her. He didn't dare. He scrambled toward the library exit, his back hunched so low that his chest almost hit his knees.

"Wait, you’re bleeding!" Nadiya gasped, her eyes widening as she caught a glimpse of his back.

He didn't wait to see what she was looking at. He bolted out of the library, the ache in his shoulder ballooning into a blinding, rhythmic throb. Every heartbeat seemed to feed the growth, a sickening pulse of bioluminescence glowing through the black fabric of his hoodie.

He sprinted for the nearest boys' restroom, his vision blurring. He shoved his shoulder against the door, bursting inside just as the hallway monitor began to turn the corner. He slammed the stall door shut and threw the deadbolt, sliding down onto the cold, damp tiles.

"Help me, help me, help me," he whimpered, grabbing the edges of the metal door. His back felt like it was splitting open. A hot, wet sensation soaked through his shirt. It wasn't blood—it was something else, a viscous, clear fluid that smelled like ozone and crushed lilies.

Integration level: 18%. Secondary node initiation sequence.

"Shut up," Diego hissed through gritted teeth. He reached for his backpack, his fingers fumbling with the zipper. He tore it open, dumping the contents—notebooks, pens, his gym clothes—onto the floor.

He found the scissors. He had put them in there for an art project earlier that week. Now, they were a survival tool.

The pain reached a crescendo, a sound echoing in his skull that mimicked the screech of tearing metal. His skin stretched, popping, and then—relief, followed by absolute terror. A second limb, pale and slick with the same luminescent residue, burst from his left shoulder blade, matching the right one perfectly.

"Oh god. Oh no, no, no," Diego sobbed, staring at the twin nightmares protruding from his back.

They weren't just arms; they were long, slender, and impossibly agile. They flailed in the confined space of the stall, fingers twitching, grabbing at the air, snagging on the fabric of his hoodie and his undershirt.

They were knotted.

The two limbs, desperate for movement, had twisted his shirt into a complex, impossible mess of bunched cotton and twisted sleeves. The hoodie was being shredded by the force of the limbs moving against the material.

"Stay still! You’re going to rip me apart!" Diego cried. He grabbed the scissors, his hands shaking so violently he almost dropped them.

He had to cut the shirt. It was the only way to free himself from the constriction. He sawed at the thick fabric of his hoodie, his breathing coming in ragged, desperate gasps. Snip. Snap. Tear.

The scissors bit through the material, releasing the tension. The limbs instantly relaxed, though they kept tapping against the stall walls like a nervous pianist practicing a scale.

"What am I?" he whispered, his reflection in the water-spotted mirror showing him a hunched, broken teenager with four arms and a look of primal horror in his eyes.

He looked at his own reflection, then back at the limbs. They looked like his—the same skin tone, the same freckle pattern—but they were wrong. They belonged to a creature that shouldn't exist.

Integration level: 22%. Optimal function detected.

"I don't want optimal," he spat at the air. "I want normal. I want to go to chemistry. I want to go home."

He looked at his back. He had to hide them. He had to hide the four-armed monster he had become.

He looked at his tattered gym shirt. He desperately tried to pull the remaining fabric over the new growth, pinning it with the ace bandage he had retrieved from the floor. It was a chaotic, sloppy job, but he managed to create a bulky, shapeless mound across his upper back.

Creak.

The bathroom door opened. Footsteps. Heavy, familiar. Mr. Henderson’s voice echoed in the room.

"Diego? I know you ran in here. This is not how we handle anxiety attacks. Come out, or I’m going to have to involve the administration."

Diego’s heart hammered so hard against his ribs he thought they might crack. He looked at his back, then at the mirror. He stood up, his posture hunched, his jacket zipped up as high as it would go despite the warmth of the room.

"I’m coming out, sir," Diego said, his voice a brittle whisper.

"Do it now, Diego. And don't make me wait."

Diego placed his hand on the lock. He took a breath, closing his eyes, praying that the extra weight of the arms didn't look as unnatural as it felt.

Click.

He stepped out of the stall, his eyes fixed on the floor, his arms tucked tightly against his sides, masking the presence of the two hitchhikers attached to his soul.

"Mr. Pratama," Henderson said, his voice sharp. "You’ve missed half the period. You look like you’ve been through a hurricane."

"I... I fell, sir," Diego said, refusing to look up. "Just a really bad fall. I’m going to go to the nurse now. I think I need to go home."

Henderson squinted, his gaze drifting from Diego’s face to his bulky, torn hoodie. "You’re a mess, son. Go. Get your bag, and we’ll call your mother."

"I have it," Diego said, clutching his backpack to his chest.

"Move along then. And stay out of trouble."

Diego walked past him, his heart screaming with every step. The school bell rang—a sharp, piercing sound that cut through the air like a knife. The hallway flooded with students, a sea of normalcy that felt like it was drowning him.

He shoved through the crowd, the weight of the two extra arms dragging him down, the bandage digging into his skin like a razor. He had made it out of the bathroom, but as he felt the cool air of the hallway, he knew this was only the beginning.

He had to get home. He had to figure out how to be a person again, or he was going to tear his own world apart.