Anta turned the large wheel of the machine. The many gears started turning. They spun faster and faster, as Prota and Anta watched from a distance. Steam escaped from the valves. The barometer spun out of control. Soon, a thick fog blocked the men’s vision. Their creation made sounds that made them fear it would break.

Milo awoke in a confused haze. The sounds of the machine pounded in his ears. He was in a metal pod, just large enough to hold his standing form. Steam surrounded him. The door of the pod opened, and he weakly stepped out. For a moment, he thought he was seeing double, but once the fog cleared, he realized his eyes hadn’t fooled him. The two men didn’t look alike, yet it was immediately obvious to Milo that they were both Gil. Their postures, their mannerisms… If an artist drew a portrait of the perfect middle-ground between their features, it would be the Gil he remembered.

“What have you done, Gil?” Asked the gravelly, pained voice of the distorted phantom that appeared before the two men. He was like a hologram: there, but not completely, like a flat, transparent image that flickered in and out.

It wasn’t what Anta wanted to hear. “I wanted to give you another chance at life.”

The phantom looked towards Anta and then Prota. “What have you done to yourself?” His broken voice shook Prota to the core. He felt like his heart was being ripped in half. The pain that had subsided came back tenfold. 

“I… had to take some drastic measures,” Anta attempted to explain to his lover.

Tears inadvertently spilled from Prota’s eyes.

Milo walked up to him and stroked his cheek, his expression full of pity. “You speak from the other man, yet you cry from this one,” he observed. “Did you do this to bring me back?” He looked straight into Prota’s confused eyes as he asked that question.

“Partially,” Anta admitted. He walked up behind Milo’s distorted visage and tried to put a hand on his shoulder… but it went right through.

Milo turned to Anta. “I don’t know which to look at,” he said. “Which of you is real?”

“I am,” Anta declared. “I’m the one who remembers you… who loves you.”

Milo glared at him. “Really?” He asked Anta, before turning back to face Prota. “Because it seems like he’s the one with a conscience.”

Anta was offended.

Prota reacted as though he’d literally been stabbed.

“What are you saying?” Anta asked, hurt by his beloved’s words.

“You’re crying because you know how wrong your actions are,” he said to the pale face of the man who wasn’t crying. “What makes you think it’s safe to play god? I never said I wanted you to bring me back if I died!”

Anta was frozen in place. “Why wouldn’t you want to come back?”

Milo sighed, as his holographic eye shifted out of place for a brief second. He turned back around and knelt down beside Prota, who had fallen to his knees. He put his warped hand on the young man’s shoulder. “Look at me, Gil.”

Prota blinked a couple times, tears falling down his cheeks, before he looked up at the crimson-haired man. He had such beautiful, masculine features.

“I love you,” Milo said, looking straight into Prota’s eyes. “And yes, I want to be with you. But not like this.” At his last word, he lifted up his hand to show his finger shifting out of place for but a moment, like pieces of a puzzle, unconnected, overlapping, struggling to find their proper place. “It hurts, Gil.” He took Prota’s gloved hand and held it to his chest. “It hurts to be brought back from the dead. I want to be with you, but not like this.”

Anta looked on in bewilderment. He himself wasn’t able to touch Milo, yet Milo easily took Prota’s hand. It was as though Milo became corporeal only for Prota.

Prota laid his hand on top of Milo’s. “You’re in pain?”

Milo nodded. “It feels like my body is being torn apart and put back together, over and over.”

“I did that to you?” Anta asked, as he stood behind Milo.

“Yes, you did,”  Milo said, while looking at Prota once again.

“I’m so sorry,” Prota said weakly. The sadness that he felt in his chest… he recognized it. It was remorse. He had done something horrible.

“I had no idea bringing you back would hurt you,” Anta said softly. “I thought… everything would be back to the way it was.”

“Of course you did,” Milo sighed. “You’re idealistic like that. But I’ve warned you, Gil.” He stood up and looked at Anta. “I warned you not to play god with your inventions.” He got close and looked into Anta’s broken blue eyes. “Life is not a toy that you can play with. I’m not a toy. You lose me, and you think you can buy another one?” He bit his lip and tried to suppress his anger.

“But,” Anta said nervously, “you’re still you, aren’t you? You’re still the same Milo.”

“No, I’m not!” He roared. “Look at me!” Little squares of his body separated, like drawings on a piece of paper, cut up and moved around by a child.

“Don’t you want to be with me?” Anta asked, his heart was breaking.

Prota was breaking.