"Food helps all things, don't you think?" Dax sets a plate on the table in front of me.

I lift my face from my hands and look over the microwaved Chinese food with puffy eyes. Fried rice, sweet and sour chicken, egg-rolls. "To be honest, Dax, I don't know if I can eat right now."

"Try to. You'll feel better, trust me." He turns for the fridge. "Want a Coke?"

Sighing, I pick at the sweet and sour chicken. "Sure."

"I think Coke helps all things, too. It's like liquid heaven in a can. That is... if you can overlook all the crazy chemicals in it, like phosphoric acid." He grabs a Diet Coke and pops it open on his way back over to me. "At least the aspartame tastes good. Plus, the carbonation might help settle your stomach."

"Thank you," I say as he places it on the table.

"No problem." He smiles, then plucks up the rice box from the table and busies himself with making his own plate. "How's the chicken?"

With a mouthful, I nod and cover my mouth to speak. "You were right. I'm hungrier than I thought." I go for my egg-roll, eyes flickering over the Chinese food boxes scattered over the table. "Is this all you eat? Just Chinese food? That's all I see on your computer desk."

"Lately, yeah." He dumps a spoonful of rice on his plate. "I go through phases. A couple of weeks ago Mexican food was all I would eat. A few weeks before that I went through a burger phase." He glances at me as I raise an eyebrow. "I know, I'm weird."

"Maybe a little, but that's not necessarily a bad thing." I pause, studying him while I chew. "But, you know, there's something I don't get about you."

"What?"

"You know Government controls the media and the internet, and they actually kill people who speak out against them. You don't seem to be a big fan of Government, but—"

"I work for them," Dax finishes for me.

"Yes."

Dax chuckles, nervously. "It's kind of a long story."

"We have time."

"It's stupid."

"I don't care."

"Okay. Well—" Dax accidentally drops his spoon. It clatters over the tabletop, and his cheeks redden as he picks it up. "I was stupid, and I fell in with a crowd of hackers. At first, it was just little stuff. Hack into people's e-mails. Hack into the my university's website. It was all just for fun. Then, one day, I decided to do something funny and hack into a Government website. All I did was change the names of some Government Officials to Jackass and Shithead. Stuff like that."

I can't help it. Despite the pounding in my head and the puffiness of my eyes, my jaw drops in a half surprised, half amused smile.

Dax shakes an egg-roll out of a plastic bag onto his plate. "Yeah, it was stupid. I had about two days of fame at the university I went to, and then I got caught. Government wasn't too happy. I was handcuffed, brought into a Government Facility, the whole sh-bang. They brought out my rap sheet, which isn't exactly pristine. Then they told me I could either go to prison for ten plus years for destruction of Government property, or I could put my talents to use, for them. With pay." His shoulders twitch in a timid shrug. "Not to toot my own horn, but, well, apparently, they thought I was pretty good."

Now, with his plate full, he sits in the chair next to me. And I stare at him in disbelief.

Dax reddens even more. He shoves his glasses up his nose. "I told you it was stupid."

"I think it's kind of funny," I say, still smiling. "It cheered me up, a little."

"Did it?" His eyes light up with triumph. "Great."

There is a lull in conversation. And for a few seconds, which the clock on the wall ticks away, we eat quietly. I gaze about the room, deep in thought. Bit by bit, my smile falls a few degrees.

"He can be really scary sometimes," Dax says, somehow catching the drift of my thoughts, without even looking up from his plate.

"He's a jerk."

"He is." Dax nods, then after a beat adds, "Sometimes I wonder who his Original is. I wonder if he's a jerk too."

I pause to ponder that. "I don't know. It's weird to think about another him. It's awful. One of him is enough."

Dax snorts. "Yeah, I agree. But it's got to creep him out too." He rips his egg-roll in half and inspects the inside. "To think you're just a copy of someone."

To think you're not even human.

My eyes fall to my plate.

"I think," Dax goes on, "whoever he was cloned from must have been pretty damn smart. You know, I heard his IQ tested in the 150 range."

My eyes are back up again, widening.

"That just makes him even scarier, doesn't it? I mean, a stupid jerk is one thing. But a highly intelligent jerk is another." Dax chews for a moment, slowly, meditatively, staring at his plate. "I bet Government is scared out of their minds."

Yeah. I bet they are.

"So." Dax snaps out of it. "We've talked about me. We've talked about the jerk. What about you? What's your story?"

I take a sip of my Coke, trying to clear my thoughts. "My story isn't as interesting as yours or Trip's. I'm a nurse. That's it."

Dax squints his eyes at me.

"Really. That's it."

"How did you become a nurse?"

"I went to school for it."

"Well, duh." Dax rolls his eyes. "I mean, what made you want to be a nurse?"

I shrug, not sure how to answer. "Medicine runs in the family. My father is a doctor. My mother was a nurse when she was alive."

"Ah." Dax glances down. "I'm sorry."

"No, it's fine. She died when I was only a few months old. So, it's always been just me and my—"

The front door opens. Both Dax and I look up, though knowing exactly who it is: the jerk we were just talking about a few seconds ago. Closing the door behind him, Trip walks into the living room, and with just his presence, the air now thickens. And I don't feel like eating anymore. I keep my eyes firmly fixed on my plate as he slowly draws into the kitchen.

Dax points towards the end of the table. "I, uh... There's a plate for you right there."

In the corner of my eyes, I watch Trip approach the table, hook a finger on the edge of a Chinese food box, and look inside.

"What am I looking at?" he asks.

"That's, um, sweet and sour chicken," Dax says, sitting a little straighter. "It's just breaded chicken. It's good if you dip it in the sweet and sour sauce. That's, you know, pretty much why they call it that. And those are the egg-rolls. They have cabbage in them, but they're—"

"Never mind." Trip waves him off in irritation. "It doesn't matter." He grabs the plate and starts to pile on food haphazardly.

Shrinking, Dax watches him.

I push rice around with my fork.

Once again, the clock ticks away the seconds.

"Well..." Dax must hate silences, because he holds the record for breaking them today. "Did you get Verbeck's fingerprint?"

"Yes," Trip says, shortly.

"That's good."

"But we can't use it."

"What?" This outburst comes from both Dax and me.

Trip sits down in the seat across from mine, looking exhausted. The purple circles under his eyes have darkened, and even his voice sounds drained of energy. "They know I went after Verbeck for a reason. And they know I want my file. They'll monitor the Database for Verbeck's fingerprint."

"So you're saying what we did last night—" I lean forward over the table "—we did it for no reason. I was beat to a pulp, for no reason."

"And I was shot, for no reason," Trip snaps. His eyes level on me. "That's exactly what I'm saying."

My gaze lowers to the table. Feeling empty, I sit back in my chair.

"Then... now what?" Dax asks.

"I don't know yet." Trip turns his attention to his food. "I need time to think."

"Alright..." Dax nods, slowly, then looks up at me. "So, anyway, uh, what kind of nurse are you, Evette?"

Trip's eyes flash towards me.

Mentally, I cringe.

"Did you work in the emergency room?" Dax asks, oblivious to the tension he is causing. "You seemed to know what you were doing last night."

Keeping my eyes downcast, I reach for my Coke. "I used to volunteer in the E.R. when I was studying in college."

"And now?"

"I'm a transplant nurse."

Dax stares. "Really?" He looks at Trip, and I follow his gaze, hesitantly.

Trip doesn't say anything, or look up.

"What made you want to be a transplant nurse?" Dax asks, finally.

"My father knew Doctor Hampton and had some connections with Withorn Hospital, so he suggested I work there, and he was able to get me the job."

"What kind of doctor is your father? A transplant doctor?"

I hesitate, continuing to shove rice around my plate. "He's a geneticist for Emulation."

Dax narrows his eyes in confusion, and I shift in my chair, glancing across the table at Trip.

"Duplicates are genetically mutated," I say.

Dax blinks. "All of them?"

I nod.

He turns to Trip again, and tentatively asks, "Are you...?"

"Yes," Trip answers, without looking at either of us.

"So, like... what does that mean? You have super-strength and stuff?"

Trip stops eating and looks at Dax like he's an idiot.

"No," I say, suppressing a smile. "More like a higher resistance to disease, viruses, cancer, that sort of thing. Nothing really major. It's meant to keep the duplicates healthy while they're in Emulation."

"Triple can't get the flu, then?" Dax gives a chuckle, but it's cut short when Trip shoots him a glare. He clears his throat. "So, you lived outside of the City, Evette?"

"Well, I didn't always." My eyes, automatically, float towards the window across the room. The sun is just beginning to reflect off the building beside the apartment complex and beam into the kitchen. "I used to live here in the City. I grew up here, went to grade school here. But I moved when I started college."

"Why didn't you go to a college in the City?"

"My father suggested I go to a college closer to Withorn Hospital. I moved into my own house. I went to college. I volunteered at the E.R. and worked in administration at the Hospital until I got my nursing degree."

"Did your father suggest all of that too?" Trip asks suddenly.

The question comes as such a surprise, for a second I'm stumped. "What?"

"The volunteer work." Trip looks up at me. "The administration work."

I stare at him. "Why should it matter?"

He shrugs his good shoulder. "It sounds like your father made a lot of suggestions."

"So what?" My chin raises slightly. "He's my father."

Trip studies me a while longer, icy eyes slipping over my face. And again I am struck with the feeling that he can see right through me.

Now, I know he probably can.

Coughing, Dax stands, quickly, chair legs screeching over the kitchen tile. "Are you finished with your plate, Eve? I'm stuffed. That's good stuff, huh?" He's changing the subject, probably afraid Trip and I will start gnashing our teeth at each other again.

It works.

Because Trip says nothing further. For now.