25.x (Interlude, Bonesaw)

The user wants a summary of the provided text, specifically Worm Chapter 25.x (Interlude, Bonesaw). The summary needs to be in the same style as the author, compressed to approximately 1/5 the original length (around 1853 words). I should pay attention to the author’s writing style, including sentence structure, tone, and vocabulary, and try to replicate it in the summary. I also need to ensure the summary covers the key events and themes of the chapter.

Plan:

1. Read through the chapter to identify the main plot points and character interactions. 2. Break down the chapter into sections based on the narrative flow. 3. Summarize each section, focusing on the most important information and replicating the author’s style. 4. Condense the language and details while retaining the core meaning. 5. Review and edit the summary to ensure accuracy, stylistic consistency, and the correct length. ### Worm, Chapter 25.x Summary:

Jack, naked on a metal bench, faced a ceiling-mounted device, musing about the implications of recent events. “Pretentious, isn’t he?” he remarked about some unseen speaker. Bonesaw, agreeing, wondered if the change would be for the better or worse. Jack, growing older, hoped it would turn out well, “Makes for a greater fall?” she suggested. “Exactly,” he confirmed. She initiated a slow flickering of lights by pressing a button, a carefully controlled process to avoid a catastrophic cascade from their liberated Toybox power cell. A reckless death would be ironic, she thought, but art needed an audience. She pulled a switch, freezing Jack in stasis.

Bonesaw approached the computer, its screensaver displaying cheerful images. She ended it, giggling, and set the timer for the stasis to end. The giggles faded, replaced by silence. The lights flickered back to life, and she stood before the keyboard, the smile gone. Jack had expected her to freeze herself too, the empty pod suggesting it. But she told herself she needed to be there to wake them, a not entirely true justification. A one percent chance of the power cell failing, five if she considered her lack of knowledge about other tinker tech.

Her gaze swept over rows of incubation chambers, one for each Slaughterhouse Nine member, past and present. Ten for each original member. Most Nine members lasted only weeks, a few longer. She had samples for most of the “good ones”: herself, Jack, Mannequin, Siberian, Shatterbird, and Crawler, a doofus in the end. It would be a family reunion, but work was needed. They’d emerge blank. She had access to Toybox tech to assemble memories, using Jack’s bedtime stories and computer data. Real art, rebuilding them.

Cranial had sold memories, even bad ones. Many wanted trigger events, but it didn’t work like that. This computer was just an access point; others were vast and hidden. If something failed, she’d fix it, but mostly she’d stay here, surrounded by family, some never met.

Mannequin had lost his family in a Simurgh attack. How to replicate that? A file on a woman who’d caused her family’s car accident. Close enough. Gaps would fill themselves. A foundation of academic background, a doctor, an architect, a celebrity singer—running in parallel. But his haunting grief? A recurring idea, flashes before his eyes, quelled only by cold rage? Or something put behind him?

Winter, a sadistic arms dealer. Not true cold manipulation, but dampening inertia. She liked tormenting people, joined the slave trade, then the Nine. How to recreate her? A child with a gun before reading, rising above her roots, eliminating competition, then stagnating. Cranial’s notes yielded nothing useful.

“Hey, Blasto, buddy,” she chirped to her rigid minion, a tear on his cheek. She unlocked his lung control. “Speak.” A rasp. “It’s too quiet. Do you know the theme song to Love Bug?” A strangled curse. Irritated, she relocked him. “Swearing is so crass!”

She rigged a defunct spider box to Blasto’s spine, overriding motor control, connecting it to lungs, mouth, tongue, jaw. Crimson hands. A spider box handled stitches. A video played: cartoon bugs dancing with kids. “Love bug love hug!” she sang, using a pencil to avoid bloodying the keyboard. Blasto watched. She set it to repeat. The bug box kicked in. Blasto’s mournful singing. More repeats, more precise mimicking. There. Something to occupy her for a year and a half.

Months later, Damsel of Distress, biologically seven, glared across the table. “I’m going to take over the world!” “Wonderful,” Bonesaw replied. “More tea?” Damsel demanded, calling for obedience. Bonesaw poured. “No milk? You’re sure?” “Milk is for weaklings.” “We are children, Damsel.” An angry glare. “I could end you, for that insult.” “Yes, but then you wouldn’t have anybody to pour you tea.” “This tea is too hot anyways.” Bonesaw promised to improve. Damsel insisted world domination was her right. Bonesaw suggested it sounded like a bother, especially with the world ending soon. “I’ll rule the ashes.” Bonesaw questioned the logistics without communication. Damsel declared she’d delegate, then admitted she trusted nobody. “Well,” Bonesaw said, “That’s a problem.”

Damsel swayed, gripping the table with clawed fingers. Bonesaw mentioned putting something in her tea to help her sleep. “I’m not…” “Not sleepy? You’re going to faceplant in your tea.” Damsel, confused, then enraged: “You poisoned me, wretch!” “Yes. I thought you didn’t trust anyone. What a shame that you couldn’t be constructive in that distrust,” Bonesaw said, leading her to the incubation chamber as Damsel spat curses. “I’ll flay your skin from your bones,” Damsel threatened, her voice fading. “Yes, sweetie,” Bonesaw replied, kissing her cheek. Damsel blinked, then her eyes closed. The glass case rose, filling with nutrient-rich fluid, Damsel asleep before she floated in the middle, her tea party outfit billowing, her hat sinking.

She found A.G. (Alan Gramme) at the lab’s far end, surrounded by precariously balanced beakers, muttering about walls. “Come on, A.G.,” Bonesaw said, taking his hand. “Out through the door.” “Not a door. Trap.” He carefully climbed out a higher aperture. “This way. We’ll wall you in.” He followed, asking for “Catherine,” his “mom.” Bonesaw corrected him: “Your sisters.” He was confused, hurting, feeling others’ disappointment. “Hush,” she soothed. “It all gets better when you wall yourself in, doesn’t it?” He nodded. She placed him on the stand, the glass enclosure rising.

A problem, she mused, as the container filled. Individual elements signaled passenger reconnection attempts. DNA, electromagnetic patterns, barely measurable. Trauma sped the process. Her initial assumption: coming to life would be enough. But the clones were dreaming, based on her fabricated memories. The corona pollentia developed like the originals’, but the bonds formed too quickly, interfering with cloning. Brains too pliable, passenger too insistent. She’d scrap everything, wipe them, grow new clones. Three weeks wasted. She’d stagger memory introduction, starting early. She typed disposal procedures for Crawler; the rest could be boiled.

She returned to her hammock in her makeshift bedroom. Blasto lay on the floor, weakly singing. “Forgot to turn the music off,” she said, switching it off. “Have a bit of an errand.” She’d patch him later. Dyeing her hair black, adding makeup, and wearing clothes spun by a lifeform she’d created, she used the remote to teleport to Earth Bet.

Her heart pounded. Jack would be furious. The risk of detection. But she needed supplies. She entered a grocery store. “Good morning,” the man at the counter said. She returned the greeting, thinking Don’t talk to me. He commented on new faces. She claimed her mom was shopping down the street. He offered help. She gathered lemon juice, vinegar, sugar, salt, Frooty Toots, milk, pancake mix. Nutrient slop was great, but still slop. She saw him watching her in the mirror. Not recognition, but something else. She paid, he bagged it, she waved goodbye, offering a winning smile.

She needed a library for info on Harbinger and King. Pleasing Jack with accurate personalities. She’d buy clothes and tools. This small town didn’t have much traffic. A woman in black exited the bank. Her casual demeanor triggered alarm. “Are you picking a fight with me?” Bonesaw asked. “No,” the woman replied, “No I’m not, Bonesaw.” Jack would be mad. “Because if you kill me, it doesn’t change anything.” The woman knew about the biological key and the stasis. “Yeah. That’s why.” The woman wasn’t there to assassinate her, though they could reach Jack. “I’m not a pushover, you know,” Bonesaw said, gesturing with a finger. It would be easy to inject poison. “I only want to talk. I’ll ask a favor, then leave you alone.” “We don’t do favors.” “You’ll do this one. Install a control switch in the mass-produced clones. Give it to me. Later.” Bonesaw laughed. “Betray Jack?” “You will.” Bonesaw scoffed at mind control. “No mind control. This is the best way, even with the blind spot looming.” “That’s the best argument?” “No. I can tell you two things.” Bonesaw raised her eyebrows. “Breadth and Depth.” “I don’t get it.” “There’s another. Say goodbye.” Bonesaw tensed, traps ready. The woman turned to leave. An empty threat? Bonesaw considered attacking but held back. The woman entered the bank and vanished.

Years earlier, Riley lay panting in her mother’s room, collapsing near the bloody scene. Her mother lay face down, covered in stitches. Too much blood loss. Riley’s mind raced with knowledge of how to fix her, details flooding in, the order of repair clear. She could use the lamp cord and salt for the right frequency. But she was too tired. “Hurry,” Mister Jack urged gently. “You can fix her, can’t you?” Maybe she had the strength, but then she’d have to save her dad, then Drew, then Muffles, back to her mom. Scary people watched, undoing her work. She’d been doing this for hours. “Come on,” Mister Jack whispered. “Don’t you love your mommy?”

She stared at her mother, face almost entirely stitches. A bad job. Mommy mouthed words. Riley thought she understood. “No,” she told Mister Jack. “No?” “I don’t love her.” Tears squeezed out. “Alrighty,” Mister Jack said. “Say goodbye, then.” “Goodbye, mommy,” Riley said. Her mom mouthed a reply. It took a long time, watching the life fade, the transition from mother to dying thing, a machine winding down. Easier. No chest pain. Imperfectly stitched lips mouthed a final sentence. “There we go,” Mister Jack whispered. They rested on the floor. Others appeared. “She done?” “She’s done,” Mister Jack confirmed. The clown laughed eerily. Jack realized why. Riley was looking up, smiling. “What’s this?” Jack asked. “Something funny?” “No. I just… I wanted to smile.” “Well, me too. Let’s smile together.” She kept the strained smile. “Yes. Come with us. We’ll keep you safe.” She didn’t want to. “Yes please. That… that sounds nice.” Her mother’s final words echoed: Be a good girl. She’d be good.

Later, Bonesaw woke from a familiar nightmare. She held her sleeping companion, Blasto. Not enough. Not family. Annoyed, she pushed the covers away. Blasto lay unmoving. “Up,” she commanded. Hardware moved him. Unfamiliar feelings warred within her. The dream lingered. Anger flared, replaced by a forced smile. Think happy. Be good, the thought too close to the dream. Unease and frustration. No mind control?

She left her closet bedroom, Blasto beside the fleshy mattress, and approached the incubation cases. The third draft, fetal, nine of each. A good feeling. More brains to create, personalities to research. The Bonesaw vats were empty. The others would soon be ready. A lack of confidence, unusual for her. Art needed an audience, and she had none. She needed everything ready for when Jack woke.

She dressed and teleported to Earth Bet. “Our regular is back,” Eli said. “You get out a lot.” “Yeah,” she replied. “Your haircut looks good, Eli.” He was embarrassed. “See any good movies lately?” He recommended a horror movie. A woman entered, and Eli jumped. The woman wanted to post a sign about a missing girl, Melanie. Eli agreed. The woman told Bonesaw to go home.

Bonesaw looked at the missing person sign. Eli offered to watch the movie with her. “No.” He seemed confused. “You know why.” He guessed strict parents. “Exactly.” She grabbed snacks. He rang her up. “Eight ninety-five.” He was hurt. She collected her things and left, waving. She glanced at the woman entering the next store and teleported back.

Unease settled in. Not about Eli. She called for Blasto and entered another closet. Melanie was there, connected to an IV. Bonesaw planned to insert war memories, creating a child soldier. But unease grew. She couldn’t picture her mother’s face, only stitches. Her father’s was vague. When she tried to proceed, Eli’s face intruded, disappointed. Eli and Mrs. Hemston. The girl was meat, but their peripheral figures were harder to ignore.

She thought of the woman’s words: breadth and depth. The first clone batch failed due to broad passenger connection. Jack had a deep connection, aligned with his passenger. Hers? Talent, details fed by her passenger. But what kind of connection? How much of me is me? It mattered. Security with Jack meant avoiding these questions. She looked at Melanie, her age. The girl had seen her face. Memory erasure was unreliable. Going ahead would be safest.

She thought of Eli, a friend. Was her art hers, or her passenger’s? Her family among the Nine? She bit her thumbnail, the pain bringing clarity. Maybe the family was the passenger’s. Maybe the art. But Eli? She could see herself being his friend even without the passenger. She made her decision.

Much later, every decision weighed: Riley or Bonesaw? This one wasn’t hard. Menstruation, check. She made computer notes: auto-hysterectomy, mastectomy, limb shortening, bone shaving, plastic surgery. Bonesaw would approve. Riley needed recovery time before Jack woke. The clones were ready, except for the Bonesaws. She laid out surgical tools. The word “bonesaw” had changed.

Anesthetic? No. Optimal awareness. She wouldn’t switch off pain. Not guilt, but recognition of being broken. Part of her wished for lost innocence, another part was glad for her modifiability. Not penance, but just. She started cutting.

Later, at the store, “The sign’s down,” she told Eli. He was startled. “Riley! It’s been… a really long time. I was worried I said something.” “No. Went to live with my dad.” A smooth lie. “You’re back?” “Stopping by, like the first time you saw me.” He nodded, still stunned. “Uh… they found the girl dead in the woods. Some dogs had chewed her up pretty badly.” “Oh,” she replied, feigning concern. “I stopped in to say goodbye, Eli.” He seemed more surprised than disappointed. Maybe he’d already said goodbye.

“I wanted to give you a gift,” she said. “Thanks for the movie advice.” He frowned, remembering the divorce lie. He looked at the card. “Can I open it?” “No. Wait until the date.” “My birthday.” “Yeah.” He looked at the envelope. “I would’ve gotten you something, but… oh.” He gave her a video tape, a horror movie about a child werewolf. A child monster. Ironic. “Thank you,” she said. “It’s probably okay if we just say hi and bye like usual, isn’t it?” “You look different,” he blurted. “You look good,” he added. “Be fucking good, Eli,” she retorted. He nodded.

The alarm went off. Sadness. She tapped her pinky, initiating her Bonesaw persona through embedded magnets. False body language, smile, walk, gestures. Height adjusted, hair cut. Burning a bridge. The cryo-chambers opened. Jack, Hookwolf, Skinslip, Night Hag emerged. Jack struggled to stand, his eyes fixed on her. He knew. “You’re awake,” he commented. “And you’re nude,” she quipped. “Where are your manners?” “I’ll remedy that. Cereal?” “Made it myself.” “And the milk?” “Made it myself.” He stumbled. “I’m… not as coordinated.” “Trouble with the recovery phase.” “We have a schedule.” “I know. I can’t fix this.” His penetrating stare. “You could have woken us sooner.” “Nope. Would’ve mucked up the scheduling.” “Well,” Jack smiled, “Unavoidable. We’ll have to make it extra special.” “Triple special.” “And the clones?” “Waiting for you.” “Good.” Hookwolf shifted into his metal form.

“You didn’t do yours,” Jack noted. “Didn’t work out.” Every line felt like a nail. But for now, Jack needed her. She had options. “Good,” he said. Lights came on, illuminating the clone chambers. “Drain.” The fluids poured out. Blurry figures became distinct. “You didn’t do yours,” Jack repeated. “Didn’t work out.” “I see.” The dialogue was tense. “Well,” Jack smiled, “Unavoidable.” “Triple special.” “And the clones?” “Waiting for you.” “Good.”

The clones stirred. Siberian clones flickered into existence. Chuckles, Murder Rat, Winter, Crimson, Hatchet Face, Cherish. “And the last one?” Jack asked, pointing. She hit a button. Her expression slipped. A boy stepped out, monochrome, Gray Boy. “Jack,” he said. “Nicholas.” They shook hands. Riley’s stomach sank. Gray Boy approached her. Fear. She leaned in to kiss his cheek. “Little brother,” she murmured. “Bonesaw,” he replied, holding her hand. “We’ll be inseparable.” “Inseparable.” The others approached. Jack surveyed them. “Good,” he said, glancing at her and Gray Boy. She had given him everything he wanted. Riley hoped to win. Gray Boy squeezed her hand. He knew. Jack glanced at her, as Gray Boy did. “Good,” he said.