Pounce scampers away and over to Martin. Anders, just as incredulous as Nathaniel, stares at Nathaniel's back, though the shirt has fallen back into place when the man sat up.

"Surely not." The image that the word fused conjures in Anders' mind is that of glass, heated and forced to melt together. He can't imagine bone surviving that heat. It ought to char by then ... "I don't see how that's possible." Still kneeling beside Nathaniel, he runs his hand under the shirt and up Nathaniel's spine to rub over the spot in question, gingerly. The knot where the chip sits doesn't budge, sits obdurate under the healed new skin. It's as though the thing has always been there.