Duplicates don't have injuries

Delusional Illusion
“Za…baniya.”

From the shadows cast at our feet appeared two more of myself, ready and willing. Unlike me, they were completely and entirely unharmed and had no trouble standing.

There was a loud click from next to me, and when I looked, it was to see Miss Militia wielding a large, deadly looking pistol, which she aimed warily at my doubles.

“Hassan of the Hundred Faces,” said one of them. It was…strange, hearing my voice coming from someone else’s mouth. It was different when I was looking through their eyes, hearing through their ears, speaking through their mouths — it wasn’t that different from doing it myself. Like this, though, it was just unsettling. “A Middle Eastern hero. His power is to split himself into about eighty different fractions, each one simultaneously independent and part of the greater whole.”

After a moment of tension, Miss Militia lowered that huge handgun and regarded the one that had spoken.

“And you’re one of those parts?”

My double — Deuce, I decided to call her — gave a slight shake of her head. “It’s complicated. ‘Part’ isn’t exactly…”

“Right. Duplicates, she — you said.” She gestured to me with a nod of her head. “Which means that this…”

“The original,” Deuce confirmed. There was no point in hiding it. I wasn’t expendable, and I didn’t want Miss Militia to get the impression that I was.