To Arms

Magic and adrenaline courses through your veins, and it feels like a religious ecstasy. Such things don't exist, of course, as the scientists who carefully tailored your dosage would insist. It's pure science, they'd say, magic is a myth. But to you, this godlike trance must be magic. They tell you that you are a manmade god, meant to replace that which abandoned humanity. How could that not be magical, you think, as you cut down yet another foe with yet another effortless swing.

You have senses ten times that of any natural creature, your limbs never tire, immune to pain and muscle strain, your reflexes faster than any human can blink. They address you as a saint— San Aurelius —and bow at your feet. The blood soaks through your boots as you leap forwards. You were never designed for this, and for good reason. Performing this most grievous sin against your divine purpose is miserably effortless. Men fall beneath your halberd like cattle, and you laugh at their strangled cries.

You're not sure why. You don't find it particularly funny. It's quite sad, actually, and this day will haunt you for decades to come.

Your reverie is stopped by a large, rumbling beast. You steel yourself, taking a step back. A sickly pale grey mass stands before you, with hints of iridescence swirling underneath its thin outer skin. It does not bleed—instead some wispy, multicolored substance leaks out from the cuts across its body. Its face is misshapen and unrecognizable. You're not sure you could compare it to anything you've seen before even if you tried. You've heard of these things—a more primitive version of yourself, in a way, but this is the first time you've ever seen one in person.

There's no time to form first impressions as it slams you to the ground with immense force. Its wretched face looms over you, and it makes some kind of pathetic mewl. Its heavy breathing—a vestigial reflex—smells like gunpowder.

It bites down, hard, with teeth you can’t see. You imagine this would hurt, but you can't feel pain. Not right now. Despite its strength, you shove it away with minimal effort, but its grasp is too strong—and it effortlessly takes your arm with it.

The immense pain breaks through even your mental barrier, less so than last time, but this time you're more aware of each tendon, each nerve, each carbon fibre bone snapping in half. You can feel your will leaving each muscle, retracting back into your core. It's as if the arm is metal—but no, it isn't, not yet. The metal you remember has been torn apart a dozen times. It's disposable. Expensive to repair, perhaps, but disposable. This one was not. This one was yours , and you can't even feel it in those last few moments as it's torn forever from you.

You grasp at the bleeding gash where your arm used to be—to find only steel.

The room is dark. You hurriedly prop yourself upright and desperately feel for your arm. It's still there, a cold, hard metal, resonating ever so softly. The bed creaks as you shuffle around, and the person next to you groans.

"What is it?"

"Nothing," you answer, "A bad dream."

A pause. "Want to talk about it?"

"No."

"Sleep, then," they say as they roll back over.

You run your fleshy hand down the length of your metal arm. You channel your will into it, and its constant vibration slows to keep pace with your breathing. It softly clicks as you stretch each finger, flawlessly obeying your commands as well as flesh would. This one is good enough to even sense like flesh does, most of the time, but dulled. The soft bed sheets merely feel vaguely present under your artificial fingers, no matter how much you dig your hand into them. You wonder how those less fortunate, with lower quality prosthetics, can even stand to be alive.

It's time to try to get back to sleep, you think, moderately annoyed. This is what happens when you sleep sober.

You lay down, close your eyes, and try very hard not to dream.