by Marcus Pregent
I can’t feel my legs anymore. But then, I quit feeling pretty much anything eons ago. I lay here against a cold brick building in an alley with graffiti-covered walls. The tinkling sound of hydraulic fluid leaking out of my now useless legs roars in my hyper-amplified ears. I’m bathed in light; red, blue, and pulsing like the slowing of my heartbeat. Funny how things get clearer the closer to death you get…
I’m not sure when it was exactly that the tech addiction set in. All I do know is that it’s been a mad monkey on my back for longer than I care to think about. Perhaps it was that skinwatch or maybe it was the neural processor and interface plugs. All I wanted was to get that promotion at work, at first. Sooner than I could’ve thought possible that lead to criminal activity to fund my habit. Once I’d gotten a taste of the Net, I had to have more! I mean direct, neural interface, not through some lame VR goggles. The power and feel of the new tech ‘neath my skin was too powerful to escape. It made crystal meth look like Sanka.
It didn’t take long before I found myself unemployed, on the street, and getting rolled by a local gang. They wracked me up for some forty stitches and a shattered arm. Precious little sucks more than being beaten, robbed, and left for dead in an alley that doesn’t even rate being included on a map. That’s when I found my backbone.
I was determined to not be victim ever again. I asked around a bit and found myself in a seedy downtown bar with a name so forgettable as to be almost laughable. Just walking in I noticed the place was filled with nothing but drunken losers, wallowing ex-soldiers, and bleary-eyed whores. I sat at the bar, surveying the crowd for the person I sought. The joint reeked from a fetid cocktail of BO, cheap booze, and something else I wasn’t sure I wanted to know its origins. I felt my soul slowly swaddled in a cloak of bitterness and despair. It was going to take twenty showers, at least, to cleanse the filth away. I didn’t care how bad the place was; desperately needed to find someone to make it all better. I needed a Charles Atlas of the Postmodern Age.
In the far corner of the room I found Marko, an emaciated geek who looked like he hadn’t seen the sun in over a decade. But then, in this part of town, who had? Towers so tall people like the old me never had to mix with rabble the likes of me today. Between the hyper-violent street gangs and corporate-sponsored cops, patrolling with armored vehicles in full riot gear, it hasn’t exactly been all wine and roses for us street scum. If it weren’t for the constant deluge of marketing propaganda, there wouldn’t be any color at all down here.
Marko fixed me up with a new arm, all shiny and chrome, but there was a catch. He started me out with simple jobs, collecting debts and such. Being as how I was once on the high school football team, I wasn’t a small guy, I could be intimidating, if I had to. I got good at it too. I quickly realized the arm wasn’t going to be enough. The best were fast; faster than I ever had been. So along came an adrenal booster for that quick burst. Soon after I had my nerves hardwired all the time. Gotta have that edge, right? Otherwise you’re gonna end up fitted for your toe tag.
The reflex booster served me well, as did the arm, but that was just the beginning. Getting shot told me I needed protection. So a drink of that disgusting slop and nanites weaved Kevlar fibers into my skin. I enhanced my legs. I could run faster, leap farther, and kick harder. Ears and eyes were easy to rewire once I’d had the limbs done. After a few scores the other arm got replaced; then came the weapons upgrades for them.
After getting the majority of my internal organs replaced, things spiraled into the sewer even faster. The only thing left of my original self was my central nervous system. Even that got modified, laser-etched, and bar-coded. I’d traded my body, piece by piece, to Marko and his cronies. With each new upgrade I gave more of me to the Skinny Satan of Skid Row.
I was a junkie, needing that tech fix to keep me going; all I lived for. Serving this addiction came at the expense of the few friends I did have left. I didn’t have time for them; always working. But flesh is weak, or so it seemed.
Pretty soon I was nigh unstoppable. Puny fleshy me gave way to super-chromed, streamlined, six-billion-dollar me. I was a metal-skinned god; Death on myomer-powered legs. I walked with the assurance I was invincible. Still I hungered for that next piece that would give me the edge. This lead to going that extra mile to get the funding I needed for my components.
I left a stream of corpses and broken bodies in my wake the likes of which would have made Billy the Kid look like a guy with “anger issues”. The new me was a stone killer and made sure everyone knew it. I wore it like a badge…a badge of blood.
Sleep was an enemy, a dream that never came true. I had too many enemies to allow myself that much downtime. When dreams came, my head overflowed with images of fear, torment, and screaming. I was so into the machine that I was even dreaming in a spectrum beyond normal human vision. I was dreaming in infrared.
Marko eventually screwed me on a deal, one that would have netted me a whole new body; that panacea of the full body conversion. I’d come for my money and nothing was gonna stop me. I could almost smell the rage welling up. Heartbeats later I was dodging bullets and dead goons like hailstones. When the smoke cleared and the last of the shot up plaster chunks fell I was standing over a pile of bodies, triumphant, like one of those Frazetta paintings. Snapped doesn’t even begin to describe what I’d done. Everything was hazy; red was all I saw. I’d gone way over the line and there was no stepping back.
I heard the unholy wail of police sirens. Someone must’ve called the cops when the shooting started. All I remember was me standing in a window of this rundown hotel, firing a rocket from my arm at a police gunship circling overhead. I’m pretty sure that was when the railgun opened up.
Lying here in a pool of my own crimson regret, I can see only shapes; blurs of color smearing the movements. I figure the railgun impact must’ve damaged my optics or something. I make out a form closing in on me. It looks like a man; probably a cop. I catch a glimpse through the distortion of him raising his arm. Is it to call for an ambulance? Maybe they can fix me and I can work for them! Yeah, I’ll be able to take down the psychos and predators down here, but in a uniform! I’ll get a new place, somewhere that I can see the sun even. Maybe now I’ll get my new body, freeing me forever from this prison of flesh. Maybe…
::: BLAM :::
