Beginnings

I wasn’t always a cyborg. I was once human. A thirteen-year-old girl to be precise.

Becoming a teenager is already difficult enough, what with the growth spurts leading to stretch marks and raging hormones which almost always cause acne. Unfortunately for me, I also happened to be involved in a railway accident.

It’d been a confirmed act of terrorism. Explosives had been put on the tracks by a group of people calling themselves vigilantes. They happened to be cyborgs, which of course makes the rest of us look bad. We’re obviously not all like that. Violence will hardly lead to people hating us less and therefore treating us better.

Anyway, I’d been on the cusp of growing up when my family decided to go upstate. Mom wanted to go to the petting zoo and Dad was forced to come along. Looking back, I now realize they were on a quick trip to divorce, but that hardly matters anymore.

I was an only child, so it was just the three of us. We were in one of the front cars, so it was no surprise both my parents perished. When the first responders found me, my leg was a useless slab of meat, and I was bleeding profusely from my head. They deemed me a ‘second-rate rescue’ which meant I didn’t have a chance unless I was turned into a cyborg. I was going to need major reconstruction to both my leg and skull in order to survive.

I wasn’t even sent to the nearby hospital. Instead, they took me to a farther away medical facility which specialized in trauma and, well, reconstruction. Except instead of the normal sense, this meant becoming a cyborg.

Now, just to be clear, being a cyborg doesn’t mean having a prosthetic. No, there are plenty of people with metal legs or arms who are not considered such. Being a cyborg means you have a chip on the back of your neck. It’s like an artery, because without it I’d most likely die.

When I hit my head there’d been brain damage, and the following blood loss surely hadn’t helped. My brain is still damaged to this day, and any MRI would show you how odd it looks--slightly indented in fact. It’s the chip embedded into my neck which acts as a computer, and in turn helps my brain function normally.

Every cyborg’s chip works differently, but each and every one is necessary. We don’t become cyborgs for just the hell of it. Even for a person without brain damage, they need that chip in order to make their new limbs move. I wouldn’t be able to use my firestarter if it weren’t for my chip.

This is why purple-types are so terrifying. Because they can manipulate what the chip can do. The very thing which is keeping me from going brain-dead.

There’s nothing to do but wait. Waiting leads to thinking. And eventually, after being left alone with my thoughts for so long, I finally want to rip out my own chip and eat it like an actual potato chip. If only to end my suffering of boredom.

Plus, it’s pitch black in here. The kind of mind fuckery which occurs due to being left in the dark for three days is mind boggling. I’ve started to see things, and that’s hardly the worst of my problems.

They haven’t given me any food or water, and my throat is so dry I’m sure any talking on my part would come out as a raspy choking sound. And then I actually try talking to myself, again, out of boredom, and it sounds so much worse than I’d imagined.

If I came across someone who sounded like me in the streets, I’d probably put them down just to end their suffering.

From what I was able to notice upon being thrust in here, the floors and walls are metal. I haven’t tried hitting it, but I’m guessing it’s that gorilla stuff which works so well against cy’s. I suppose I could try throwing a punch and seeing if it indents, but I don’t want to risk staying in here any longer. I’ve become twitchy with impatience.

The fact that I’m missing my show annoys me more than anything else. If the two main characters get together and I miss it because of blue-type fucking Zachariah, I’m going to be pissed. That impending love scene was the only thing I was living for.

Well, that might be dramatic, but still. There’s not a lot of shit to look forward to anymore.

To break up the monotony of listening to my own breathing, I come up with games. One of my favorites is comparing ways I’d like to kill the other blue-types. If I think of a more delightful method, I give myself a pat on the back.

I also admittedly think of things I’d say to Joe if I ever see him again. They’re not nice things, but I’m surprised to find myself conjuring one or two sentences which aren’t entirely horrible. Of course, anything I say to him would swiftly be followed by a kick to his nether regions. I want to hit him so hard, the world will never have to worry about the birth of any more Freemans.

Freeman. What a joke of a name. Considering what that mother of his does to supposedly ‘free’ people. Cyborgs may not be human, but we’re still people.

Just when my stomach is cramping so hard I feel as though I may barf it up completely, the door cracks open. The stream of light which pours in is blinding, and I moan in pain while shielding my eyes with my arm.

“Give her some water,” a security guard says. It could be a warden but I’d hardly give a flying fuck if he was the president. The moment a cup of water is thrust into my hand, I’m drinking as if my life depends on it. Which isn’t far from the truth, as my throat feels as though it’s closing in on itself from dryness.

After I finish the first cup, I’m given a second, then eventually a third. It’s after I’ve finished the fourth cup that my stomach growls incredibly loud. In another world it would be considered embarrassing.

“Help me lift her. We’re taking her to the cafeteria.”

I don’t care anymore. People are going to stare, and any plans of me being unnoticeable are out the window. Who gives a shit. I’m starving. I’ll deal with the aftermath later.

I’m dragged more than led out of the tiny, suffocating room. When I hear it shut behind us, I shiver all over, and the guards holding me by the elbows have to adjust their grip. It’s after several minutes of them dragging me that one of them says, “Forget this. We’ll take her to her room and dump some food in there later. She’s dead on her feet.”

If I could deflate anymore, I would have. The next time I face anyone should be in a state more respectful than this.

I fall asleep directly after I’m dumped onto my cot. I don’t even remember hearing the guards leave. It’s funny, because despite having nothing to do but sleep for the past three days, I did very little of it. It’s only when you feel relatively safe that your body finally allows you to rest.

I don’t know how that makes me feel, realizing sleep can come to me so easily in what can be considered a jail cell. I realize I should blame it on my own exhaustion, but still. The thought nags at me even in my dreams.

This is the new normal.