The flesh splinters and fragments. Fibrous. The grips latch on to fingertips, a light slices a hole to the bone, the gips pull back, peeling the skin and tendons. Bone glistens pink under antiseptic lights. The sweat pours down his face. He uses his other hand to wipe it away. He feels no pain, but he’s shaking anyway. He grins. His flesh is pulled away to the wrist. A ring lowers, twirls, the useless strips are carried away. A thousand arms whirl in and click, setting in pieces of metal and plastic. Wires, tubes. Worked like puzzle pieces. An occasional flash of light, soldered. Weld. Black fluid pumps through veins, self contained for now. A tiny heart, one on each finger. Tiny orange lights break this surface, work their way down the wrist, down the forearm. A wire ripples through his skin. All the while the eye watches him. He plans to wear one to match one day.

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