Robotic enhancements aren’t cool.
Fuck it, nothing’s cool.
Al Moody wasn’t cool either, but he wouldn’t be caught dead showing it.
He wouldn’t be.
Except, maybe, today.
Something had snapped in his brain that morning. He’d read somewhere that the brain was plasticy, stretchy. It was as if his brain had become a broken rubber band, stretched too far to its limits and succumbed to what was natural.
Keeping up his facade of stoicism and calmness was not natural.
He sat in the corner of one of the canteens, swarms of fucking jovial undergrounders acting as if they were on some sort of summer camp passing him by.
He wanted to explode at them.
Or be one of them.
Leaning gruffly over a small workbench in the corner, Moody had his leg laid in front of him. Tinkering with the wiring inside, he hoped he could get it back in prime condition before the next patrol.
He hated it when things didn’t work the way he wanted them to.
He heard the benign beep of his watch. It was around four in the afternoon. He’d been here since eleven, crouched in his pathetic, rusted old wheelchair he’d taken from the hospital wing what seemed like centuries ago.
He had come no closer to finishing up, yet here he was, and here he’d stay. People would probably start to think he’d gone mad!
