synner, chapter one

0.000  Auditory input: atmospheric cyclers, nominal.
0.100  Motor engaged.
0.200  Threat matrix online. Perimeter secure.
0.300  Downgrading to civilian parameters.

I was standing in my room, naked, a knife between my fingers.

It had been caught 4.5cm from my right eye. From where it came, I was not sure.

My apartment was empty, save myself. It was a nice place, by many accounts; despite my half-best attempts I could not lift the veil of detachment to enjoy it terribly much. I was dissociated more often than not, most days, I wondered if maybe this was my new baseline for association. Perhaps this was what others accepted. Though for some reason I could not shake the feeling we had not been made from the same processes and machine.

The dissociation was part of the surgery, they told me. I asked, and the Dr gave me a look and an answer that made me note not to ask again. They wouldn’t tell me what happened, I knew that as much. And there wasn’t a way for me to find out. Records were sealed, and the company paid smart people smart money to keep them that way.

I just took the pills they gave me, I felt worse without them and I had to get my work done either way.

Cold.

I finally registered the floor.

My bare feet were hot, they always were. Most all of me was warm at best. The heat bled though the dark cold-grihr limbs, stopping where my hips met my light ceramital torso. My arms matched, crawling over my shoulders and up my traps to wrap around my neck. where a seam ran my body was stitched in gold, thin threads that never dissolved.

They said that was fine, of course. The operation went flawlessly, an achievement for even Aggrian medical standards.

They showed me sparse papers, all they had, covering portions of the procedure. I saw stats that meant nothing but said I was healthier than ever.

Why did I feel so sick?

My mind came back to the sparse apartment I still stood naked in. I hadn’t dropped the knife, but did so finally, letting it land tip forward into the most likely expensive wooden floor. I just didn’t care. I stood for a moment, blinking. My body whined. The sub-audible frequency vibrated in my jaw, enough to make my vision shake slightly.

I felt something at my right calf. My tail had snuck around my leg, squeezing gently as it wrapped about my ankle. It was thick, warm, and I hated how it gave me a read.

‘Morning misfiring,’ I muttered, moving to the bathroom as I manually disengaged the lock my leg was in.

I made a mental note to run a full diagnostic during my lunch cycle at the lab.

On the nightstand, beside the standard-issue chronometer, sat the hawk.

It was crude. Scraps of salvaged metal bent and chipped into the rough shape of a bird of prey. It had no place in this room. This apartment with expertly styled decor and construction to ‘cultivate a productive mindset’ and reduce distractions for Aggrian researchers working in the Spire. It wasn’t a place for rest, much less clutter.

I was surprised cleaners hadn’t removed it already. It had been on that nightstand every day for the last three years I can remember since I woke up. It was there when I moved in, and I had left it there for lack of a better reason as to not.

And yet.

My brow furrowed. I stared at the scorched metal, and a headache formed behind my right eye, building pressure in waves.