I started this blog to talk about, among (many) other things, my writing. Which I've not done so far!
Anyway, after thinking about the effect of cybernetic replacements on a person's mentality, I came up with this little piece:
"‘Adam, how are you feeling today?’
Adam glanced up at the speaker, but stayed where he was, slumped on his sofa, glass of brandy on the small glass coffee table beside him. It was a woman, dressed in a smart navy business suit, her hands covered in leather gloves, and her blond hair tied in a loose ponytail. He ignored her and returned to gazing out the window. The sun was beginning to rise, bathing Leicester in an amber glow. Traffic along the London road into the city centre was building up, but it was still dark enough that all he could make out were the bright headlights zipping along the road.
His apartment was on the eighteenth floor of Theston Towers, an apartment complex towering over the railway line. It afforded a commanding view over the city, but to be honest, Adam couldn’t really care less. It was still better looking out the window than talking to his clinic-appointed psychiatric engineer. It was annoying that the clinic had given her access to his apartment, a damned infringement on his privacy. Not that they cared, not after the level of surgery he’d been through. It was bad enough that he’d signed himself out three weeks early, but they’d only agreed as long as he would allow home visits. And he did. Anything, just as long as he could get out of that place.
The door clicked shut behind her, and the woman strode across the apartment lounge, heels tapping out a rhythm on the laminate sheet floor. She stared down at him, one eyebrow raised in appraisal. He hadn’t moved from the sofa since last night, still dressed in a pair of loose trousers, fastened at the waist with a knotted cord. The knot was crude, but the best he could manage these days.
She glanced at the windows. Abruptly, the glass opacity index increased until the view disappeared. Adam blinked as the apartment’s lights came on at the same time.
‘My name is Evelyn Sathwood, Adam. I’ve come to see how you’re doing.’
‘I know why you’re here,’ he said, curtly. ‘You’re here to do maintenance. Well go right ahead.’
‘That’s a funny way of putting it. Is that how you see yourself? As a machine?’
Finally, he looked at her. ‘What else am I? Seventy-five percent of me replaced. Seventy-five. That means that only twenty-five is still human. I don’t even have my own heart anymore, just some lump of biotech. You could say I’m a little bit heartless.’ He laughed at his own joke before he sank back into his morose mood.
Evelyn frowned at him. The accident had caused a lot of damage to his body, leaving a big, angry scar across the left side of his torso, and weals up his face as if he’d been badly whipped. His left leg had been replaced from the knee down, the prosthesis covered in a shiny black carapace. His arms had come off the worst; she’d read the reports, and he’d tried to shield himself from the explosion with them. When they finally dragged him from the ruins, there wasn’t much left of them except ruined stumps. Both had required amputation as the shoulder. Their replacements were clad in the same black carapace, between which she could see the carbon-titanium nanotube musculature. They had even replaced several internal organs, and before he’d checked himself out, he’d been in line for dermal enhancement.
‘You’re still a man, Adam, even if you don’t see it.’
He snorted. ‘Whatever. You know I get drunk quicker these days? Less meat to soak up the alcohol, even with an artificial liver.’
Adam reached for his glass. There was a faint whirr as his fingers closed around the glass. He had it halfway to his mouth when a loud crack rang through the air and the glass shattered, spilling its contents across his chest.
‘Great, another glass gone,’ he said, brushing the debris onto the floor.
Accessing the apartment’s management routines, Evelyn detailed a pair of cleaning bots to deal with the glass. The little machines zipped out of their storage bays to hoover up the fragments and mop up brandy.
While they worked, Evelyn pulled over one of the dining chairs and sat down in front of Adam.
‘You’re still having trouble with fine motor control.’
‘Oh wow, I can see why they sent you to see me. You’re really observant.’
‘Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, Adam.’
‘So they tell me. Do I look like I give a fuck?’
‘Obviously not. I’m here because I want to help you. Do you have to be so rude?’
He looked at her sullenly. After a few moments, he finally relented. It wasn’t fair on her. She was just doing her job. ‘I didn’t ask for this,’ he said, gesturing at his prosthetics.
‘No one does,’ Evelyn replied. She tugged off her left glove, revealing an artificial hand. Unlike his, the surface was covered in bronze-coloured patterns, like henna-tattoos.
‘Oh.’
‘That’s why they sent me, Adam. They thought that you might react better to someone who understands your … condition.’
‘Got me all figured out, huh?’
Evelyn smiled. ‘They do have your psyche record.’
‘Touché.’"
Well, that's all I have for now, but I'm seeing the glimmer of a story forming
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