Simmons let his fist collide with the concrete wall of his bedroom. Richard did that quite often when he was mad and it always hurt like hell. But not this time. After pausing to contemplate why his entire left arm wasn't quivering in pain, Simmons shifted his eyes slightly to investigate. Half his fist was going through the wall. Richard cursed as he struggled to remove his hand from the rubble, lurching backwards once free. His hand didn't feel anything. Simmons considered that. His left arm didn't feel anything. Not the cold breeze drafting in from the window. Not the touch of his other, human hand. Nothing.
A part of his brain that hadn't been there this morning registered that those things did in fact exist. A sensor informed him that the night wind was chilling the room to twelve degrees Celsius, and that his left hand was therefore loosing body heat at a rate of 0.2 degrees a minute. But he didn't feel those details.
He was a freak. Nothing fancy, nothing exciting, just a freak. It didn't matter that the synthetic skin was so real to the naked eye. Richard could probably go his entire life with no one knowing that his skin was glorified rubber, some of his bones steel and was cooled by freon. But it mattered to him. On the inside, he was still a freak. And he always would be.
The oxygen intake valves that now replaced his lungs softly hummed as his internal system adjusted to the cold room. In normal circumstances, it would have been calming. Now? Now the gentle whirring and humming was just another slap in the face. He wasn't human. Not anymore. Simmons chuckled lightly, pulling his shirt off his half-robotic shoulders. Guess you've got to read the fine print on those organ donor cards. They didn't just say what they can take out, it also covers what they could put back in. Hundreds of other soldiers had been repaired. With the war what it is, it's difficult to be in the military and not know a soldier who hasn't been fixed up. Simmons grimaced. Just not like him. Not to this extent. And not like this.
Richard tossed his cotton shirt towards the other side of the room. He began massaging his joints, trying to get a feel for his new parts. Sarge had told him which squares of skin, which organs and which limbs had been replaced, but Simmons found he couldn't hear a word of what his commander said past "Yer mostly metal, son."
Simmons raised his left arm. That was new. Fingers, wrist, shoulder. His right hand traced further. Collarbone. Neck. Jaw, both cheekbones, the left half of his forehead. Simmons' human fingers danced along his scars. Sarge said they would heal. Simmons thought he looked like the world's most revolting quilt. He wasn't born with the skin on the right half and upper front of his torso, as well as his lower back. One leg seemed stronger than the other. A thick line of dried blood and thicker stitches separated that leg from his hip. Richard should take a shower. He should eat. Get some sleep. Simmons couldn't persuade his body to do anything other than sit on his bed and glare at the mess of scars his body had become.
It wasn't even him that was hurt. At least the other soldiers who get repaired are themselves injured. Grif was the one to get hit by the tank. But Grif wasn't a match. His biotype wouldn't have accepted the cyborg parts on hand. But Simmons was a match. Lucky for him. Sarge ripped out whatever was needed and handed it over to Grif. Simmons rose from his sheets, walking down the hall like a man possessed. He quietly opened the door to Grif's quarters, shutting it softly behind him.
This was all because of Grif. The idiot got himself nearly killed and now Simmons was going to deal with the consequences for the rest of his life. Or what would pass as a life. Simmons sat on the end of Dex's bed, the man still unconscious from surgery. Grif was covered in scars that mirror Richard's. It was all his fault. A part of Richard wanted to hate him, wanted to hurt him for allowing this to happen.
But as Simmons watched, that urge fell away. As Simmons' lungs forced Grif's chest to rise and fall, Richard felt himself calm. He was keeping Grif alive. He would be all his life, now. It was then Simmons realized that if given the choice again, he would make the same decision in a single beat of his heart. Which was now resting in Grif's chest.