Machine Man (serial)

I found it useful to talk to my parts as I worked. For example, I would pick up a mirror plate and say, “And what’s your problem?” Or, when contemplating a radiation shield: “You need an arc welder. That’s what you need.” They didn’t answer me. I wasn’t crazy. It was just a way to focus. But sometimes I heard footsteps outside the door, and realized this probably wasn’t obvious to anyone else.

I regretted what I’d said to Lola. I regretted it a lot. It wasn’t Lola’s fault. I told the Contours that. “She tried to calm down,” I said. This was very late one night, after a particularly frustrating few hours prying apart transistors. “She did everything she could. She didn’t want you to die.” Then I wrapped my arms around my chest and cried a little, because I was really tired.

The next day, as soon as my eyes opened, I decided I would apologize to Lola. I would make things right. The idea filled me with joy. I didn’t want to wallow here any longer, this filthy, stinking, grieving thing, dragging itself around. I didn’t want to be angry at Lola. I didn’t want to make her sad. But then I sat up and parts of the Contours fell everywhere. I was sleeping with them to stave off the phantom pain. Don’t ask me why that worked. It just did. And as parts tumbled to the carpet, I thought: I’ll just fix one thing. Because if I could do that, take one step toward restoring functionality, the Contours wouldn’t be dead. They would only be temporarily disabled, like me. Everything would be getting better.

So I crawled off the bed and began hunting for one fixable thing. Weeks passed.

122.