Machine Man (serial)

I sat on the edge of the bath, wrapped in a towel. When Lola came back, it was like the day we’d met, because she was carrying prosthetic legs. She set them down, watching my face. “Now, these are nothing special…”

They had crutch-like poles and plastic buckets for my thighs. They were entry-level. They were prosthetics for Vietnam veterans abandoned by their government.

“They were all Angelica could swipe,” said Lola. “I know they’re basic, but—”

“They’re perfect,” I said. “Thanks.”

Lola beamed. “I’m proud of you, Charlie. Want to try them on?”

The straps were ragged and worn, dark in patches. A lot of amputated thighs had sweat into these prosthetics before mine. The sockets were loose in some places and pinched tight in others. I couldn’t sit in them, like the Contours: I had to walk, as if they were stilts. They were stilts. My first step, with one arm slung over Lola’s shoulder, I accidentally kicked the wall, leaving a long mark. “That’s okay,” said Lola. “Keep trying.” The scar tissue of my thighs wailed: it hadn’t borne pressure before. It was tender from all those jabs from the Contours’ nerve interface needles. Within four steps, I was sure the sockets were filling with blood. Sweat popped out around my hairline and ran down my nose.

We made it to the door. Lola helped lower me to the toilet seat. “That was great, Charlie. That was a really good first effort.” She reached for a buckle. “That’s enough for now, though. At first, you take it slow. It was a really good—”

I panted, “Let’s go again.”

Her eyebrows jumped. “That’s the spirit, Charlie!” She clapped her hands, delighted. “That’s the spirit!”

125.