Chapter 2: Resonance & Fixation

  The hum was constant, low, vibrating somewhere structural, maybe even in his bones. He surfaced slowly, eyelids scraping open like rusty hatches. White ceiling panels swam into a kind of focus, flat and indifferent under the too-bright fluorescent buzz. The air tasted wrong—sharp, sterile, an antiseptic tang that failed to cover an underlying metallic scent.

  Then, the feeling. Not pain, not yet. Just… wrongness. A dead weight pulling at his left shoulder. An itch ghosting over fingers that weren't there.

  He didn't want to look. A cold dread pooled low in his gut. But denial was a luxury afforded only before the evidence presented itself. Slowly, head heavy as a soaked sponge, he turned his gaze downwards.

  Metal.

  Where his arm should have been. Gunmetal grey, catching the harsh light. Segmented, like an insect’s limb stretched and reformed along impossible lines. Joints articulated with a multi-faceted complexity—too many angles, too precise for human hands. He forced his eyes closer. Saw faint, almost invisible lines swirling across the surface, patterns that shimmered, resolving for a nauseating instant into debased, familiar hieroglyphs before blurring again. Where metal met flesh wasn’t a clean seam. It was a violence. Puckered scar tissue, livid red against his skin tone, clamped tight around gleaming alloy. Dark, vein-like lines pulsed faintly beneath the metallic shell near the join, a sluggish, unnatural thrum. It looked cold. Alien. But fused. Embedded. Part of him. The weight was immense. The chill sank deep.

  His breath hitched. Caught. Started again, too shallow, too fast. The monitor beside the bed, previously a steady, ignored rhythm, began to accelerate. Beep. Beep. Beepbeep. His right hand, hidden beneath the thin grey sheet, clenched, knuckles straining white against the fabric. Sweat beaded on his forehead, cold in the sterile air. His jaw locked. Not mine. Wrong. Get it off. The silent scream ricocheted inside his skull, hitting walls of static.

  A sound tore out. A giggle. High. Thin. Broken. He choked it off, swallowing hard against the bile rising in his throat. Forced himself upright, the movement jarring the heavy limb, sending jolts of phantom pain and real ache up his shoulder. He lifted the metal arm. Watched it move. Too smooth. Uncanny. He flexed the segmented fingers. They obeyed, clicking softly, precisely. Alien intuition.

  "Well," he rasped, voice thin, unfamiliar. "Fuck me." Another broken giggle threatened. "Didn't know they offered… aftermarket parts." He tried to arrange his face into a grin. It felt like stretching parchment paper over bone. "Cool," he whispered, gaze darting around the room, anywhere but the arm. The monitor screamed his body’s panic: Beepbeepbeepbeep…

  The door slid open. Silent.

  She was just… there. Doctor Heshara, atleast that was what her name tag said, Tall, unnervingly still. The severe white lab coat couldn't entirely conceal the dark, rich fabric beneath—velvet?—cut with an almost archaic severity. Black hair pulled back tight, making her cheekbones look sharp enough to cut glass. Skin impossibly pale, translucent, faint blue veins visible at her temples. Full lips, dark red like bruised plums. And the eyes. Large, wide, fixed on him. A startling, luminous violet. They weren't assessing; they were consuming. Locked onto the arm, the fusion point, the silent panic radiating off him.

  She moved into the room with a liquid grace, silent as falling ash. Stopped beside the bed. Her violet eyes devoured the arm, tracing its lines, then snapped up to meet his. The intensity was a physical force. Not clinical. Possessive. Hungry.

  "Subject Core." Her voice was low, smooth, a contralto purr with an edge beneath it. "Consciousness regained. Acceptable." Her gaze dropped back to the arm.

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  She reached out. Gloved fingers, cool, brushed the raw seam where metal met flesh. Traced the pulsing, vein-like lines beneath the casing. Lingered. Her own breath might have hitched, almost imperceptibly. "The Keres Strain…" she murmured, almost reverently. "Remarkable expression under duress." Her eyes lifted back to his, the violet depths seeming to glow faintly with fascination. "This somatic resonance… exquisite."

  Core flinched back hard, yanking the arm away as if burned. A choked sound, half gasp, half growl. The monitor went ballistic. "Right," he spat out, trying to inject sarcasm, voice trembling slightly. "And you are…? Part of the welcoming committee? Or just here to admire the new hardware before they scrap the chassis?"

  Heshara withdrew her hand slowly, deliberately. A tiny, knowing smile touched her full lips. It didn’t reach her eyes, which remained fixed on him with that unnerving intensity. "I am Doctor Heshara." The name hung in the air, offered with cool finality. "Chief of Resonance Integration." Her gaze felt like probes, sliding past his defenses. "And 'admiration' is… insufficient." She leaned slightly closer, the scent of ozone and something faintly floral, maybe Night Jasmine, reaching him. "This requires study." Her eyes dropped back to the arm, briefly, possessively. "Such power born from… breakage. Beautiful, in its way." She looked back at him. "Your system's bio-integration is… unprecedented. Almost symbiotic." She tilted her head slightly. "Now. Tell me, Subject Core. What did you feel… right at the severance point?"

  Static roared in his ears. Her violet eyes held him pinned. He forced a shrug, a jerky movement. "Felt fine." Liar. "Bit of a shock. Lost an arm." He attempted the broken giggle again; it died in his throat. "Guess it happens."

  Heshara's faint smile didn't waver. Her eyes flicked pointedly towards the frantic pulse of the heart monitor, then back to his face. The silence stretched, heavy with her unspoken knowledge of his lie. The monitor screamed it for him. Beepbeepbeepbeep…

  "Interesting," she murmured finally, straightening slightly. Her gaze still held that disturbing fixity. "You were recovered from the Event Boundary. Your… unique reaction necessitated this intervention." A vague gesture encompassed the room. "You are within the Sekhmet Biologics Facility. Under observation. Stabilization." Her eyes swept over him one last time, lingering. "A valuable asset."

  She made a brief notation on a dark, slim data slate she produced seemingly from nowhere. "Rest is advised. The prosthetic requires neural calibration." She paused, head tilted again. "We will be monitoring your adaptation closely."

  As she turned, a different kind of desperation clawed through Core’s paralysis. "Wait." His voice was rough, raw. His right hand instinctively moved towards his left side, where a pocket used to be. "My coin. Square one. Old."

  Heshara stopped at the door, turned back slowly. The violet eyes narrowed, the intense fascination shifting, focusing. This mundane request, this flicker of attachment amidst the biological marvel fused to his shoulder, seemed to genuinely intrigue her. "A talisman?" That unsettling curve returned to her lips, sharper this time. "How quaint." She studied him for a long moment, as if filing away this new piece of data. "Such charming human limitations persist." Her tone was almost dismissive, yet underlined with that obsessive interest. "Personal effects protocol is standard. If item designated 'coin, square, old' was recovered and deemed non-hazardous, it will be processed."

  Then she was gone. The door slid shut, sealing him in the humming silence.

  Core slumped back against the thin pillow, breath shuddering out in ragged gasps. The forced calm shattered. Exhaustion, deep and profound, washed over him, heavier than the metal limb. He stared at the arm. The fused flesh. The pulsing lines. The shifting hieroglyphs. The cold, alien alloy. He remembered Heshara's touch—cool, possessive, reverent. Her violet eyes—consuming, fascinated, inhuman. Symbiotic. Sings in you. He reached over hesitantly with his right hand, fingertips brushing the cool metal. It felt solid. Real. And utterly wrong. He touched the seam. Warmth radiated from the join, a disturbing, organic heat. Repulsion warred with a terrifying flicker of morbid curiosity. He snatched his hand back as if burned. The heart monitor, finally, began to slow its frantic pace, settling into a heavy, too-fast rhythm that echoed the frantic pounding in his own chest. He squeezed his eyes shut, pressing the heels of his remaining hand against them, trying to block out the image of the arm, the memory of her gaze. But they were already fused to his awareness, permanent fixtures in the wreckage of his reality.