#cyborg rambles

Tenna shuffles a step closer, breath caught in his throat. He’s about four houses down. He startles immediately when the purple shifts, bringing denim-clad knees up for a pair of squat arms to settle on. If this was some mafioso, why would they seemingly be huddled for warmth outside of Tenna’s house? Why wouldn’t they have some inconspicuous black coat, not this pufferfish-like thing, turning their head to reveal choppy shoulder-length hair and— “Susie?” Tenna calls from two houses down, picking up his pace a bit. “Susie?”

There were conversations back then, however brief, that Tenna still lies awake at night and thinks about. Inebriated comments from Spam about feeling like set dressing for TV Time, or like a little doll in the hands of the powers that be. Panicked rants about strings, ones holding him up or attached to Tenna’s own hand. Is he still just another string in Spam’s life?

None of the professionals believe his answers, anyway. That’s for the best. Pissing into a cup is humiliating, watching as eyes rake over the veins and scars on his arms is somehow worse. They’re probably trying to be nice, but the tactful words slide and slip around his head like a bar of soap he can’t quite catch, and beneath it all is a riptide of fear: they’ll tell them. They will find you.

The aftermath.