A rag scraped my cheek roughly — too roughly. Like a cheese grater running across my face. I was instantly alert, my drowsiness fading.
“My arm…” I croaked, not opening my eyes. “My left arm…”
“Yeah, bad luck about those arms,” the female voice answered. “But your own base parts, your torso and head, are in fantastic shape. The legs are pieces of shit. But the arms are even worse.”
“Huh?”
“I said you got a crappy set. Real garbage. You hit the shit jackpot, Eleven.”
“Why do you keep calling me Eleven?”
“It’s written on your chest. Double ones. Now get up! The alarm’s gonna go off, then it’s time for inspection! We have to be standing over there by then! So get up!”
“I think I’m sick... I feel so awful... Water... I need water...”
“Later! Stand up, Eleven! Stand up! Come on. I’ll help you.”
It was like she didn’t hear me at all. I felt unbelievably bad. Completely disoriented, weak to the point of helplessness. I couldn’t feel my arms and legs, other than the nebula of pain around my left elbow. My back hurt, too, and my temples throbbed. I felt nausea rise in my throat, but then it slowly retreated back into my stomach.
“My memories...”
“Erased, of course! You’re a nullbie! No memories. They’re all locked away.”
“What?!”
“Listen to me! If you don’t get up now, I’m leaving without you. And you won’t make it to the hallway alone. You’ll miss inspection, which means you’ll get no work and no pay! And then how will you pay for your limbs? They’re on loan, and you have to pay for ‘em every day! How will you pay for food? Or showers? Snap out of it, Eleven! If you don’t eat and drink today, you’re a goner!”
I listened very carefully, even through the haze of weakness and pain. I tried my hardest to understand her, but still, nothing made sense.
“Please!”
The sheer terror and pain in her voice...
I gave myself some time. Just a little. Ten seconds to get myself moving. I slowly counted down from ten to one. My pain and weakness eased up the slightest bit, and I seized at the chance.
I twisted sharply, rolled over onto my stomach, and got my stiff legs under me. My right hand hit the wet, sticky floor with a slap and started helping my torso straighten itself. I opened my left eye a little. Closed it. Opened the right eye. Closed it.
Strong hands grabbed me and helped me up. I opened both eyes, noticed a dirty metal wall, and immediately leaned against it. Then I looked down, and froze in shock. I saw my stomach. Flat, muscular, no softness whatsoever. I could see clearly-defined, athletic abs. The skin over them was loose, wrinkled, and shot through with veins, but it looked like something temporary, like it would be back to normal soon. But below that... not the wide elastic band of the boxer shorts I was wearing, not the shorts themselves, but lower. My legs. But... how could such an athletic torso and strong hips sprout two spindly, match-thin legs, like an old man’s?
I turned my head slightly to look at my left arm. And helplessly swore in shock — the arm attached to my muscular shoulder was impossibly thin, the elbow blue and swollen. The right one was in similarly bad shape.
“What the...”
“Follow me! Hold on to the wall,” said the woman.
I finally saw her. She was very young, with dark olive skin, a trim figure, and short hair cut badly. She was missing an arm. Below similar shorts to the ones I wore, she had two muscular legs as black as coal. There was an old scar on her right cheek, and her forehead was crossed with a fresh red one. Her left eye was swollen, the beginnings of a bad black eye. Her lip was split, too. I saw two digits on the skin above her shirt. Nine and one.
“Come on! Come on.”
A rough push had me obediently taking my first step, holding on to the wall for support. Even then, I almost fell — my legs could barely support my body weight.
“It’ll be easier once your legs get stronger.”
“What’s going on? What happened to me? Why — ”
