Zoey sat in the clinic’s sterile testing room, her eyes focused on the new prosthetic arms the techs were attaching to her shoulder mounts. The red-and-black plating gleamed under the harsh lights, but she barely noticed it. All she could think about was the promise the technicians had made: tactile feedback. For the first time in years, she might actually be able to feel something with her hands again.
As the new arms clicked into place, a rush of sensation flooded through her, tingling and strange, like static electricity under her skin. She flexed her new fingers slowly, hesitantly, and felt the texture of the chair beneath her touch—the cool smoothness of the plastic, the subtle grooves that had been worn down over time. She ran her fingertips over the armrest, feeling every bump and imperfection, and for a moment, her breath caught in her throat.
Zoey had always been tough—unbreakable, unyielding. But the flood of sensation hitting her all at once sent a wave of unexpected emotion crashing through her. Her eyes stung, and she swallowed hard, clenching and unclenching her fists as she tried to steady herself. “I... I can feel,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. She touched her own arms, feeling the cool metal against her skin, the smoothness of the plating, the faint hum of the servos. It was something she had thought she would never experience again, and it tore something loose inside her that she had kept locked away for years.
The techs gave each other awkward glances, clearly unsure of how to respond to the sight of Zoey, the unflinching mercenary, suddenly overcome with emotion. But they quickly turned their attention back to their notes, clearing their throats as they prepared to start the strength tests.
Zoey took a few steadying breaths, forcing the emotions back down. She wasn’t here to get sentimental—she was here to see if these new arms could actually hold up in a fight. Wiping her eyes quickly with the back of her hand, she pushed herself to her feet and approached the testing range. The techs nodded, gesturing toward a stack of cinder blocks set up at the far end of the room.
“Just... take it easy at first, Ms. Lavender,” one of the techs said, adjusting his glasses nervously. “These arms are designed for enhanced tactile feedback. You might find the experience a little... different than what you’re used to.”
Zoey shot him a sharp look, her lips curling into a scowl. “Yeah, yeah, I get it. Let’s just get this over with.” She balled her hand into a fist, feeling the subtle pressure of her own grip. It was strange, but almost... comforting.
She squared up in front of the cinder blocks, muscles tensing as she prepared to strike. Her mind fell back into old habits, and she threw her punch with the same force she always did—expecting the satisfying crunch of stone breaking under her strength.
Instead, pain exploded through her arm the moment her knuckles met the concrete. It was sharp and blinding, radiating up through her fingers and into her wrist, a sensation she hadn’t felt in years. She gasped, stumbling back, clutching her hand as she struggled to process what had just happened.
The cinder block was barely chipped, but Zoey’s new prosthetic throbbed with pain, the feedback system translating the impact into a searing ache. Her breath came in short, ragged bursts as she cradled her hand against her chest, her vision swimming. “What the—?!”
The techs rushed over, panic flashing across their faces. “Ms. Lavender, are you alright? We told you to take it easy—”
Zoey rounded on them, her face twisted in a mix of anger and confusion. “The hell is this? Why... why does it hurt?” Her voice broke on the last word, raw with disbelief. “I’m not... I’m not supposed to feel pain in these.”
The techs exchanged nervous glances, one of them adjusting his tablet as if searching for an explanation. “The feedback system is designed to replicate a full range of sensations, including pain, to help users better understand the limits of their strength. It’s meant to prevent overexertion and—”
“Shut up!” Zoey snapped, her voice cracking as she clutched her hand tighter, the ache throbbing in time with her pulse. She tried to process the flood of sensations, the alien feeling of vulnerability that came with it. Her mind reeled, flashing back to the years she had spent relying on her old, numb prosthetics—where she could smash through concrete and rip apart steel without ever feeling the strain. Without ever feeling weak.
But now, with these new arms, all she felt was pain. And the realization hit her like a physical blow: she was used to being invincible, to never having to worry about what her body could handle. But these new prosthetics made her... fragile, vulnerable in a way she had almost forgotten.
She clenched her jaw, fighting back the wave of emotion that threatened to choke her. “Take these fucking things off,” she hissed, shoving past the techs. “Now.”
The technicians hesitated, but the look on Zoey’s face left no room for argument. They scrambled to disconnect the new arms, their hands shaking slightly as they detached the connectors. Zoey’s breath came in shuddering gasps as the sensation faded, replaced by the dull, familiar emptiness in her shoulder sockets.
She snatched up her old prosthetics from the cart, reattaching them with sharp, jerking motions. The heavy, black arms clicked into place with a solid, mechanical noise, and she flexed her fingers, feeling the absence of feedback like a welcome relief. For the first time, the weight of her old arms felt like a comfort—solid, reliable, unyielding.
Without a word, she turned back to the testing range. Her expression hardened, her anger boiling over as she drove her fist into the cinder blocks again—this time with her old prosthetics. The concrete shattered under the impact, fragments flying across the room. She followed up with another strike, then another, until the testing range was littered with rubble and dust, the air filled with the sound of metal smashing against stone.
When she finally stopped, she turned back to the techs, her chest heaving with ragged breaths. They stood frozen, staring at the destruction she had wrought with wide eyes.
“I’m keeping these,” Zoey growled, flexing her fingers as she felt the comforting, familiar numbness of her old arms. “You can keep your fancy toys. But if you want to make yourself useful... maybe figure out how to make these stronger.”
The techs nodded numbly, too stunned to argue. And as Zoey turned to leave the testing room, she forced herself to ignore the tightness in her throat, the lingering sting of emotions she wasn’t ready to face. All she knew was that she wasn’t ready to trade in her strength for anything—even if it meant feeling again.
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