“Come on, Landyn,” Bracken says. “If it were you, what would you want from us?”
“I’d want a new face and a giant cock before restoring my hands,” he says, tipping the bucket with my hands toward him. His sly smile as he lifts a hand and allows it to splash back into the bucket shatters the tension between us. I sigh with relief that he’s on board. “I’d want you bastards to restore my ability to do what I do best—women. Oh, but I’d want to be enhanced for her pleasure if you catch my drift. Implanted robotics, so I sport a baseball bat that spins, vibrates, and exudes cappuccino frosting as pre-fluid.”
“What’s your point, you perv,” Bracken says with an eyeroll.
“He’s got a point,” Drake says. “To give Frank his life back, we can’t just sew on those hands with half-assed robotics. He didn’t ask for human hands that are shit at surgery. He asked for Frank—caliber hands. How many robotic hands does Frank have in our apartment? What if we implant some neuros and use two of those with surgical instrument fingers?”
“Because he will only be a surgeon,” Bracken argues, blowing open a nitrile glove. “He won’t be able to have a life without fingers. Typing, bathing—”
“Fucking,” Landyn says with a pointed look at me. “No woman will let those digits near her cunt, and taking yourself in hand will be like sticking your cock in a blender. You up for that?”
“If I can operate, I’ll gladly leave populating this planet to Bracken. He never seems to lack patients in OB,” I grouse. “Who needs an active sex life if you are fulfilling your purpose?”
“Well, Florence Nightingale,” Bracken deadpans. “Will you allow me to use the skin from your old hands to create a face while Landyn and Drake get some shut-eye at our place? When they return, they will bring robotic hands—ones made by you.”
“If I must wait—”
“Yes, you must,” Bracken says firmly. “Mrs. Stein has been like a second mother since my family disowned me. I owe it to her to tell her what’s happened to you. Your mother won’t take my word for it when I say you’ve been crushed by a bus, but not to worry, because you are alive and talking. She will be here in minutes, and that’sifshe doesn’t go vigilante on the bus driver first. I’m not facing Bonnie Stein when you don’t have a face.”
“Which is why we’re leaving,” Drake says as she squeezes my shoulder.
“Yeah, dude, your mom is more frightening than your lack of face,” Landyn adds as he pats my head.
“Two grown doctors are scared of a sixty-year-old woman no more than four feet tall,” I reply with a cough. My ribs burn, with more aches blooming over my body. I need to be knocked out before I’m consumed with pain.
“Damn straight,” Drake replies at the door. “You think we saved your ass for your sweet personality? No, sir, it was our fear of the dragon lady.”
“It hurts too much to laugh,” I call after them. “Take your jokes out of here and come back with hands, or I’ll sic the dragon lady on you!”
“Are you in agony?” Bracken whispers when they leave.
“No,” I lie. “I’m terrified of a life without—”
“Yeah, yeah, we heard,” Bracken says. “Think about your life—”
“It’s a trade. I get it, Bracken,” I say with a sigh. “Even when I get control of my robotics, there’s no guarantee I’ll get a place in a hospital.”
“Yeah,” Bracken says as he draws a cocktail of painkillers into a syringe. “Getting through an interview without a personality or a face is more than I would want to tackle.”
“What did I say about laughing, doctor?” The cold fluid burns as it enters my body, followed by vapid bliss.
“Not sorry,” he replies as he removes my collected parts from the bucket they retrieved from the scene. I wince at the beer logo on the side. Ten hours ago, that bucket was filled with beers, ice, and reckless optimism. My friends and I sat around it, trying to appear attractive while making eyes at the ladies in the bar. I’m more grateful for him rinsing the flesh in alcohol than the coaching he gave me in the hopes that I’d pick up a woman tonight. There’s more than one way to collect an infection when I go bar hopping, apparently.
“I’ll do my best—”
“Says the OB to the surgeon. How did I get stuck with you working solo again?”
“Because you used the big guns to save your miserable life,” he replies with a laugh. “It’s okay. I know you aren’t laughing because you’re a bastard, not because it hurts. You should be flying high any minute now.”
“Getting there,” I say before adding, “thanks for being you.”
“I’ve got the best bedside manner, no matter what Landyn says. He just has the better hair. Joke's on him, because you’re going to get the best face. His cheekbones will look like dull butterknives compared to the razorblades I’m giving you. Trust me. You’ll be a knockout.”
“I don’t want to be a knockout. I want to be me.”
“Yeah, we can’t fix your personality with surgery, so that's good you want to be yourself. You’re kind of stuck being you.
“Bastard,” I whisper.
