I almost ignore him, just like I've ignored anyone who asked.
It's classified.
Then I remember where I am and the desire to share some of the misery and possibly expunge it makes my heart thump painfully in my chest.
I clear my throat. "The arm was all but ripped off during a botched operation. It barely worked before I came here. My career was over."
"As a warrior?'
"Yes. That mission was a disaster, and the rest of my original battle group died. The memory of their screams still haunts me."
He makes a low sound that manages to communicate his own shared experience.
That day has been the cause of my persistent nightmares. Despite the trauma, I all but begged to return to active service, but after months of healing and physical therapy, my arm never improved enough.
The familiar phantom ache blooms in my limb, a dull throb that never fully subsided until the genali took me. My squad was taken from me in a few short moments.
It's a memory I lock away most of the time, a gaping hole in my past that still manages to claw its way to the surface in the quiet moments.
And then I just up and dreamed about it. I hadn't had that dream in weeks.
Pushing the memory down, I flex my left hand. Fully functional flesh and bone, the familiar ache of exertion.
I still can't get over how seamlessly it moves. If I'm honest, all of me moves better than I have for years. Maybe better than I ever did.
A marvel of alien biology, a fully functioning limb thanks to those damned pink slime monster genali. It feels strange. Not alien, exactly, but different. Like wearing a well-made, but ill-fitting glove.
They did more than fix a limb, of course. The whole-body modification surgery, or whatever they did, is a mystery. A jumble of fragmented memories and hazy explanations.
The ability to speak alien languages after a single exposure, the persistent low hum of energy that seems to course beneath my skin, and the occasional, unexpected pang of regeneration when I scrape a knee.
What else were they hiding in me, these unwanted upgrades?
Lost in thought, I idly trace the unfamiliar curve of my new arm, the smooth, hairless skin nothing like the scars that usedto be etched across it. My fingers brushes down to the tips of my fingers, and a frown mars my face.
Pink nails. The same disconcerting shade as my hair, which, much to my dismay, has somehow grown to midway down my back since yesterday.
I hate the pink. It screams 'alien experiment' louder than any other modification, though I suppose that's because I don't often see my eyes.
A quick look in the reflective glass was nauseating.
Scowling, I run my thumb over one of the newly formed nails. They are different. Thicker than human nails, with a slight, unsettling sheen.
An idea sparks in my mind, a flicker of defiance against the helplessness that gnaws at me. With a determined set to my mouth, I reach into my backpack and retrieve the makeshift glass shard.
So engrossed am I in my task, meticulously scraping and sharpening the pink nail into a point, that I don't notice Drasuk looming over me until his shadow falls across the makeshift workbench of leaves and twigs I created.
"What are you doing?" he rumbles, his voice deep and curious.
I flinch, startled, and nearly stab myself with the blade. "Ugh, you scared the living daylights out of me, Drasuk," I exclaim, tossing the glass shard down in annoyance.
"Do you survive on lights? What an odd form of sustenance."
"What? No."
"Then why—"
"Don't worry about it, lizard brain."
