Prototype Dorian

5.

Five days before the Selection

Morgan's arm comes off with a 'pop'. The sound is soft and crisp, drilling into my ears like a paintball, sending a chill down my spine.

I open my eyes and stare at the detached cyberarm I'm grasping. It cracks apart in my hands, and crumbles even more as I place it on the ground. My vision blurs. What used to be a strong, beautiful arm is now a pile of burned ash. Discarded. Disintegrated.

Destroyed.

"Why are you crying?" Morgan asks, breaking the silence between us. Their voice is no longer strained and breathless.

I wipe my tears away. "Shut up, Sánchez."

They chuckle. I expected to hear a snarky remark about my crying, but they say, "Yeah, well, sorry for making you do that, Lorensky. It was way too damaged. I had to get it off before it, uh, corrupts more of my body. And... thanks, by the way, for doing that."

The realization weighs on me. The cyberarm was corrupting their body? Was that why they were in so much pain? Did I get it off in time or was I too slow?

I look at them. Their head is lowered, and in the closet room's darkness, I can't see their expression.

"How, uh, how are you feeling now?" I ask.

"As good as I can be."

"You can get a new one, right?"

Morgan does not reply.

"Sorry, that was probably a stupid question," I say after an awkward pause. "Of course you can. I mean, there are other people with cyberlimbs in the Tower, and a few from our cadet class too, so surely there's a good supply of—"

A muffled roar interrupts me mid-sentence. We both spring to our feet.

"We should go check it out," Morgan says.

"But you should stay here, Sánchez."

"Why?" Their head snaps toward me. "Do you think I'm weak now, Lorensky?"

"What? No, I will never think that! I just—"

"Then I'm not staying here." They grab a handgun from the shelf behind them. With just one hand, they detach the gun magazine to confirm that it's loaded before pushing it back in with their abdomen. "Let's go."

I sigh. The two rifles from our shooting practice are still slung against my back, so I move one of them forward.

Cracking open the door, I peer out of the closet. It takes a few blinks for my eyes to adjust to the light. The shooting range appears empty. I open the door a little wider and give the entire room a quick scan.

Two round aircraft are parked along the demolished wall. Outside the Tower, a larger aircraft is docked to the hole and hovering in the air. These aircraft are eerily similar to the NovaTopian ones I've seen before: spherical, compact, and typically used for surveillance.

There are only two people in the area. They have weapons, so I assume they're guarding the aircraft, but they are chatting with each other and not paying attention to their surroundings. They're also not in uniform; their clothes are as casual and amateurish as their bandana masks around their faces.

I wonder who they are. They don't seem to have been trained for combat. Are they just regular civilians?

A gunshot thunders from the periphery, sending searing pain through my shoulder.

"Fuck!" I yelp, ducking behind the door, while Morgan jumps in front from behind me and shoots the two—no, three—other people in the room.