Warning: mild gore. I'm a med student and an FX artist - I have no concept of what will or will not make the average person squeamish. You've been warned.
Fluid drip-dripped through the chamber of the IV, every clear droplet reflecting the glow of mismatched screens that displayed fluctuating strings and lines and columns of information. A wall of code. Electrical output. Blood pressure.
There was a hiss of a soldering iron and a tendril of smoke that wafted into the air. Chopin's Winter Wind trilled from a set of speakers in the corner of the room. Blood dripped nearly in rhythm onto a plastic sheet. It dribbled from an incision in a well-tanned forearm, held mostly still by a makeshift stint and a local anesthetic. Fingers twitched as tweezers pushed aside a tendon, fished out a wire from amongst flesh and veins and muscle. The technician braced their own arm in their lap to reroute that wire, using all the leverage they could without doing damage, staining their jeans red in their own blood. There wasn't a lot of that. A soldering iron had multiple uses, after all.
Once that last wire was connected to the rest of the nervous system, the new appliance activated and the technician gave a triumphant smile. From there, they took a sip of coffee and picked up a needle and surgical thread. The numbness was running out, and it stung the moment the incision was disturbed. They didn't care. It wouldn't take long. While the technician valued a job well-done, it had been four hours of precision work and every muscle in their left hand was cramping. Amazing that it worked out at all. Either way, the scar would blend in. There were far worse on display.
Sloppy suture completed, the technician removed the splint, sat back on their ratty, thrown-away office chair, and admired their handiwork with an exhausted grin. A brand new weapon only a software update away.
Maybe someday they would thank Davenport Industries. Such a shame that tomorrow most certainly would not be that day.