Author's note: I would like to explain that a prosthetic hook is not like what you know from pirates. It is like a pair of strong, bent tweezers. The distal hook stays rigid in place, and the proximal hook can be moved (almost like a thumb,) to open or close the grip. That is achieved by a Bowden cable, that goes up the arm, and in Mark's case to the opposing shoulder. By moving that shoulder forwards, the cable gets pulled, and it opens the hook. Moving the shoulder back and taking the tension off the cable, closes the hook.


Super Human 2

The clock radio went off playing Recondita Armonica, rendered so beautifully by Luciano Pavarotti.

Mark reached out to put the music out.

Funny. He felt his hand, as it searched blindly for the button. He felt how he moved his fingers.

Only when no feedback of touching anything came, his brain made the connection that there was no hand attached.

Mark rolled on his back, and reached up with his right hand instead.

He sat up on the edge of the bed, stretched with relish in the fresh air that came in through the open window, yawning completely unabashed.

Six o'clock.

Good.

That would give him enough time.

He stepped into his slippers, and headed for his bathroom.

So now. This shouldn't be all that hard.

He let the warm water run, and filled his beaker. Then he put the tip on his electrical toothbrush, using the charger as a stand.

Toothpaste.

Well, with no second hand available, he took the cap between his teeth, and twisted the tube to open it.

He squeezed a little blob of paste on his toothbrush, while it was still standing upright in the charger, then the cap went back on the same way it had come off.

That wasn't too hard, was it?

He picked up his toothbrush and began to brush.

He was having enough of being taken care of like a child. Ever since he had been in hospital, he had nurses to help him with his personal hygiene, and getting dressed.

But he felt it was about time now to take his life back in his own hands.

- Hand.

And brushing his teeth single-handedly certainly was easy enough.

To get the shaving foam into his face, he simply sprayed the estimated amount into the sink, and scooped it up from there to apply it.

He had used a straight razor all his life, and was well versed in turning it over in one hand. He only had to crane his neck a bit more to smooth out the skin.

The ability to take care of himself upped his mood from good to excellent, and he began to hum a merry tune while he freed his face of gray stubble.

Actually the only problem was to wash himself under his right arm, and apply deodorant there. He solved the first problem by putting a bath mitt over his stump, and bringing his shoulders closest possible together.

The amputation had been through the elbow, so he had the advantage of the whole length of his upper arm.

Only for the deodorant he found no solution. But he didn't let that get in the way of his great mood.

Feeling fresh and fortified, he went to get dressed.

He could have just simply put on a long-sleeved turtleneck jersey. But this was about learning to get along, so he chose a regular shirt instead.

He closed the button on the right cuff, and then used his teeth to pull it over his hand. And while he patiently buttoned up the rest, he thought how lucky he was to have done surgery, and legerdemain all his life. Nimble fingers like his were an exception at his age.

And it was his age that finally made him give up on the socks. He might have been able to somehow wriggle his feet into them, but sitting crouched for so long thwarted every plan in that direction.

So what? This is southern California.

He stepped into his worn moccasin slippers, and cast a proud look at his mirror image. "Not bad, old boy."

He experimentally folded up the left sleeve, but discarded that idea instantly again.

Although he was getting the impression that the empty sleeve was grossing his son out just the same.

But well, having the cuff pinned to his shoulder simply looked weird.

He let it drop again, but didn't tuck the cuff into his pocket this time.

Almost seven. Steve will come up in a couple of minutes.

Still humming he left his room, and went to the kitchen to get the coffee going.

That went without a hitch.

Then he got out a good-sized glass bowl, and cracked eggs into it.

Cracking eggs single-handedly was no problem, but the bowl always tipped when he hit the rim.

He tried laying the egg on a saucer, and cracking it with a flick of a knife. But eggs can be so elusive.

At least this time no egg fell down.

He went from humming to singing, as he skillfully whisked eggs, milk and flour into a batter.

"Dad, what are you..."

Mark turned around. "Good morning Son. Coffee will be ready in another moment."

Steve stood rooted by the entrance, checking his watch against the kitchen clock. "Why... - Was Philippa early?" he wondered. "Why didn't you tell..."

"Philippa wasn't here yet." Mark fell in, and couldn't quite keep his pride out of his voice. "I got ready by myself."

Steve's brains started tumbling. How the heck was that possible? How could anybody get a pair of pants up, and closed, and even got a shirt tucked into it, with only just one arm? And how did he...

"Pancakes?" Mark asked with a smile.

He had a pretty good idea of what was going on in his son's head. There are a couple of expressions that disabled people see on a frequent basis.

"Dad, you could have told me to come up earlier." Steve said, and moved to take the whisk from Mark's hand.

"No Steve." Mark said with gentle authority. "I have to know if I can get along on my own, before I give notice to Philippa."

"Give notice?" Steve flared up. "Dad! How do you think..."

"That is exactly what I'm testing here, Son. Take a seat. Have a cup of coffee."

Steve let out his breath, and did as he was told.

He sat down on a stool by the island, and watched his Dad from behind.

How terribly awkward everything seemed to be for him. His Dad has been an avid cook, and a great multi tasker in the kitchen. When he used to make pancakes it was batter in with one hand, and done pancakes out of the pan with the other.

Now his progress was so painfully slow. He always had to put down one tool to use the other, or maybe even just shake the skillet.

He would have liked to go out and grant his Dad some privacy. But since his Dad had invited him to sit here, he felt he couldn't really do that.

And he was really set on doing things right now, especially after hurting his Dad's feelings so badly last night.

What was he thinking, to stare at the empty sleeve?

It wasn't the first time that he had seen his Dad without the prosthetic arm.

The doorbell rang, and Steve jumped up, maybe a tad too fast.

Mark pursed his lips over an indulgent smile, and scooped another pancake out.

"Well well well," Philippa came into the kitchen, her hands on her hips. "This looks like I'm gonna be out of a job soon."

Mark turned, grinning proudly, his lower lip between his teeth to add a little sheepishness.

"Fantastic!" Philippa was full of praise. "Shave, buttons, belt, - the whole nine yards!"

Mark wagged his head, and tugged up one leg of his slacks, sticking out his foot to show his bare ankle. "Afraid not completely."

She made a dismissive gesture. "No problem. We gonna get you a sock aid. Now that you are up and about, it's about time anyway to see what aids you need. Ask James when you see him later. Or your orthotist. You should take notes of all the difficulties that come up during your day, and then take the notes to any expert, and find a solution."

"I'll do that." Mark said, and picked his watch from his pocket, handing it Philippa to put it around his wrist.

They had breakfast together, now that Philippa had some time to spare, and afterwards went to Mark's bedroom, where she gave him a vibration massage on his back, to keep his lungs free and unobstructed, and took care of his stump.

She applied a salve with great care, rubbing gently, until the skin was almost dry again, and then selected two socks of the proper thickness, to make up for what the stump had lost of its volume.

Last she helped him to put the prosthesis on, and admonished him to not wear it all day again.


"How can I help you?"

Steve was standing in the corner of the salesroom of a medical supply shop, trying to blend into his surroundings. He felt like he was intruding inexcusably on the private sphere of the young man, who stood with the leg of his Jeans up to his knee, and complained about too much of a spring in his artificial foot.

And now that he got addressed he felt like caught, and knew that his ears were giving his embarrassment away.

He cleared his throat, and opened his wallet. "Uhm, I'd like to pick up these."

The clerk took the slip of paper. "Yes sure. If you want to take a seat in the waiting area please? It will take a few minutes."

Steve nodded and turned towards the indicated doorway.

He hesitated before he entered. Last time he had been here, there was a little boy in a wheelchair, who had obviously just lost his leg, and was inconsoleable.

Steve had been absolutely heartbroken, and found himself thinking that maybe after all he was lucky that he doesn't have children.

And he was relieved to see that this time there was only one girl, sitting next to the entrance, with a bright blue cast on her left arm.

Feeling more confident, he entered with a friendly 'hello'.

The girl looked up, brushing a strand of fair hair behind her ear, and instead of returning the greeting, she sat up a bit more straight, and followed him with such obvious admiration in her gaze, that Steve had to smile.

She was a delicate little thing, filling only maybe half of the red vinyl chair, and her feet didn't quite touch the floor.

She had lowered her head again, to go on leafing through the magazine she held on her knees, but still, Steve could see a light hue of pink on her ivory cheeks.

He leaned back in his chair and put his ankle up on his knee, for some extra masculinity, in case she would look up again.

And while he tried to guess the girl's age, he found himself relax for what must be the first time after four months of constant worries.

First the fear for his Dad's life, then the fight with Jesse. Jesse's long absence, and his Dad's chest infection. All he had wished for was that Mark should wake up again. If only he pulled through, the rest would find itself.

But that hadn't happened. Nothing seemed to be in any right place anymore.

His Dad had felt so uneasy as a patient in his own hospital, and he could very well understand that. So he had taken his Dad home.

He had needed constant attention and monitoring, because the chest infection had let his lungs fill up with water, which had caused many choking fits, and made constantly available oxygen a necessity.

They had to have a hospital bed at home, and Philippa was the remaining nurse of a team of three, who had looked after him in shifts.

Steve had called in all the vacation days he had accumulated, and stayed home with his Dad, spending the nights next to him on the couch, despite the medical personnel they had, and so often had to jump up and put the oxygen mask over Mark's face, when his body started to heave convulsively in suffocation.

But attritional as those days had been, the real harrow began when his Dad had started to feel better, and began to pass his time.

Every day it became more apparent that his Dad was disabled now.

Steve laid his hand involuntarily on his stomach, as he felt it tie up in a knot.

Disability had always meant 'them'. Disability was a terribly sad thing he had only seen from afar.

And now disability was all over his life.

Steve himself had been at least temporarily disabled a couple of times over the years. Had to use a wheelchair after particularly bad injuries. And he knew how awkward everything suddenly gets.

And with his Dad it wasn't temporarily. The arm was gone.

He couldn't even begin to imagine how it would be to give up a whole life. Everything that has been dear to one. His Dad would never be able to play the piano again, nor his beloved clarinet. Even just reading a book is difficult, to hold it in place and turn the pages with only just one hand.

And he couldn't play cards. Always one of their favorite pastimes when one of them was sick.

And when Steve had canceled their fishing trip a couple weeks ago, he had realized that his Dad will never be able again to reel in a fish.

Not to mention that he couldn't practice medicine anymore.

Nor tie his shoes.

Steve heaved a sigh. The list was endless, and grew longer every day.

And he knew that his Dad was terribly uneasy. He had hardly ever seen him without his prosthetic arm, ever since he got it. And if he had it off, he tried to conceal his missing arm with long sleeves.

On the other hand, his Dad was displaying so much confidence. He had never once heard a single complaint, when yet another thing had proven to be impossible now.

He had accepted his challenges with so much courage, that Steve thought his heart would burst with pride.

Yes, he knew that a lot of it was a show for him, to make him feel better.

But doesn't it take extraordinary strength, to be maimed so badly, and still put on a smile?

"Excuse me?"

Steve looked up.

The girl was trying to catch his attention, leaning a bit forwards, to maybe make sure her soft voice would carry all the way across the room.

"Would you please be so kind and pass me a cup of water?" she asked, pointing at the dispenser not even six feet away from her.

This was so apparently an attempt to start talking to him, that Steve had to smile.

"Why of course." he said, and crossed the room to the cooler.

She was watching him with bright eyes and such cute reverence, that it emboldened him to sit down next to her, crossing his legs in nonchalance.

"Had an accident?" he asked the obvious as he passed her the cup, indicating the bad abrasion on her chin.

"Yeah." She rolled her eyes. "Have been going for years without a hitch, and the moment I go on a vacation..." She trailed off, and wriggled her arm with the cast on. "Weird, huh?"

Steve chuckled.

"You aren't from here?"

"Nope. Germany." she said, and peered into her cup, wrinkling up her nose.

"Something wrong?" he asked.

"Ya, no, not really. I just loath plain water."

Steve held his hand out with a smile. "You don't have to drink it. Let me pour it away."

"No thanks really. I have to keep myself hydrated." she said, and began to sip down the presumably repulsive beverage.

Steve watched her in amused puzzlement.

Though she was apparently attracted to him, there was nothing of the usual flirting he actually had expected. She hadn't turned towards him, hadn't crossed her legs, nor had she touched her hair, or whatever else women do to send out signals.

And a woman she was. Had she looked like barely out of her teens from a distance, he would now put her in her mid twenties. A bit to his relief.

"Can I invite you to a drink?" he offered.

She turned, and looked at him with big eyes over the rim of the paper cup.

"Umm," He held out his hand. "The name is Steve."

She took it, her eyes still wide and bright, and still sipping water.

Then she lowered the cup, wrinkling up her face in displeasure, and said: "Minnie. - Can I have another one, please?"

Steve took the cup with a smile, and a big crease of puzzlement on his forehead. "Certainly. But you really don't have to drink this if you don't like it. - Or, are you having plans already?"

"No." she hurried to assure him.

"Fine. There is a nice BBQ just a couple of blocks away." he said, and cast a look at his watch. He had left work early, and going by yesterday he figured his Dad would be fine, and was getting along without him. "We can go there as soon as we are out of here."

"Fine." she agreed, a pink hue of excitement on her cheeks.

Then she tapped her finger on the edge of the cup in his hand. "Can I?"

He rose with a chuckle. "Certainly."

As the cup filled slowly, a man entered the room, pushing a wheelchair. "I'm sorry. This is the best we can get out of this."

Minnie cast a pouting look at the chair, and heaved a sigh. "But look where the axle is. I can't tip it a single Inch that way. Especially not with this."

She motioned accusingly at her blue cast.

"I'm sorry. But if we move the axle any further, the chair will become unsteady."

Minnie gave him a pointed look. "That is exactly what I'm talking about. And what about the armrests? Can't you at least remove them?"

"I'm sorry. But you cannot use the chair without the side guards. You could get injured by the spokes."

Minnie heaved another deep sigh, and rolled her eyes in an eloquent way.

She angled the chair with a practiced motion, and slid into it, leaning on her arms.

Steve realized with a start that the chair had nothing to do with her accident.

She was paralyzed.

She lifted her legs by the knees to set her feet on the foot rests, and looked at Steve. "Are you terribly disappointed?"

"I.. No! - I..."

"Good." She gave him a placid smile. "I would hate to not go for a drink with you."

"Lt. Sloan?"

Steve turned around to the clerk. "Yes."

He excused himself with a nod towards Minnie, and followed the clerk to the counter, to pay for the compression socks.

His mind was awhirl of course.

He would have never had the brashness to flirt with a disabled girl. If you are in a wheelchair, he figured, you would have enough on your plate, and wouldn't want to serve as amusement for some guy. But Minnie really didn't seem to have taken any offense.

He saw her now wheeling up to his side, and cast her a smile that was supposed to convey that if she was still interested, his offer was still on, but at the same time, that he wouldn't press her.

She said nothing. Only watched him with quiet awe, and rosy cheeks.

When he gave his signature, she craned her neck to have a look, and then sat back again with a pleased smile.

Steve pocketed his wallet again and turned. "Ready to g..."

Chrissake!

Just in time he bit his tongue, and now it were his ears coloring up. And quite more than just rosy.

Minnie smiled, and held out her injured arm. "Yes, let's go."

He hesitated to take the hand. It was so small, and it was injured already. What if he hurt her with those big hands of his?

And wouldn't she need her hands...?

Or should he push her?

"It would be fine if you could drag me along a bit." Minnie explained in her easygoing way. "This idiot chair is a total chunk."

"Won't I hurt you?"

"Naww." She wrapped her fingers around what she could hold of his hand. "They put it in a cast so I can use it. Never worry."

He smiled, if maybe not completely convinced, and then took hold of her wrist, deeming it more safe to only hold her by the cast when he pulled her.

Minnie was pleased to find him so awesomely strong, that he could drag her along without her having to really pull her wheel. So she reached over with the unneeded hand, and tugged up the hem of his jacket, revealing the revolver on his belt.

"Are you a cop?" she wondered.

Steve squirmed a bit. This usually was the point when his potential dates say good bye.

"Erm, yes." he admitted, and stepped aside to let her through the door.

But Minnie remained standing where she was, and breathed a little, excited gasp. "With the LAPD?"

"Well, yes." he said, growing more relaxed by her undisguised awe, and definitely amused.

She gasped again, and wheeled through the door. "Wow. Just like in my novel?"

Steve chuckled. "Well, if it is a murder mystery."

He pointed towards the left side. "My car is right there."

"Good." Minnie replied, and zipped down the ramp, stopping next to a rickety Toyota. "Because I would hate to take you in this rattrap." She squinted up at him. "Can I follow you? I'm having the hardest time finding places in this total tall town."

"Sure." he said with a smile, and then headed for his own car, before his bad conscience showed.

Of course he wanted to offer her his help to get into the car. And he sure had no idea how that little person could get that wheelchair into the car.

But he knew enough about disabled people to know, that they didn't very much appreciate people constantly offering help for what they do on a frequent basis.

And though he hadn't expected her to drive, she obviously did so.

And so she would probably know best.

And he figured she didn't want a stranger standing by, watching her struggles to enter her car.

He reached his car, and despite his willingness to grant Minnie her privacy, he couldn't help himself and turned around.

Minnie had opened the back door of the car, and was now holding on tightly to the frame, and pulled herself painfully difficult to a stand.

One of her thin legs started shaking uncontrollably, and she pressed her hand on it above the knee, to make it stop.

It took her a moment to find her balance, and with one hand still holding on tightly to the car, she struggled to fold the chair with the other.

Steve only hesitated for a second. But this clearly was not easy for Minnie in any way, and he had no intention to let her lift the heavy chair in herself. Whether she would mind that he had watched her, or not.

He started back towards the old Toyota, and inhaled to call out for her to put the wheelchair back down.

That was when the chair slipped from her hands, and she sank to the black topped ground, hitting her head hard.

"Minnie!"