Chapter Eight

It was closer to two days, than 'tomorrow', but I had to give Emily points for near-accuracy. Punctuality and telling time had never been her strong point.

When they wheeled my legs in so I could get a look at them (and, for the record, a more bizarre phrase I have never used in my life) I was quite…underwhelmed. After my meeting with Emily, and telling her I wanted 'flying' legs, I wasn't sure what to expect. Metal, definitely. Some composite alloy, all shiny and tough. Maybe skeletal, like in The Terminator. With rockets on the heels. At the very least, tiny wings by the ankles. Was that too much to ask for.

Instead, my new legs were..well…leg like.
Doctor Wilks, however, was overflowing with enthusiasm. "Mr Tucker, wait until you try these beauties out!"
"They're…legs."
"Yes, they are." Wilks blinked. "What did you expect, some skeletal hyper-alloy, like in a bad science fiction movie?"
Well… "No, not at all. But these seem so…regular."
"Well, they are. Feel them! Feel them!"
Sitting up as best I could, I grasped one of the legs, and let go just as quickly.
"They're…real."
"No, the outside is covered in a synthetic flesh. The same material as your skin grafts. When they're attached, nobody will be able to tell them apart from the real thing. They'll tan, burn, even bleed! Although," he added, as an afterthought, "You don't want these to bleed. At least, not in public."
I narrowed my eyes. "Why?"
"Well, these legs have some modifications that are powered by a semi-organic battery. I've been led to understand you've been briefed?"
I nodded. It was a brief…well...briefing.
"The circulatory 'blood' that flows through these veins aren't red. Although, if you wanted to, we could find a way to colour them. As it is, however, if these legs get cut, they'll bleed…well…"
"Spit it out, Doc!"
"Green."
I blinked.
"I'll bleed green?"
"Only in your lower legs, I assure you. The only real difficulty will be attaching them."
"Why?"
Wilks sighed. "Jason, you have to understand that you were nearly burned to death by a flamethrower. Intense heat covered your body…"
"Yes, Doc, we've had the discussion about my eyes exploding."
"It also cauterized a great many of your wounds. Which, actually, saved your life. However, in order to get these legs onto your knees, so you can walk again, and, to be more precise, walk naturally again, and actually feel your legs, we're going to have to…well…open up the wounds."
Ah. Still, it wouldn't be so bad. I mused. All I'd have to do is be put under, and…
"And then," he continued, "Attaching the lower legs won't be as simple as screwing them on. Your eyes were different, as they don't actually feel. With them, it was a case of attaching the nerves and letting the system do the rest. With the legs, however…"
I sighed. As much as I was beginning to like Doctor Wilks, he could ramble, and chat, all day, without ever reaching his point.
"We need you to be awake for the procedure. And without the influence of any sort of pain medication, as we need you to be able to feel what's going on, so we know we have the correct nerves."
Oh.
"And even then, we need you to stay off medication for the duration of the healing process, so that the nerve impulses work properly. Without the correct information, even one of pain, the brain won't recognise your legs will work, and we'd have to do it all over again."
"How long…will this take?"
"The operation? Maybe 36 hours."
I stared at Wilks. "And the re-cuperation process?"
He shrugged. "Anything from one month to four."
A third of a year. In intense pain. All so I could fly?

"Let's get started now, then."

---

The next four months simply flew by. I barely felt any pain at all, and actually enjoyed the physiotherapy, coupled with intense safety and control meetings with various doctors and instructors on how to use my legs to their maximum potential. Within a week, I was up and about, and within two, I was outrunning cars…

No, just kidding. I was in agony. I'm a guy, right? A fairly manly, stereotypical 'dude'. However, I'm not ashamed to admit that I was crying, freely, from five minutes into the procedure (which Doctor Wilks' cheerfully called 'hacking open your legs with a rusty saw') up until…well, the pain didn't stop, but I certainly grew used to it. Unless I moved. Sadly, because I moved when I took a breath in, it made things worse. I used to breath in quickly, to get rid of the pain faster, hold my breath, and then slowly breath out.
Breathing out was worse than breathing in. The worst thing about it, the absolute worst, was the knowledge that I happily agreed to subject myself to all this pain. You might thank that the knowledge would make it easier?

I call bullshit on you.

Women…reach into your mouth, and yank out a tooth. Right now. Go on, find a nice, healthy tooth, and rip that little bugger right out of there. With your fingers. I dare you…no, I double dare you.
You won't do it, will you?
And why not?
The answer is, 'I won't do it, Jay, because it will hurt.'
Yes. Yes, it will. Now imagine turning around and letting someone, with full consent, rip out all your teeth, simultaneously, without any sort of anaesthesia.

Guys…find a good looking woman, stand with your legs apart, and tell them that you want them to kick you, full force, in the testicles. Okay, most of the time, they'll think you're sex freaks and run away. But imagine a five time black belt, man hating lesbian did it to you. As hard as she could. Twice. Think you'd still be willing to go through it again? Hell, think you'd still be standing? Or even conscious? I doubt you'd be able to raise so much as a smile for the rest of your natural.

Now, boys (or former boys, if you actually did it) and girls, imagine going through that pain, every second, of every minute, of every day, for four whole months, and tell me I was smart to let them do it.

Looking back, all this time later, I can honestly look back where I stand (and I'm overjoyed, even after all this time, to say I can stand at all) and say I'm glad I did it. I'm happy, and pleased, that I let Wilks and his team put me through all that pain, for months on end, through all that gruelling physiotherapy that didn't seem to work until I 'accidentally' kicked my therapist in the chest, knocking him back 10 feet and breaking four of his ribs. I'm relieved that all that pain I went through, all that yelling and shouting for Wilks and the instructors to get out of my hospital room during safety discussions, all the walking up and down stairs for sheer agony, was worth it.

But would I do it all again?

Not on your life, matey.

---

It had been five months since the operation. The pain had gone, for the most part. I still got the odd twinge, every now and again, but I was assured that it was mostly Phantom Limb pain, where my brain was still re-adjusting to the new legs, and trying to forget my old ones had gone. It would, much like the skin graft itching, pass without incident. I could stand, I could walk, I could run. I could go to the toilet by myself (oddly, this was the greatest pleasure out of all of them), and, most importantly, I knew how to fly.
In theory.

Doctor Wilks, and his team, weren't much help on the subject. Sammy had little advice beyond "Go on, mate, flap your arms!" and Emily, although she had visited once or twice, had important things to attend to. Frankly, I'm glad she didn't visit much, as I didn't want her to see me as an invalid. She had, however, on one of her rare visits, left me a book. A book on flying.
It was called (and no, I'm not making this up) 'I Believe I Can Fly'. It was written by a Doctor Richard Kelly.

Think about that one for a second. Then tell me it wasn't a joke present.

The 'critically acclaimed' book had this to say on the subject of flying, which I read many times during my convalescence.

"There is an art to flying. Or, rather simply, a knack. To fly without conscious decision is the most difficult, and yet, the most important task to manage. First, watch a bird in flight on a sunny day. See how it soars majestically, wings outstretched, finding thermal pockets and rising above the world below. This will be Lesson One. Wait until a sunny day, and stand a good distance from the ground…five or six metres will suffice. Then, spread your arms, tilt your head to the sun, and take a leap. A leap of faith. Faith in yourself, and the powers of flight that you possess.
"When you have fallen to the ground, realise one fact. One truth, which you should keep in your mind forever.

"Lesson One. You are NOT a bird."

…The book actually goes on like that for quite some time. It never reveals what you –are-, just what you are not. I suppose the last lesson should have been 'You are NOT smart for wasting your money on this', but then, it probably wouldn't sell so much. I idly wondered, one day, just how many people were stupid enough to jump from 19 feet in the air, believing in the faith that they were birds. Not too many, I guessed.

In mid-december, I figured out how to sort of…hover, in the air, however, that was all I could manage. It was a slow way to travel, and in the fights I knew I would get into, I knew it was a pathetic mode of transportation. Nobody seemed to think it was that serious, and even that damned book told me that 'Flight, although elusive and slow at first, will speed up as you gain more and more power in the world'.

Richard Kelly was such a hack.

In the mean time, I learned more valuable skills. I practiced with the Fire Sword daily, for hours at a time. Eventually, I had the cylindrical power unit sewn into a glove I would wear at all times, so whenever I made a fist, it would ignite.
Sammy obverved this one day, and advised I didn't make any…uhm…'manly' trips to privacy, shall we say. Actually, the precise phrase he used was "Yo, Jay man. Don't be jerkin' the gherkin".

Whatever.

Also, Emily pointed out that I couldn't pee with the glove on, unless I wanted to live my life known as Super Catheter Man. I also received, one day, an oak box with the Emblem of the Truth of The Flame on it. Upon opening it, I saw a gun. Of a sort. In fact, it looked more like a paintball gun than anything else, but I was advised that is was quite lethal. Sammy read through the instruction manual one evening, as I amused myself by changing my vision with the keyboard, from normal vision, to infra-red (which, incidentally, makes a great lie detector), to Ultra-Violet,to X-Ray, Night Vision, and back again. Emily stood in the corner, watching, and grinned at me when she saw me checking her out. If only she knew I was looking at, not only her body, but her whole skeletal structure.
"Semi-Auto burst shot, single shot, sniper rifle, bean bag launcher, sniper rifle, flamethrower…this thing has it all!"
I nodded. "It'll be useful. Unlike this damn hovering skill." I complained as I launched myself into a puttering hover, not two feet off the ground.
"You'll get better at it, mate." Sammy said, his eyes not once leaving the manual. It's strange, I thought. All this time, and Sammy had suddenly taken a huge interest in what my capabilities were, my strengths and weaknesses. Still, it isn't every day your best friend turns into a Superhero, I told myself. That was probably it.
He checked his watch. "Look, mate, I have to run. I'm meeting some Superbird over at Pocket D. I'll catch you later, okay?"
I nodded. "Sure, have fun."

Sammy left, and Emily moved closer. "He seems to like this city."
"It's grown on him. We've been here nearly a year, after all."
Emily nodded. "Which reminds me. It's Christmas next week," I blinked. Already? "And the annual Mayoral Ball is coming up. Unless," Emily wrinkled her nose. "The Gamester interferes again."
"The who?"
She shrugged it off. "It isn't important. Anyway, I was hoping that maybe, if you were up to it…"
"Em!" I said, pretending to be shocked. "Are you asking me out on a date?"
She blushed. Just for fun, I changed my vision to infra-red, and nearly gasped with how much more red her face was that way. I changed it back quickly.
"Well, yes, I suppose I am."
"Well. Okay, then." I shrugged. "I need to test out these new legs in a social setting, that may as well be a good field test as any."
She stared. "A field test? You're calling a date with me, on Christmas eve, a 'field test'?"
"Uhm….no."
"Good." She looked over at me. "Which reminds me, we need to set you up with a visit to a tailor."
"What's wrong with a normal tux? I look good in a tux." I said, defensively. She moved closer, and brushed some imaginary dirt from my shoulders.
"I know you do, but I was thinking more along the lines of your costume."
Ohh.
"I see." I nodded. "Well, I've been having a few ideas."
"Tell me?" She smiled slightly.
"Nope. Set me up with this tailor, and you'll see when everybody else does?"
She grinned. "Before or after the ball?"
I quirked an eyebrow at her. "There'll be an after?"

Emily smiled, and moved to leave the room. I watched her go, swaying her hips more than normal. My mouth felt suddenly very dry. She never stopped moving, but she turned her head, and shot over her shoulder. "If you've been a very good boy."

I love Christmas.