I remember one time, during a lecture at Signal Academy, my psychology professor tried to explain how the brain and senses interact. I was on board, paying… a pretty decent amount of attention. 60% of my attention? There was attention involved, otherwise, I wouldn't remember what the lecture was about. Logic.

But anyway, she was speaking about the usual stuff- hearing, sight, taste, smell, touch, and how the brain interprets electrical signals. It was all pretty standard fair. The kind of stuff you should definitely know, by the time you're ready to leave for an actual, more focused Academy. My attention was dangerously close to cutting in half, or even thirds, until she started to detail the senses that most people aren't familiar with.

Everyone's probably heard of the sense where you can… feel dead people around yourself, or whatever, but that one wasn't enough to jolt me out of my mid-academic half-coma. One of the ones she listed, though, definitely was. She called it proprioception– the ability to tell where your limbs are, even when they're not in your field of view. Naturally, I had to experiment a bit, and closed my eyes while flailing around. It's totally real. I mean, it seems like it would be common sense that it's real, since we all experience it on a daily basis.

Or… experienced it.

I can't put a number on it, but I guarantee that at least three times every time we've lost power, either at home, or at Beacon, I've tried to flip the light switch while entering a room. It never works. I know it'll never work, and I do it anyway, just because it's so ingrained in my behavior. I think 'Hey, it's dark as hell in here. I can fix that!' and then I proceed not to fix it, because I'm an idiot.

I guess most people are idiots as well, since I've seen others do the same thing. One time, I caught Weiss trying charge her scroll while the power was out. Even little miss perfect isn't capable of just instantly shutting off things her body and mind just take for granted when the need arises.

Maybe that's why, every single morning, I try to shut my alarm clock off using my right hand.

And every morning, I don't remember that I don't have a right hand, until the stump where my elbow should be makes a heavy, depressing thud into the mattress.

Maybe the ol' teach was wrong. Maybe the sense of proprioception doesn't exist. I sure as hell can't tell where my arm is anymore, whether or not it should be in my field of view. My guess is a trashcan, somewhere on the grounds of Beacon.

Probably a burning trashcan, at this point.

A burning trashcan with my arm, Dad's fashion sense, and Ruby's maturity in it.

So, here I am, lying in bed, with my right… stump out to my side, listening to the irritating screech of an electronic alarm clock and looking like I was crucified to the mattress. I'm also having approximately that much fun, too.

Dad suggested that I move the nightstand, and therefore, the alarm clock itself, to the left side of the bed. I countered with an incredibly mature and well-reasoned argument commonly known in the debating community as 'fuck that.'

That's probably why I was kicked out of the Debate Club at Signal, but what do they know? I got the last word in as I left, so I won that debate. Once again, logic.

Finally, I muster up the effort to roll onto my right side, and slam down on the top of the alarm with my left hand. I let out a sigh, as the prospect of yet another day in No-Limbsville washes over me. I know I'm not the only resident, but hey. Nobody's gonna interrupt my one-girl pity-party first thing in the morning on my watch.

Thoroughly satisfied with my triumph over the screeching beast from the depths of hell, I roll back to the left and scooch backward, into a sitting position. Just like every other morning, I let out a massive, noisy yawn, and lift my arm-and-a-half up toward the ceiling, reaching for that plaster surface that I know I'll never quite touch. As I close my eyes, I wiggle my fingers, on the off chance that I'll reach it.

All ten of my fingers.

My eyes fly open in shock, and a flush of warmth rushes down my face- a stabbing, rippling, unnatural warmth, like puke is suddenly stored in my cheeks, instead of my stomach. The wave ripples down my neck, into my chest, and down to my core, before weakening a bit as it tingles through my legs. I brace myself, and look up. I know what I'm about to see. This isn't every day, but it isn't the first time, either.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

Five fingers, and all on one side.

I thought I was over this. I thought I had beaten this. The sick, delusional sensation that I could feel my fingers hadn't bothered me in over a week. I can handle forgetting that I'm missing a limb, but feeling that missing limb is getting old. My brain knows it's still there, but my brain, my sense of touch, and my eyes are all telling me different things. I've never been good with multiple people not being straightforward with me, and feeding me different stories. I can hardly handle myself telling me different stories.

Involuntarily, I let out a whimper as I lower my arms, the nauseous feeling writhing just beneath my skin turning from a worrying, uncomfortable hot to a curdling, sickening cold. I'm not going to cry.

I'm not going to cry.

I ball my remaining fist, and push down hard into the mattress as I half-jump out of the bed, and head for the bathroom. I flick on the lights as I enter, and they work, illuminating the entire room in a bright, almost clinical sheen.

I've always liked horror movies, but lately, I'm beginning to think I wouldn't enjoy them anymore. Not when I've got this horrible feeling that I can't shake, my own body lying to me, and now, standing here with my fist pushed into the glass of the mirror, even though I don't remember deciding to throw the punch.

Please, don't be broken. Please don't be broken…

With my breath caught in my throat, I slowly pull my shaking fist back from the mirror, ready to have to confess to Dad that I'd lashed out again, and that I was sorry. For once, today, something is going my way, and I'd apparently stopped myself from finishing the punch, just as my fist kissed the cool surface of the glass.

As I pull back, four little circles of moisture from where my knuckles had pressed into the mirror begin to fade, disappearing outward until they simply disappear. Behind them, I can see my reflection, and the reason for my reflex. I'm not happy with what I see.

I turn my head to the side to make it easier to take my shirt off. This bit, I've gotten down to a science, though I make the process a little longer this morning so that I can rub the fabric against my cheeks as it comes off, in hopes that I wipe away some of the… moisture that had set up shop, there. Weird thing about bathrooms on a cold morning; the condensation just runs wild. Even on skin.

Now I look like a hot, topless mess, which is better than a plain-old mess, so ten Yang Points to me. Pretty sure I've got the high score, and nobody's taking it anytime soon. I approach the sink and grab my mint-green toothbrush, before biting down on the handle side and holding it steady between my teeth.

There are some upsides to missing a limb. My sense of balance and coordination has doubled, maybe even tripled, or… five-led? That's a thing. While lifting the tube of toothpaste with my left hand, I manage to squeeze out just enough onto the head of the brush sticking out from my mouth. Score.

I set the tube back down, before taking the toothbrush in my grasp and getting to work on my pearly whites. It's incredible how something so simple can feel like a victory when just a month and a half ago I was fighting grimm and winning tournaments. Now, I'm standing here, proud that I can brush my own teeth, even if my hand is shaking. That part, I need to figure out. Is it anger? Fear? Shot nerves?

I look down to spit in the sink, and let the saliva just slowly ooze down from my lower lip. Naturally, I aim for the drain, and try to get the thread to slip straight into the circular hole around the metal stopper-plug-thing without letting it touch the porcelain. It totally does.

Fifteen Yang Points.

I grin at the sight, and look back up into the mirror.

He's there.

Clad in black and red, he runs toward me, swift and silent. His hands are both on the katana at his side, one on the sheathe, and the only, the hilt of the blade. His mask obscures his eyes, but I can tell that they're locked with mine, both of us unblinking as he continues his hasty approach. He's here, and he's come to claim what he left behind at Beacon. The blade is drawn before I have time to react, the red steel arcing out of the mirror and across my stomach. I feel the hot, sick sensation of my intestines spilling out, blood and viscera leaking from the fatal wound while

I double over as my vision goes white, and I vomit into the sink. The brown, sick liquid splashes against the spotless porcelain while I heave, keeping the rim of the sink in a death grip. Another wave of nausea floods up my throat, and another torrent of foul-tasting, mostly-digested food and stomach acid propels itself up and outward from my body. I cough and sputter, before stealing another glance at the mirror above.

Bile and saliva mixes upon my chin in a gross rivulet, but it's me. It's just me.

This can't keep happening. Something needs to change, and I need to be the one to do it. As much as I know it isn't real, the feeling of it is. Adam. My arm. This notion of being useless. My own body and mind are turning against me… but my will is stronger. It has to be stronger, or I'm going to lose my mind.

I know I can't stay like this forever, and I know that by staying at home and just tending the house, I'm avoiding the problem… but I'm not ready.

Then again… Adam isn't going to wait until I'm ready. Cinder didn't wait until Pyrrha was ready. Beacon was as prepared as it could possibly have been… and now, it's gone.

I won't let my life follow the same pattern.

I keep my gaze locked into my own eyes, my entire body still shaking. I blink, and in that instant, he's there, again, in the mirror. This time, he just stands there, smirking. I can't see his hands, but I know where they are. I know why his torso is turned partially to the left. Scared out of my mind, I stare him down as I reach behind myself, grabbing the bath towel off the rack and tossing it onto the lights above the mirror, letting it hang in front of the glass. He's gone. Out of sight, out of mind.

I wish it were that simple.

That towel isn't coming off the mirror until I shower later tonight, and even then… I may just grab another one from the hallway closet, instead. I'll see how I feel later.

With a shudder, I turn on the faucet again, splashing my hand around beneath the stream to guide the errant vomit down the drain. With the basin mostly clean, I go through the same routine again- toothbrush handle into the mouth, tube squeeze successful, flip it on around, tube away, up and down, spit.

…fifteen more Yang Points.

I stride back into my room, and head to the dresser. Upon pulling open the top drawer… there it is again. My worst nightmare, manifesting before me. A bra.

The logistics of putting on a bra one-handed are baffling to me, and I'm sure as hell not asking Dad for help. The scary thing is, he totally would- I just don't think I can handle that amount of awkwardness without imploding upon myself.

Dad. All things considered, he's taken this like a champ. If he hadn't… I may never have gotten out of bed to begin with.

Leaving the bestrapped devil in its place, I pull out a simple orange sleeveless top, and wriggle my way into it before closing the drawer once again.

I make my way down the stairs, guiding my hand along the banister as I go. I always used to hate it when Dad and Ruby did this. It seems so lame, but now… I don't want to push my luck, while I'm off-balance. Funny how inheritance has a way of catching up to you, even when it's not genetic.

"Dad?" I call out, as I shuffle my way into the living room, barefoot.

"Dad, are you home?"

Into the kitchen I go, looking for some signs of life. Instead, I find a little blue sticky note, and raise it to eye level.

"Dragon-

I'm outside, tending the garden. I'm not mad, but don't try to get into the alcohol again. It's hidden and under lock and key, now. Make yourself some breakfast, and come join me.

-Dad"

How are you going to keep a bottle of tequila in the fridge for all to see, and not expect me to try to make a strawberry sunrise for myself? Last night was his fault, as much as mine.

I stick the note down onto the kitchen island, and shake my head. Good ol' Dad. What would I do without you?

I yank open the fridge, which is a massive pain in the ass, considering it swings to the right, so I have to step out of the way and do an odd little half-step back to catch the door with my stump. I bend to look inside, letting my massive nest of hair dangle over my shoulder and tickle the flesh of my arm. It's a nice feeling.

Eggs? I don't feel like putting in the effort to crack, let alone cook them today.

Pancakes? Holding the bowl and stirring the mix is nearly impossible.

Toast? Who eats just toast for breakfast? I mean, I could put jelly on it, but opening the jar is…

Plain toast it is.

My eyes wander the house after I push down the lever on the toaster, and wait for my mediocre breakfast to pop up. Yet again, they settle upon the box, sitting expectantly on the coffee table in the living room. ATLAS Technologies, the box reads. Made just for me, and we didn't even have to ask.

So why can't I accept it?

When professors Port and Oobleck had come to visit yesterday, I told them both that this was my new normal. I told them that trying out that arm would be like pretending nothing had ever happened. I wonder if they knew that while technically true, that wasn't the reason I didn't want to try it on.

I jump, grabbing my side instinctively as the toaster makes a crunchy, metallic pop.

It's just the toast. It's just a machine that I'm letting help me out. Something that I chose to set up, even if I can't directly control it. It has a purpose, one that I agreed was worth exploring when I put the bread inside.

I blink, and let my arm fall back across my body and to the side. The real reason that I'd neglected to use the arm is that I'm scared. Scared of yet another loss of control. I can't control my body, still feeling those extra fingers from time to time. I can't control my mind, showing me Adam's phantom when I'm least prepared. I can't even control my actions, sometimes. I may have stopped myself from shattering the mirror this morning, but there were other times when I did end up apologizing to Dad, even when I never wanted to break whatever I broke to begin with.

What if… I can't control that arm?

My hand starts to shake again as I begin a slow walk to the coffee table, leaving my toast behind. This time, I grip the waistband of my pajama pants, squeezing tight as I try to stop the jittering. It doesn't stop, as I arrive over the box. No matter how many times I read the word 'Atlas', it does nothing for me. This thing might be the most expensive and impressive piece of civilian tech out in the wild, but that still does nothing to calm my stomach… or my twitching hand.

I take a deep breath, and shake my hand out before I reach down and take the lid off of the box. Inside is the shimmering, white and black approximation of my missing arm, resting inside of a fitted foam casing. It's beautiful, and I don't use the word 'beautiful' very often.

But what if I can't control it?

I chew my bottom lip, feeling somewhere between guilty and annoyed. So many people had done so much for me, without even being asked, and here I was, still mulling over whether or not I could accept their kindness. I close my eyes, and let my mind wander. What would Ruby say?

"Oh, come on, Yang. Nothing's perfect! Sure, it might have some kinks, but they can be worked out… probably. Think of it like a new friendship! You just have to get to know the arm, and it has to get to know you."

My eyes open, almost of their own willpower, and guide themselves back down to the prosthetic limb. A friendship. Maybe…

There they go again. My eyes wander to the ATLAS text on the cover of the box, which is now laying off to the side. Between that and the bright white coloring of the limb, I can't help but let my mind drift to Weiss. I never even got to see her, after I lost my arm. I was told, after I woke up, that her father had come to 'collect' her, and that was that. Did she make it home? Will we ever see each other again?

…and why do I care so much, when we spoke so little, compared to the other two?

Yes, we were part of a team, but we hardly 'hung out'. And yet, every now and then, she would do something for me, or I for her. A cup of coffee, making my bed, some help on homework, or helping her manage her hair. Neither of us asked for it, and neither of us expected anything of each other… but the friendship worked. Just because so much was unknown didn't make it bad, and at the end of the day, even when we didn't see eye to eye… she was still one of my closest friends.

Isn't that what a friend is, really? Someone who enters your life without being asked to, and does things that may or may not make you happy, but even through the rough patches, they bring enough light to your life that they're worth keeping around?

Friends aren't meant to be controlled. They're meant to be trusted, to help you do the things you can't on your own. Whether that's in the moment, or on a permanent basis… I guess that's just down to the situation.

"…hi there," I began. Why I'm talking to a metal arm, I may never understand, but it just feels like something I need to do, for my own mental health. And here I get on Ruby's ass for being childish.

"My name is Yang. Yang Xiao Long." I pause, unable to resist following up with the cliché. "And I'm an alcoholic."

"Hi, Yang Xiao Long," I reply to myself in a deep voice, before breaking into a fit of giggles.

God, I'm a dumbass, and that really isn't funny. One more week of this, and I may well become an alcoholic.

…alright, it's kinda funny.

"No, but seriously… I'm Yang, and I had… I guess it's not really an accident, is it? I had a bad run-in with a complete douchebag, while trying to protect a friend, and… I think I need you, right now."

My hand reaches down, hovering mere inches above the metallic arm. Oddly enough… it isn't shaking.

"I guess… I should give you a name, right? I mean, if we're going to be friends, and all."

I hesitate, and rest my fingertips upon the steel. It's cool to the touch, and incredibly smooth as I run my hand along its surface.

"Well, you remind me a lot of Weiss, since you're from Atlas, white, and… cold," I smirk to myself. "And you're used for gripping things. So… how about Vice?" Funnily enough, the arm doesn't reply, and for whatever reason- insanity, perhaps- I don't feel quite as stupid as I probably should.

"Vice it is. C'mere, you pompous little shit."

With a deep breath, I grip the arm, and pull it loose from its foam prison. It's weighty, and incredibly solid, with a sleek design. I rotate the arm to check out the socket, and find that it looks as though it would be as easy as snapping it onto the metal cap affixed where my elbow should be. It can't be that easy. I'm hardly a scientist, but shouldn't it involve a lot more work than Tab A into Slot B?

I should probably call Dad for this, but I'm not about to break my streak of doing stupid shit while he's not around to stop me… and I want to do this by myself, for myself. Besides… think of how many Yang Points I'll get, if I can pull this off.

Like any good technician, I close my eyes and wince as I pop the limb into place, and feel a sharp click just as much as I hear it. When I blink my eyes open again, the arm is attached… and waiting.

I have that odd feeling, again. I think it's called a 'phantom limb', when you're convinced that you have an appendage that just isn't there. I feel like I can move the fingers on my right hand, but there's no way it would just work.

…is there?

I've never felt so nervous in my life as I do right now, staring down at this 'new friend'. I know what should happen, when I think about moving my fingers… but what if it doesn't? All I need to do to preserve my sanity is to snap the limb back off, put it down into the box, toss the lid on top, eat my toast, and settle for another shitty day.

But… since when did I ever 'settle' for anything, until I lost my arm?

Thoughts are supposed to be instant, but the one I'm sending now, down to this set of imposter fingers, is the slowest an electrical signal has ever traveled in history, and I will fight anyone who tries to tell me otherwise. I can feel the half of a heartbeat that passes between the notion that I want to point at the box and my lower three 'fingers' curling into 'my' palm, but the motion happens nonetheless. Had I been holding the arm instead of having it attached to me, I surely would have dropped the damned thing and probably broken it in shock.

For once, I'm happy that I can't really control a feature of my body, as a wide grin spreads across my face. Without even thinking, I raise my new, metallic arm upward, aiming a tech-powered middle finger up to the ceiling where I would approximate my bathroom mirror to be. I let out a laugh, a real laugh, and get straight to testing every hand gesture I can think of. The heavy metal horns. The shocker. The peace sign. A thumbs up. All of it is immediate, and all of it makes sense.

With a feeling as though I'd gotten over amnesia, I rush back into the kitchen and fling open the fridge. I don't even need to step out of the way this time… though my overzealousness causes the door to smash into the wall, and rebound closed again. I open the fridge once more with a bit more care, and bend down to find my prey. There.

I take the jar of grape jelly in my natural hand, for fear that I may crush the stupid thing with the artificial one. I really need to get to experimenting later today.

I wonder if it's waterproof.

I wonder if it vibrates.

I decide to shelve those thoughts for later- and with as good as I'm feeling right now, maybe test them at the same time- and set the jar down onto the countertop. As I grip the lid with my new hand, I take note that the fingertips have some sort of rubber ribbing upon them, likely for exactly this purpose. The lid comes off with one easy twist, and I set it down beside the jar. I pull open a drawer and remove a knife, which I transfer over to Vice. I take one slice of toast in hand, and dip the knife into the jar of jelly before spreading it with one smooth motion.

Today is going to be a good day indeed.

I'm too excited to eat, and instead balance the toast carefully atop the open jar. I'll come back for it later, but for now, I head for the front door. I always did enjoy introducing Dad to new friends.

Author's Note: As I sat down to write this chapter, Yang wasn't even on the list of characters I had ideas for. I just started typing and then this happened. That seems to be how the writing process goes, for me. Here's to many more ideas that come flying out of the ether.

-RD