2: I Strive

I've lost any sense of time. I can't measure it in sunlight, or manual pages read, or progress made on this bizarre metal arm. I could measure it in meals, of which there have been three, but the guards might bring them at inconsistent intervals. Would a ticking clock help motivate me? Probably not. Still, what a kick it'd be if I was nearly finished just as the three days were up and they shot me in the head just before. Oof, maybe shove that thought away.

I sit back momentarily to wipe my forehead of sweat and examine my work. I try to use those precious seconds of free head space to consider my predicament. I'm pretty sure that if they kidnapped Hannah, she's not being held in the same place I am; there seems to be no one but myself, the guards, and the metal-armed man; the guards seem to watch us in shifts. The concrete bunker is small, and poorly maintained. I considered escape for ten seconds then gave it up as even more foolish than fixing a bionic limb in just a few days; for as much as I know, I could be miles from anyone who could help me. No, the only way out that door is sitting right in front of me.

I shift my brain back into focus and try to measure what I've done so far. I'm pretty sure I've dug out all the bullets. Most of them just lodged themselves in the surface metal of the arm, but one nicked the elbow, and another buried itself in the man's armpit, right where metal arm met skin. He'd been lucky-the arm took most of the damage, with relatively minor burns from the fragmented lead and little blood loss. I made the guards fetch a first aid kit and did the best I could to clean the tattered skin and sanitize the area. The metal-armed man never spoke, simply raising his arm so I could wrap clean gauze around his shoulder in a makeshift bandage; he never flinched, barely seemed to blink, even while the alcohol from the cleaning pads seeped into his wound. I had to guess that despite how generally well the wound looked, it still must have felt like agony.

As I struggled to properly dress him, I could feel the heat from his skin, and feel his perspiration beneath my fingers. The temptation to joke about how silently he took such clumsy medical treatment nearly overwhelmed me, but I fought it back in the end. A man with bionic metal arm filled with bullet holes may not enjoy such jocularity.

Once the bullets were removed came the real tough part. It took two binders before I could even figure out how to get the metal surface off to see the electronics underneath. The metal-armed man didn't seem the least concerned with my fumbling, as if he was used to people poking around inside the jumbled maze of wires and computer chips inside his arm. Probably was. Couldn't be too used to it; I guessed he wasn't older than thirty. How long had he had this strange implant? Yet another question I filed away.

I started at his finger motors first, intending to move gradually up the arm, figuring most of the damage to be around the elbow and red star. I gave him simple instructions...point your index finger, make a fist, give me a thumbs up… my voice coarse from long under-use. He obliged without comment or expression, every slight movement triggering a ballet of mechanics beneath the metal surface. Despite the loaded guns behind me, I couldn't help thrilling a little at what I saw. The motors moved beautifully together, each responding to the slightest electric impulse, perfectly balanced and perfected tuned. Fully operational, he'd have as flexible a grip as any flesh and blood hand. Better, even, I'd wager. I itched to try further experiments-to test the true ceiling of how much pressure this arm could exert, before abruptly remembering where I was. Something for the lab when I got back. If I got back, anyway.

The few times I risked a glance at his face, I found it impassive and blank, as if he was in some kind of trance. There was nothing unaware about his eyes, though. He stared straight ahead, never catching my eye when I looked at him, but I felt the intense pressure of being watched every time I looked away. From the corner of my eye, I saw him watch suspiciously, cautiously, as I began testing out the electric signals between his fingers and his forearm, making sure everything connected. I did my best to pretend I didn't notice his side-eye; it probably hadn't been his idea to drag me here. I was a stranger, entrusted with something irreplaceable of his, perhaps something that have saved his life many times over me. I'd mistrust me too, in his position.

Careless with my thoughts, I clumsily nudged a central wire, pressed deep down between the gears that connected hand movements to wrist. The metal-armed man jerks back, sucking air between his teeth in a hiss, his face twisting with pain.

"I'm sorry!" I squeak, hardly daring to breath as I wait to see if his free hand goes to the knives secured into his belt. His right hand waivers, and then drops back into his lap. Instead, he sits in stony silence, his face a thundercloud beneath his curtain of dark hair.

"I really am sorry," I try again, doing my best to look contrite," … But really, it's hard to concentrate with you watching me like a hawk."

I don't expect a response, but I get one.

"Should watch you closer," he mutters. To my surprise, he finally turns his gaze to me, looking me full in the face; his eyes are a startling blue-green, vivid against the paleness of his skin. He indicates his broken arm with a glance," If this is how you fix things, maybe they should stay broken."

I sit stunned for a second, stupidly staring at him, until he finally sighs and offers his arm to me again. "Just watch what you're doing," he admonishes wearily.

I clear my throat, half in an attempt to steady myself and half to appear far more put-together than I feel, and bending, return to my work. His voice is low, and rusty from disuse, just like mine. He speaks very fluent English, with just a touch of a Russian accent. Russian is the theme, then. Two Russians and an American, in a seedy bunker in old Soviet territory. I might finally be getting somewhere. The guards have made it clear I'll get nothing more from them-but perhaps if I can get the metal-armed man to keep talking, I can finally uncover something useful.

"Well, stop trying to stare a hole through my head, and I'll do my best," I say, attempting to keep my tone light and unruffled," How is it feeling?"

He slowly flexes his fingers, first thumb, then pointer, on down the line. "Can't make a grip."

I frown down at the clamps," It's based on wrist motion, right? Move your wrist one way, or the other, to do different grips?"

He nods.

I chew compulsively on my lower lip," And I assume wrist motions come from movements in your upper arm? So you move your shoulder, which moves your elbow, and it's like dominoes?"

He nods again. Conversation is apparently not one of his deadlier skills.

"Do you usually have feeling in your arm?" I shuffle through some of the manuals, trying to find an earlier schema I hadn't understood," Are you neurologically paired up?"

"It's a combo," he says simply, still curling and uncurling his metal fingers, as if reassuring himself they're there," Some thought, some movement. I can still feel above my elbow a little bit."

I glance at the upper part of his arm gloomily; if the links were broken up up to that point, I'd have even more work than I thought.

The metal-armed man's commanding voice suddenly shakes me from my thoughts. "Go to sleep."

I glance at him, startled," Excuse me?"

"Your eyes are glazing over. Go sleep; you clearly need it."

I manage a withering scowl," I'm on a clock here. I can't afford to sleep."

"You can't afford to knock another wire," the man warns darkly. I'm on my feet instantly, quickly heading towards the thin cot. "Point taken!" I point at the bossy guard, stationed beside the door and busy scrolling through his smartphone," Wake me in five hours, and not a second later."

The guard regards me dismissively. "I don't take orders from you."

I throw a knowing glance over my shoulder at the metal-armed man, still seated in the dentist chair. A single glance from him makes the guard straighten into attention. "Yes, sir. Five hours."

"Don't you sleep?" I ask the metal-armed man. This time, his domineering glare is in my direction.

"Okay, okay, fine, I'm going!" I settle myself on the cot," Wake me if-" I'm out before I even figure out what I was going to say.