Part II
Grif groaned; his limbs felt sore and stiff. He tried to move, but found hands holding him down. A voice murmured in his ear, but he couldn't distinguish the words. He groaned again, shifting only to discover that flared the pain in his limbs. Grif gasped, eyes fluttering open only to be squeezed shut at the overload of bright, white light. A hand pushed hair back from his sweating forehead.
"Now Grif, don't try to move too much, you've been through quite the ordeal." These words froze Grif. He almost felt his heart stopping, the panic that roared through his veins. This was a dream. It had to be. There was no way he could be revisiting the past... Grif took a shaky breath, slowly opening his eyes only to blink furiously until they adjusted. A headache bloomed behind his temples. He croaked out a question.
"Shhshshsh. It was really touch and go there for a while good buddy. But I did it! I pulled you through." Grif looked horrified at Donut, but Sarge and Simmons misinterpreted the gesture to be directed at the words their Pink comrade had said. He took another shuddering breath, gaze panning over towards his CO and other teammate. He closed his jaw and swallowed slow and deep, afraid to say anything. This was just a dream. He'd wake up soon, back on the roof of the base in the warm sun, alone, Donut, Sarge and Simmons far away from him. Maybe... maybe he'd be the same as he was before... He eyed Simmons, dread rising in him, blood rushing from his face as it dawned. Simmons... was... whole. Grif swallowed again, glancing down at his arm bellow the blanket that was thrown haphazardly across his body. His arm...
Taking a deep breath, he lifted the offending limb. It was... heavy, heavier than usually. He closed his eyes, shifting his leg. That was like lifting a log... He could feel his teams eyes on him. He glanced, unsure, in their direction. He coughed, hoping to clear his throat but it only brought more pain. Donut handed him a glass and he drank. After a moment, he tried to speak again.
"W-what ha—happened?" Everyone stiffened for a moment, unsure on how to answer.
"Well... you were behind the Warthog and... the tank... ran you over." Simmons hesitated in answering, wringing his hands—his perfect, pale hands—before him. Grif gulped. "Sarge, well... he... saved you. Did an excellent job." Grif bit back a sarcastic comment as another wave of pain rolled through him. He let his head fall back and hit a lumpy pillow. Silence dominated the conversation for a few minutes, Sarge leaving the room muttering about insolent, unthankful, lazy soldiers. Donut rushed off to make some cookies—choc chip, Grif's favourite—and Simmons remained behind. Grif stared listlessly at the roof, flexing his new, metal hand; his thoughts were all over the place. This dream felt so real.
"Grif?" Simmons ventured closer, an unusual look of worry crossing his features. Grif turned his gaze to the other man.
"This is a dream, right?" Simmons shook his head, eyes roaming his teammate's body, taking in the slightly larger limbs under the blanket. Grif sighed before shaking his head in a flurry of hair. It was a dream, dream-Simmons was wrong. He'd wake up and he'd be Frankenstein-Grif again—was Cyborg-Grif any better? He was still a freak either way. Still a worthless, lazy, good-for-nothing freak. He lifted his metal hand from under the blanket, staring at the cold, gun-metal grey digits, the black spaces between the joints, the strange glow the was emitted from his palm. It was... strangely beautiful, but the contrast was too great against his ugly self. He tarnished the workmanship of this creation.
"I tried to convince Sarge to let me be his experiment, and for you to get my... spare parts. But, Sarge wouldn't hear of it." It seemed to Grif that time in this strange dream was very much different to his reality. Simmons, from what he had learnt, had adamantly protested being changed, or was that a lie too? Grif couldn't remember; it was all getting a little fuzzy. He tore his gaze away from his hand only to look at Simmons. He didn't reply, what could he say? Grif took a shaky breath.
"Its... okay." Even his voice sounded different; raw, rough, overworked and torn. It still hurt to speak, he suppressed a cough. "I'd... like to be left alone." Simmons stiffened, nodding once before turning and leaving the small room. Grif was once more left with his thoughts, left in silence.