“The world is in your hands.” That is what Dr. Nostram said to me as I walked out of the door today. After conducting an extensive background check on me, the university thought I was the deserving candidate for such a treatment. Makes sense. I actually caught a glimpse of someone’s recommendation of me. I couldn’t, however, see who wrote it:
A mild mannered introvert with an impressive academic background and a nice family home.
So that’s all I’m known as? When I die on my gravestone is it going to say, “Jay Toppin, mild-mannered introvert?” How depressing. I shouldn’t complain though. That’s what got me this incredible gift. Out of thousands of amputees who applied, surely someone had a better sob story than a tractor accident, and I got chosen. I extend the robust, yet light and agile robotic arm in front of me. And then retract it. It feels…amazing! I feel like I can pick up a whole building! It’s no wonder the world isn’t ready for this technology yet.
“The world is in your hands.” Was that supposed to be a pun? If it is, then it’s really a pathetic one. Funny how you can be such a technological genius and not know how to crack a joke. But maybe he really means it.
Maybe he means that this sort of thing is bigger than I am. I mean, this sort of technology needs a test run before it’s brought to market, and I’m the guinea pig. Everybody knows the classic debate. Some think that people deserve the best medical treatment available, while others are wary of allowing a missing limb to be replaced by a mechanism that is so powerful that it can be used as a weapon. I don’t blame them, it’s terrifying. So, I have to prove it to the world that it’s safe. Of course they picked me. I haven’t presented a threat to anyone since I learned to speak. I mean, my first word was “Please.” I’ve been so…tame. But since they threw me a bone, I sort of feel liable to free myself from the leash of passivity.
I swiftly extend my new arm again and curl my fingers. Oh yeah. Even when I had all my limbs, I was always the last one picked in gym class. Always the loser in arm-wrestling matches. Growing up like that, man. It’s demoralizing. Sure, I had friends, but they could never respect me like they should’ve. Just because I wasn’t a jock. Well, if only they could see me now.
Who am I kidding? I’m a good kid, I couldn’t hurt a fly…
“Hey asshole! Nice arm, freak!”
I look up and see a burly, muscular man with a shaven-head and sunglasses pass by me. Any other day I would just slink away quietly. But in this moment, almost unconsciously, my mouth starts to open as I flex my arm and walk right towards the guy: “Hey tough guy, why don’t you say that to my fuckin face?”
