I'm kneeling on abandoned subway tracks, crushed fluorescent graffiti melting under my knees. Gypsum dust mixed with Lucas' coolant rolls into the shape of his spinal port in my palm—the twelfth spinous process tilts 0.3mm right, identical to his curvature seven years ago when he watched me sculpt from the vents. The shittiest part of rebirth? Smelling metal's pain.
(Crushes the gypsum model suddenly, shards stabbing my palm. Cerulean blood beads onto rusted rails)
Max always said my studio looked like a morgue. Old bastard never understood—those Thorn Wolf fragments aren't art. They're fucking invoices for the memories Neumann cut out. My nape scar throbs when I carve, synced to Lucas' leaking heart. Last month I found out it's residue from Selene's ring laser. Turned it into an engraving needle, mailed him fragments at 3 AM laced with decade-expired painkillers he'd stashed in vents. Who cares if they're toxic.
(Pries open a vent grate with the silver bookmark, cold wind gluing hair to my clavicle bolt's scab)
First full moon post-rebirth, I unwrapped bandages in the clinic. Lucas tapped Morse code sixteen times on bulletproof glass—the number of explosions our first night in the slums. Thought I'd forgotten. His mechanical irises dilate with a 0.7-second lag, enough to count the claw marks etched there—three more than Odile's surveillance showed. Later I lasered in the missing ones while he pretended to sleep.
The day Max died, acid rain fell. Before welding his prosthetic arm into the power grid, he shoved licorice into my pocket—wrapper printed with Neumann's logo from thirty years back. Now every chew tastes like his ashes. His final neural pulse was a lullaby frequency, same as the incinerator currents when they burned Mom.
(Stabs a chisel into the wall, sparks igniting Lucas' dried coolant stains into cedar-scented smoke)
Last week in the freezer truck, Lucas' eyelids fluttered thrice per second while fake-sleeping. Idiot doesn't know rebirth lets me hear all micro-motors within three meters. His right arm gyroscope spins fifteen extra revolutions per minute—proof of cardiac overload. I rested my head there anyway, carotid pressed against synth-skin hiding Selene's wedding invite chip. Burned my temple raw.
Shattering the last Caged Moon this morning, gypsum shards formed Max's silhouette. His hologram flickered middle fingers through debris, encrypted rant crackling: "Keep destroying my work, I'll auction your pre-rebirth nudes underground." Thirty-seven days post-death, I finally brewed his rusty coffee—hydraulic oil stirred into instant powder. Tastes like his coffin.
(Clutches the gypsum pendant, edges cutting my palm. Blood seeping into Lucas' modified bioscanner, alarms warping into a wedding march remix)
If the pulse plan fails tomorrow, I'll return to Odile's vents, smear the remaining 300g neurotoxin on wedding ring molds. Lucas says I should cherish this resurrected life. Fool. Reborn skin feels no warmth, but when his human thumb wipes gypsum off my lips—that half-second touch could corrode Selene's eternity chips to ash.