Chapter Text
“You again,” The surgeon said, deep bags beneath his eyes. Walter had been here many times before. By now he was a regular.
A vaguely acrid smell of sulphur permeated the small room. The result of disgusting mix of awakening agents, ozone, and many, many, chemicals critical to the life of the augment lying in the middle of the room. Now was a delicate time for this item. Bringing a product out of storage, or ‘deep freeze,’ as it was more colloquially known, would have massive repercussions. The scale of those consequences depended on the care and rate at which they were brought out.
The augment was wrapped in bandages and plastic, with wires leading both to and from the thing in equal measure. A dim light hung above, illuminating the small industrial room with a slightly pink glow coming from the augment, as the pulse generators above it kept the storage status active. Monitors lay around the room, reporting on the condition of the internal workings of the augment, occasionally beeping softly for some reason that Walter didn’t know, and didn’t care to know either. The merchandise still held some value, despite everything.
“You know, I’m not exactly craving company here,” The surgeon said, looking up from his tablet with an expression part annoyance, and part boredom. Walter grimaced as he hobbled into the only vaguely lit room, cane clicking against the steel floor.
“So, what happened to 617 and the others? Fill me in, Handler Walter,” The surgeon said, accusatorily.
“Their jobs happened,” Walter retorted, his jaw tensing. The surgeon was unpleasant, but there was no one else who Walter could turn to now.
“Well,” the surgeon sighed, glancing at the augment. “At least you’re helping me clear my inventory,”
Walter stopped short of the augment, packaged, and preserved, as the others had been. He exhaled silently. C-Pulse augmentation was a disgusting process, and the people who partook in that occupation even more so.
It never got less distasteful to Walter, no matter how many times he saw them in person.
“This one is functional, but don’t expect much more,” The surgeon said, holding out his tablet with the fee listed. 160 000 COAM. 150 000 for the C-Pulse apparatus itself, and 50 000 for the meat it had been installed into. He had even placed a 20% discount for the ‘faulty’ meat. Walter tapped his wristband against the device, authorising the payment. It beeped happily, and Walter was now the owner of this augment.
“I’m not here to talk,” Walter said forcefully, glaring at the surgeon with daggers in his eyes. He was quickly nearing his limit with this merchant of human life. “Wake it up.”
The surgeon appeared unconcerned, ignoring his scowl. With a few taps on his tablet, the awakening process had begun. The surgeon walked out of the room, having run out of interest in Walter’s affairs.
As the pulse generators switched off, the glow faded. The generators moved out of the way, un-obscuring Walter’s view of the augment. Needles punctured the entire body of the augment, connecting to test points to examine the internal workings of the C-Pulse equipment. And the flesh it was attached to.
Walter’s scowl deepened.
Around the pilots’ neck, a connection port separated, servo whining as it moved. Small wires, ranging from thicker deep red preserving fluid lines to smaller neuro interface lines fell loose against the table, and were slowly dragged away as the machine they were linked to retreated. The skin on the augments neck, the only skin visible, was a dry and coarse material, almost like sandpaper. One of the more minor consequences of being placed into storage.
The monitor attached to the augments awakening bed softly beeped, as brainwaves were detected. A C-Pulse waveform slowly increased in intensity in step with its activity. The augment was conscious now. A fact he would certainly be regretting. His body would be in constant searing pain, as nerves were forcibly brought back online. In his paralysed state, he could do naught but silently suffer. The only redeeming quality was that his implants would prevent such pain from interfering with higher brain function. Walter mused on the irony that the implants didn’t eliminate pain; they only prevented such pain from inhibiting higher order function. Wouldn’t do for your pilot to stop functioning just because of some minor mangling.
“621…” Walter said, stating the augments designation. He rolled the number around in his head, familiarising himself with it.
“I’ll give you a reason to exist,” Walter said, eyeing the newly thawed pilot’s covered face. Whether this one made it or not, there wouldn’t be another shot at this. This was it. The last chance for Walter to do what he promised. To keep his word.
“Let’s get to work.”