A Sharp Crack Rings Out, Echoing Through The Room.

A sharp crack rings out, echoing through the room.

She looks at her arm, wrenched out at an unnatural angle, hand limp, joints broken.

She looks at the person standing above her, a sadistic smile stretching across their face.

She looks at their hand. She sees the hammer they hold.

Three more cracks ring out.

She lies limply on the floor, limbs broken, helpless.

She smiles back.

The person above her moves, not with the sharp violence that broke her, but slowly, deliberately, with care.

They take a set of keys from their pocket. They flick through them to find the smallest of the keys. They lean down and kneel on the floor beside her. They reach out, hold her shoulder, move the key towards her.

And it falls into the keyhole right by her shoulder. It turns. A soft, gentle click is heard. Her arm falls out of the socket, landing amongst the shards of porcelain that surround her.

She sees the metal framework of her arm, warped and distended by the blunt force of the hammer. She sees her joints, shiny from wear and use. She sees the last remnants of the ceramic that serves as her skin, either affixed to the frame or driven into the material that forms a part of her.

Three more clicks ring out.

Her limbs are strewn about on the floor around her.

The person beside her leaves for a moment, and returns carrying a bag. They sit back beside her. Reach out yet again, but with neither the hammer nor the keys.

If her body could feel, she would feel the cold of the new metal, not yet worn or tarnished, as it works its way into the setting within her shoulder. She would feel it again, in her other arm. Again and again, in the attachment points just below her hips.

Her miss stands over her once more, looking proud of their work.

She raises her new arms, uses her new hands to push herself off the floor, stands on her new legs, walks forwards on her new feet.

She loves her maintenance.