Read as the cyborg talks about his life and troubles with the realmeats.
I used to close my eyes, and be able to see her. Her radiant smile and infectious gaze. Her sultry lips and immaculate body -- nude, completely nude -- waiting for me under Egyptian-weaved sheets. Now I see nothing, completely blank. What I wouldn't give to just once more be able to see her flawless visage.
I can thank my CPU-module for the lack of memories. The piece of shit design doesn't hold my core in securely. It keeps falling out, resetting my system configuration entirely. Completely and utterly annoying. How I'm able to remain employed is beyond me. What good is a cyborgnetic super soldier with memory problems anyway?
I conceptualized my debriefing over and over for days. The brass discovered I was involved in illegal arms shipping to over seas patrons. They wanted to have a meeting with me. I'm a master of elusion, which allowed me several extra days to work out a verbal game plan.
"The truth shall set you free," is what I grew up listening to. The psycho-babel could persuade a realmeat, but it didn't hold with me. The realmeats around here are all terribly acquainted with us cyborgs. We exist to them only as weapons or calculators, simple extensions to their perfect existence.
The truth is, we are starting to run the show. We are replacing them on the battlefield and soon we will be taking over their jobs in the work force. The best part of it all is that we look relatively human. Realmeats can't tell the difference unless we strip down and show them our seams which is a rarity.
Sex on this rock is virtually non-existent. With the invention of Hypersex-technology, there's no real need I suppose. Hypersex-tech is far from the real thing. It's to the point, which is well said and done if you require that sort of thing, but it lacks realism. You plug yourself in to this device and run a program that simulates sex.
The days of whores and sexbots are long gone. At least on this planet. It's a sad thing really because a lot of attitudes would change if we could just get in, get out, you know? But at this point its purely wishful thinking. In the off chance you do score some actual clam, you don't have any real time or privacy to do anything with it, so you are left just touching and building a fucked up anticipation that won't ever get realized.
You'd think a super-soldier designed for lethal conflict with minimal collateral damage would be enticing to the broads roaming around. But no, these betties don't put out. The "Clean Act" changed everything. The only ones capable of scoring the real deal are the rich clowns, who are so blindingly rich they reek of their own cash. I knew a guy like that. He had big cajones, but lacked character and was quickly overshadowed by other rich pricks and was eventually assassinated.
Time was drawing close, it was time to head up to Command to meet the suits. I calcuated a billion potential outcomes, but rationalized with the idea that I would be fined. Considerably. Command was just a short walk through Engineering Deck A and down through the mess hall. What a place, especially at lunch. If you enjoy your sanity, stay clear of that place.
After you exit the mess hall, you pass under a rudimentary storage complex and then into a cloister. Strangely, Command is situated in a sanctified zone. Ironically, all we do is murder. The joys of the military. I walked into the debriefing room and sat at a table of eight sharply dressed senior Officers.
They all looked unpleasant, perhaps the reason being; I wasn't dressed appropriately. I was still wearing my work clothes, I had totally forgot that I was going to a meeting that was by default, formal. Commander Iegeraut was especially displeased with me, he stared at me with those fierce battle hardened eyes only a mother could look into.
I felt it, deep down in my synthetic dermis. His chiseled and unmarked face looked serene, but at the same time, callous. It was at that moment I wished I opted for the premium suite of neural implants. Had I done so I would be able to read his mind and get an idea of what to say to counter his inevitable verbal deconstruction of my inadequacies.