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Weakness of the Flesh

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Bane22

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« on: <07-29-12/1356:26> »
The lone figure walked through the rainy wet streets. It was about 1 AM. He was done. He was tired. The human walked by other homeless, trolls, orcs most of them, huddled in mucky puddles on the corners of the slums of Hartford. The figure was moving south, to the zone of the slums full of insects, and worse. Why? He was done. When he was born, his birthgivers did not even decide to name him. His hair was long and black, the rain making it stick to his face. Rough stubble surrounded his cold, shivering lips as he shuffled on through the mud, now up to his ankles. He was walking on empty water bottles made into sandals. He was traveling from Hartford, the biggest city in Connecticut. He was born there, in 2050. Lived there all his life. Now he was 22, it was the year 2072, and he was done with this. He knew not how he lived for so long.

And even in the past two years, he had tried to fix himself. He had worked out, gone to a playground every night to work his body. His body was very ripped, and he had trained himself to fight. Though, that was it though. He was done. Nobody spoke to him. He did not even have any money to buy implants for his disease.

His disease. Fibermyalgia. A troll doctor in the slums had diagnosed him a few weeks prior, and he had been hunting for a name to it for so much longer. But, there was no cure. He was done. Yes, up ahead, he saw the gate reading DANGER, TURN BACK. Signs written by other homeless and poor filled the wet street. Water splashed around. He pulled his shawl tighter around him, and, tears streaming from his eyes, passed the gate.

It did not take long. Fifteen minutes of wandering through swarms choking the hot air in the narrow streets. They surrounded him, wrapping him in an annoyingly loud buzz. This was it. He could not afford cyberware. What was the point. He could not speak to people. What was the point. He could not get work. What was the point.

He would be dead in a few years anyway.

They began to land on him now, their tiny mandibles biting into his flesh. He felt his cloth shawl being torn away, but he realized he had dropped it into the muck. They landed on his face, and he felt pain. Fear. He felt fear. Did he not want to die? No, he wanted to. He was sure of it. Then he lost the feeling in his left arm. Taking a look, he saw it drop to the ground, covered in insects. He opened his mouth to scream but they only swarmed in. And then he blacked out.

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When he awoke, he was on a table, in a bright white room. His left arm was replaced by a cyberarm. He ran his biological hand through his hair, and felt that most of what he had used to have was replaced by fiberoptic hairs. What was this? He couldn’t afford anything. “Your skull is also cyberware, and I am not finished covering your arm in synthetic skin and completing the muscle augmentation. I’ve also given you a Handblade. You’re not finished, so lie back down.” He heard as a man in a black suit stepped in. He was pale of skin and had long black hair. “Just chill out.”

He did so, lying back. The pale man stepped forward, pulling out a syringe. “This’ll knock ya out again. Don’t bother why I did this, everyone needs a new life, and I followed you for some time, I knew you were going to commit suicide. I don’t stand for that kind of thing.” He smiled, flashing a pair of fangs at the nameless, homeless cyborg. “You’re gonna be my street samurai now, bud. You’re gonna do some work for me. I’ll feed you, I’ll shelter you. You just need to go bring me some blood. Second chances!” He injected the man, who fell back asleep.

It was a dark, dark sleep.

Bane22

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« Reply #1 on: <07-29-12/1356:45> »
When he awoke, he found himself in the same pristine, white room. He stood, having no issues. He felt great. A mirror was across the room, by a single medical tray. He slowly walked over to it to inspect himself. His face was shaved. Upon closer inspection, he realized he couldn’t grow facial hair any longer. And as he had inspected earlier, his hair had been replaced by fiberoptic follicles, and was noticeably much shorter, now only about an inch or two long. His chest, stomach and arms looked stronger and more muscular than the wiry frame he had once had. There was a note that read ‘Leave room’ scribbled on it. He did not know how to read, but he knew what it had said, that was probably due to the datajack. The vampire must have plugged him into a computer terminal and downloaded a bunch of things to his brain in his sleep. He wondered if that’d even work.

He ran his fingers through his hair again, still not used to it. He left the room, through an open, doorless portal, into a long hallway. It was mostly dark, and he realized that the majority of power must have been directed at that room. He walked down the corridor, still in nothing but these scrubs, no shoes or anything. What he if stepped on glass? That would not be very enjoyable.

He came to a door, a single door, and opened it. It was early morning, around 5:00 AM. There was no sun out, but he realized he was back in the slums where he had met his disgusting end. Hartford’s skyline was obstructing the horizon like a stain-glass window, all those brilliant city lights. He saw the highway, I-95, as vehicles sped along it. He rubbed his shoulder, and found a rotting bench with a radio. An old radio, from the 1990s. He picked it up and clicked it on. “Hoi, chummer.” He heard the familiar voice on the other end say. It was the vampire. “I’ve decided, your name is Will, because damn. I’ve been hunting homeless my entire life, since 2014 when I had first gotten blessed by this glorious virus. I can’t even remember the offices where I worked anymore, haha! You have the greatest willpower of any of those damn hobos I have ever seen. You’re not even lazy like the rest of em, either. So, Will. You like it? Take it? Leave it?”

He nodded, and realized the vampire couldn’t hear him. “Yes.” He said, his voice a bit hoarse from his tears earlier in the night.

“GOOD! IT SPEAKS!” The vampire exclaimed. “Go through the slums where you died, there’s an old bloodwork place somewhere in here from the 2020s. Don’t worry about the insects though, there’re worse things in the dark of the world. Get me a few packs, bring em home in a bag. This’ll be your first little project. Bye.” His ‘boss’ hung up, and Will placed the radio down. He looked past the gate into the dark shadows of the slums. Opening the gate, he walked in.