Chapter Text
hand me your hand
Marius stared down at where his right arm used to not be. In place of the familiar absence was a presence, a metal thing with wires and gears sticking out every which way. It was heavy, heavier even than he remembered his flesh arm being. Tentatively, he lifted the arm and flexed the hand. It responded to his nerve impulses, which was fascinating in its own right, but the way it moved was just slightly.. off. The joints bent too sharply, and what passed for tendons jerked and clicked with each shift in position.
It didn't help that he had no idea where it came from, where he was, or what had happened in the past - how long had he been out? The last thing he remembered was a giant robot, and even that felt fuzzy. Now he seemed to be in the cargo bay of some sort of ship, surrounded by boxes of every description. He stood up, and noticed an envelope sat on one of the crates. His name was written on the front in ornate cursive script.
He grabbed it instinctively with his left hand and was halfway through the familiar struggle of opening it when he remembered. Cautious for the first time in his life, he lifted his new right arm and levered up the envelope's flap. Just like that, it was open.
Marius let out a short, genuine laugh. He was never one to look a gift horse in the mouth, and a prosthetic of this quality was wildly expensive (he should know; he checked). If it meant that he could finally play the fiddle again, give proper hugs, become a proper doctor, that was all he needed to know. With all the callous excitement of his newfound relief, he reached into the envelope to retrieve its contents.
The metal hand was stronger than he expected. As he closed his fingers around the paper, it seized up, crumpling the contents and nearly poking a hole entirely through them. Marius' heart sank as he examined the now-ruined photograph. Himself, smiling, arm wrapped around - someone. The delicate finish had been scratched beyond recognition by the coarse metal of his new fingertips.
He swore, softly but wholeheartedly, and finished the job of crumpling it up. There were too many people left behind him. What difference would a single memento have made?