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Summary
“Genji,” He answers, a croaked noise that comes from his throat and not his mouth, the syllables mechanical and unreal, click click click-ing whines. Gen – ji. It is all he knows to say, and he’s in awe of himself, in the moment. In awe of his ability to recall, when the numbness that surrounds him is preventing him from even feeling any sort of fear, let alone remembering—remembering?
“Genji.” It affirms. He pictures approval. “Prognosis is positive, Genji.” It speaks in a way that tells him it’s meant to be comforting. Welcoming, even, the buzzing tone anchoring itself at the nape of his neck with the first wire. The prying tools are working. He can hear them, the whirrs and clicks and beeps and smooth movements over the vacant space of his body. “You will be rebuilt.”