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He fumbles with a piece of metal gear, trying to place it correctly where it belongs in his mechanical arm without much success. There's silence in the room besides the sound of his breathing and occasional curses as he tries and fails to do something that should be simple; he refuses to ask help from Phyx, still. The scientist is quick, precise, and would get the job done in a matter of minutes, but the sensation of fingers even gracing his skin with their touch is enough to make him uncomfortable. And so he remains in the room by himself, with aching bones and eyes that threaten to close with every passing second; he could use any type of help, really, but he knows if he tried to stand he'd fall and end up worse.
Enough time passes that he grows irritated, an afterthought born from exhaustion; there was a time when he was patient, but there's hardly any room for that man anymore. Now he's rage and fury and passion, his ledger dripping redder and redder with bloodlust. He begins working quicker, impatient, trying to get it over with so he can finally use his missing arm again; it's only natural that the gear falls through his fingers and meets the ground with a mortifying crack . It's at the same time that his fist hits the wall, heaving quick breaths of anger, of impatience , trying to get himself under control so he doesn't succumb to the static slowly growing next to his ears. Little creatures nibble and bite into his neck, his face, and they make him hear static and noise and another crack and another crack until he thinks he'll lose touch with himself.
He tries to remember the words Allison once told him- the words he once said to Bo - but the association is enough to make him scream and lose sight of his surroundings, make everything turn a crimson, wonderful red. He tries to stand and pick up the broken pieces of the gears, but his legs buckle and he meets the floor and he screams . He hasn't rested in weeks. He shakes, a buzzing sensation spreading across his limbs, making his breathing begin to quicken. He gives in to the static. He dances with it, ducking, jumping, hitting where he knows it won't reach; it's reminiscent of his years in the pit, of a time where his heart still beat inside his chest and his mind wasn't lulled into discord by static and noise and red. He thinks if he were alive he'd be on his knees, sobbing, trying to hold himself together.
When the static leaves, James sits on a chair with binds keeping his only arm tied. A strange sensation on his missing arm sends shivers down his spine. He looks around and realizes he's in Phyx's lab, with the real man himself removing and adding parts to his mechanical arm in silence. As soon as James parts his lips to speak, Phyx raises his head, eyes devoid of emotion as they always have been. He thinks he glimpses something akin to amusement.
"You're back with us?"
"Unfortunately," James huffs, looking around to ground himself. He hates this room. He hates the sensation in his arm- he hates the touch. "Why am I here?"
Phyx pauses before answering, carefully, "You don't remember?"
James looks at him like he's talking to a stranger, but the scientist only snorts before going back to his work. James looks down at his hand and sees his knuckles red, dirtied with copper blood that isn't his.
"Perhaps it's better that you don't remember."