Fred lost his leg in a hiking accident.
The carbon-fiber leg replacement was so good, he had the other one amputated and replaced.
Refinements made them even better, and with intelligent and sensing exoskeleton enhancements allowed him to leap and run in ways he could never imagine.
He underwent more procedures, replacing his limbs and organs to make him a mechanized superman, capable of doing amazing things.
Still, every so often, he’d hesitate. Caution held over from his weaker, biological days.
One robotic hand raised up on its own, yanked off his screaming head, and tossed it into the trash.
Sandy took off her shoes and sat down.
Then she slid off her jeans, took off her top, and tossed aside her bra.
Stepping out of her panties, she opened her drawer and dropped her breasts on a towel.
Then she reached between her legs and peeled quickly.
(It stung less that way.)
Shutting the drawer, she opened another, and put himself back together.
Looking in the mirror, he wiped the makeup from his face.
He checked the clock: a little early.
He smiled, and opened the first drawer.
A gentle, soft caress – and then he got dressed for work.
Teri had the most beautiful blue eyes.
So, she sold them.
You’ve seen them in some fashion magazines, I think. They made the model who bought them famous.
Teri used the money to buy a set of multispectrum sensorpods. She also paid her way through college and grad school.
The rest went to a startup in Silicon Valley, where genetic replicator tanks worked on the challenge of biological replacement technologies.
The research was a success, Teri having volunteered for the first human test.
She looked in the mirror and declared victory at the sight of her perfectly-reconstructed… and now-cancer-free breasts.
Awake at 4. Itching, scratching.
The rashes are unbearable.
One more week until my skin contract’s up.
The free ones are nothing compared to expensive designer skins, but with the contract, you get a discount on those.
I look in the mirror. Hideous bags under my eyes, wrinkles like canyons across my face.
Last time, I cheaped out. Ever since, it’s been dermatologist appointments and oceans of cosmetics.
Yak butter creams? Tungsten wire therapy?
I won’t make that mistake again.
I put on my happy-face, the porcelain doll-mask with the vacant, vapid stare, and head to the kitchen.
The Trillionaire’s Wife rinsed off the regeneration jelly.
She knew perfection was waiting in the mirror. Again.
The automatic surgical tank began to speak, but she ignored the report. She didn’t care anymore.
But her servants did. And they told the Chief Rabbi, who paid her a visit.
“The body is a gift from The Lord,” he said. “It must be buried whole.”
The Trillionaire’s Wife disagreed. Those discarded organs and acres of skin were morally no different than fingernail clippings.
But her cautious husband quietly kept them all.
She waits for death, soaked in formaldehyde, a thousand times over.