Occasionally, when I’m staring at my reflection in the mirror, I pause and think: Thank god for cybernetics.

When you’re looking at a body worth more than most people will ever earn in their entire lifetime, it’s hard for that thought not to cross your mind. I pity the rich fools–spending their paychecks on yachts, expensive cars, and penthouses, because they haven’t figured out how to invest in themselves yet.

An integrated phone linked directly to your brain makes calls, writes emails, and looks up anything you want with a mere thought. Cybereyes able to zoom in and examine things with microscopic precision, and ears that instantly translate any word you pick up, even from hundreds of yards away. Synthetic heart and lungs to replace all the organs prone to disease and failure, and they perform better than the real ones ever could. A titanium spine, highly resistant to permanent damage from having your nerves severed, falling from high places, or any other form of blunt trauma. Artificial, golden hair and skin akin to ivory–flawless and immutable, possessing radiant hues beyond what is humanly possible. Chrome arms and legs–bulletproof, as strong as an Olympic weightlifter’s and plated in solid gold just to show everyone that you can afford it.

But what’s the point of all these state-of-the-art marvels of modern biotechnology if you can’t try them out every once in a while, right? You won’t get much use out of your brand new, shiny tech if you’re sitting around in meetings all day, listening to businessmen blab on and on about investors, revenue and stock prices while you’re fantasizing about gutting them in front of everyone and watching the life drain from their eyes as the rest stare on in shock, horrified at the prospect that they might be next.

“Mr. Cayne?”

I open my eyes. Gone is the blood and gore, the dying coworker in my arms, the panicked expressions. Instead, a dozen or so people are leering at me expectantly. “Daydreaming, are we?” one of them asks with a smirk. I feel the urge to wipe that look from his smug. pathetic face. But instead, I apologize for the interruption and feign interest. “As I was saying, our profits are expected to increase by 17.3 percent in the next fiscal quarter, but only if we gain the approval of the police department to expand our area of operations. Mr. Cayne, I am under the impression that you volunteered to talk to the second precinct in order to reach a mutually beneficial solution?”.

After clearing my throat, I speak up: “Consider it done.”. The chairman nods in response and carries on with the meeting, while the rest of the attendees turn back towards the presentation, satisfied with my answer. The graphs show our city, split into several color-coded sections, divided among several companies and the police like a cake.

Eventually, all the tedious meetings, press conferences and public appearances end, at least for the day. My colleagues leave the office building and head home, or perhaps to a high-class restaurant before hitting the clubs. A vapid, shallow, homogeneous lifestyle, repetitive despite having the money to afford variety and excitement.

While they’re busy trying to distract themselves from their boring jobs with food, drugs, and company that’s just as dull as they are, I get into my Rayfield–a sleek and striking, yet surprisingly reliable model–and tell Richard, my chauffeur, to take me downtown. We drive past countless skyscrapers, neon signs, concrete megastructures–a cityscape that’s nightmarish to some but a dream for others–until we arrive at a bustling street, lined with designer brands, fancy jewelry stores, and other expensive establishments. My driver already knows where I’m headed, so the vehicle comes to a halt in front of a rather unassuming storefront. The silver letters above the door read “DYNALAR”, and as soon as I stepped through the front door I found myself in a sterile, rather minimalistic room, with square glass display cases showing off the company’s latest cybernetic inventions.

Immediately, a clerk steps up to me–a man wearing a cheaply made suit and tie. I didn’t recognize him, but apparently he recognized me. “Mr. Cayne! Welcome back. How can I help you today?”. I don’t immediately register his words, but after I’m done looking at a particularly interesting implant, I turn towards the salesman and ask, “Do you have anything I can use to defend myself?”.

He looks somewhat surprised by my question; I’m a particularly tall and intimidating person, and anyone can tell with a glance that my body is heavily modified. I know he’s wondering why I need more. “We have got a few options for self defense in the back. If you’d like I can show them to you.” he began talking as we walk away from the new models and approach the less popular cyberware.

“If you’re looking to defend yourself from any violent thugs, I can recommend an integrated EMP Burster. It disables every electronic device in your vicinity, except your own cyberware of course. We can offer a special phone case that makes it n-” he starts explaining, but I lift my hand to interrupt him.

After staring at the small device briefly, I tell him, “I’m looking for something more… direct. Effective.” The clerk chuckles awkwardly and offers, “Well, we have cyberfingers that expel pepper spray, though they’re not as useful in situations with multiple aggressors…”. Instead of hearing him out, I nod, turn around and walk out of the store. Perhaps this is the wrong place for what I have in mind.

As I get back in the car, I name another address. It’s located in one of the city’s many bad neighborhoods, where violence and theft were ubiquitous, daily occurrences. “Are you absolutely certain, Mr. Cayne?” the old man asks, clearly concerned for my safety, but I reassure him. He is better off not knowing exactly what I’m looking for, and he knows better than to pry into my personal matters.

As we drive, the flashy ads and glamorous shopping districts give way to residential buildings in various states of disrepair. Addicts lie on the sidewalks, either too delirious to move, or, if they’re sober enough, already looking for their next fix. Occasionally, we pass wrecked cars that sit on the side of the road, broken and looted but not enough of a nuisance to be towed away. My driver looks mildly uncomfortable as a drunkard wanders across the road in front of us, and he reluctantly honks the car horn at them. Soon, we slow down, and I step out while Richard warns me, “Be careful, Mr. Cayne.”

The awful stench and din of these filth-ridden streets is an assault on my senses, forcing me to turn on my nasal filters and turn on some white noise to shut out the sirens, screams and desperate voices. I walk a wide berth around all the homeless scum littering this sidewalk like discarded trash. Whenever one of them reaches out to try and touch me I kick their hands away.

Of course, among the rabble, my golden, radiant form stands out a lot, so it didn’t come as a surprise when a small group of muggers accosted me. Feeling safe in numbers, they pull out baseball bats and copper pipes – one of them even has a handgun.In these parts, it’s not unusual for the poor to rob people with visible cyberware, to forcibly remove and sell anything of value. They call it scavenging, as if the practice isn’t grotesque enough by itself and needs a name just as repulsive as the act.

They don’t stand a chance against me, though.

Before they can even lift their hands to take a swing at me, I swiftly grab two of them by the collar. I easily toss the criminals aside with enough force to make nearby walls crack upon impact. Then I reach for the third assailant; the reflex booster I bought a few weeks ago was finally paying off. The remaining scavengers, having been thoroughly terrified, turn tail, knowing they are utterly outmatched.

While they run for their lives, doubting if the person they just encountered was even human, I fix my suit and shirt. Thankfully, no blood has spilled onto the fabric.

After the brief distraction I proceed to a shadowy, narrow alley, which leads to a small steel backdoor. No doorbell, no sign, nothing to indicate what is waiting on the other side. Slowly, I lift my hand and knock. The sound of metal hitting against metal rings through the empty street, then it opens to reveal a ratty, scrawny individual who wordlessly beckons me inside and leads me through a decrepit hallway. Squatters and more junkies haunt the almost entirely bare rooms on each side, though our destination is downstairs, in the basement.

Harsh halogen lamps bathe the surprisingly sterile clinic in an uneasy, cold light. The stranger hands me a catalog with their available procedures, then gestures for me to get on a medical chair while they fetch the necessary instruments.”This one.” I point to a page as I pull out a Credchip. These back-alley doctors were expensive, but provided services that no one else dared to offer. Just a few minutes later, the anesthetic starts to kick in, and I watch as the nameless medic digs their scalpel into my hand, carving into the last remaining piece of organic skin to make room for something new.

—

The next day at work had been as uneventful as any other, perhaps even more so.During my lunch break, a few colleagues ask me if I want to join them for lunch, and I reluctantly agree. They take me to a somewhat pricey café, though the cheap, faux-industrial furniture and decor makes it appear shabby and makes us look out of place. All of us order various dishes and continue to talk about business, as if these people don’t know any other topics. Our food arrives, and I listlessly stab at my salad with a plastic fork, refusing to listen to the others. Instead, I start to observe the other patrons: a young couple on a date, a mother and her child, more white-collar workers who deemed this place close enough for a quick bite. Another walks through the door. It’s a man in his thirties, looking nervous as he steps up to the register.

I watch as he takes a deep breath, then pulls out a shotgun. It takes a few seconds for the cashier to realize what is happening but when she starts screaming, everyone else panics as well. The robber waves his weapon around, threatening to use it if his demands aren’t met. An employee starts shoveling cash into a plastic bag, while the others, desperate to survive the ordeal, plead for their lives.

Slowly, I get out of my seat, ignoring my coworkers’ words. The thug notices, and points the barrel straight at me. The deafening noise of the shell bursting elicits more agitated yelling, and I look down to assess the damage – my clothes were torn to shreds, but my skin underneath merely had a few dents from where the lead pellets had hit me. Calmly, I approach the man, grab his firearm and break it over my knee, snapping the gun like a twig.

The man was scared, petrified even.

I didn’t think an opportunity to test out my new toy would present itself so soon, especially not one where I was doing the right thing. My fingers clasp around his face, my palm begins to whir menacingly, and the culprit flails around, desperately trying to break free from my grip, until the mechanical noise grows louder, a sound somewhere between a jackhammer and a blender creating a jarring cacophony as the head of this unlucky thief is turned into a misshapen pile of hair, teeth, blood, skull fragments, and brain matter.

“Arthur? What have you done!?”

I open my eyes once more.

The decapitated stranger lies on the floor, quickly inundating the café as he bleeds out. The shotgun is gone, and so are holes in my shirt or the indentations in my skin.

Elvido is a writer and aspiring author based in [REDACTED], currently studying English and Linguistics. Their go-to genres are horror, dystopian fiction, and social commentary, usually in the form of short stories , flash fiction, or table top RPGs.