Chapter 1

She awoke in a cold state of confusion, barely able to take in the sad, lonely surroundings of abandoned, deteriorating crates and boxes that filled the room sporadically, like lonely islands of forgotten memories. She let out a cough as the dust infiltrated her lungs in her attempt to sit upright from her prone position on the hard, cement floor. Groggily, she struggled to drag herself to the nearby wall; and pathetically propped her back against it as she began to investigate the sharp, stinging sensation she had felt on her right forearm every time she had used it as leverage to push herself further toward the wall. Limply, she placed her right arm upon her lap, only to see a syringe protruding apathetically from the middle of her forearm. Her muscles spasmed as she reached over with her remaining good arm to remove the protrusion from her body, only to stop mid-grab at the sight of the new horror that now boldly presented itself in the space between her limp right arm, and her terrified—yet curious—face.

What stared back at her in a cool, uncaring manner was a cacophony of metal and wires—a soulless amalgam of mechanics and electronics, in the place of what should have been warm, lively flesh. In the following moments, as the shock began to wear off and she grew all but accustomed to this lifeless piece of machinery, she had the philosophical dilemma of determining whether this ‘thing’ was a part of her, or some foreign extension that she’d rather have expelled from her body. It gave every indication of being “her’s:” the metal resemblance of an arm moved up and down as she willed it, its mechanic fist clenched and re-opened as if it were her own, and the individual fingers moved just as real fingers should. Still, it felt like some foreign parasite that had merely found her to be a convenient host. She quickly concluded that it wasn’t productive to contemplate whether she was a cyborg of science-fiction literature, and what the implications of that would be.

After she managed to get to her feet, it took only a cursory glance around the room to discover the only door within. She approached it cautiously, fearful that guards may have been posted outside. She panted softly—her chest moved steadily against the fabric of her light-brown, well-fit racerback tank—as she battled to regain her composure; the curvaciousness of her well-formed body exhibited itself quite well, even with her gray kick Capris. She hesitated only slightly at the sound of casual voices from beyond the door, as she came to within inches of the dark oak. There were three distinct, unintelligible voices. The mood was jovial, which meant their guard was down. A sudden attack now would be unexpected, giving her the element of surprise: just the edge she needed.

The heavy oak door didn’t just burst open—it shattered, behaving like a fragile hand mirror thrown by some angry child with a tantrum. As the splintered wood chunks flew through the air, a metal fist was all that remained through the wreckage of the doorway. Even the man on the floor, who had been wounded by a piece of wooden debris, could only stutter, “D- D-” as the steel-armed woman stepped through the destruction, like some vindictive, rampaging goddess.

A quick swipe of her left “arm” was all it took to send the man to her left flying, and incapacitate him. In a whir of beautiful motion, she deftly grabbed his pistol, quickly aiming it at the face of the remaining, standing guard. As the man on the ground threatened to get up, a swift kick to the face convinced him otherwise, sending him back to the floor—all without looking away from the man she menacingly pointed the gun toward. A look of plain fright rested on his face as she questioned him. “What am I doing here?”

Perplexed and shaking visibly, he stammered, “Y- You don’t know?”

She stiffened, and thrust the muzzle closer to his face. “Answer me.”

“B- But—”

She didn’t hesitate. She rammed the butt of the pistol against the man’s jaw, and delivered a hard elbow to his cranium. He crumpled to the floor like dirty laundry. With the three men taken care of and sprawled throughout the floor, she walked over to a nearby table to pick up what appeared to be her “things;” a brown duster and a pair of black leather gloves. After donning the clothing, her metal arm was concealed well enough to the point of non-recognition. She searched the unconscious men for anything of value and came up with a wad of cash and a set of keys.

Once outside, she spotted a parked BMW sedan and a 998R Ducati motorcycle. She headed for the BMW initially, and then glanced at the keyset to look upon a Ducati Wings key holder. Smiling, she climbed atop the red Duke, and started that pretty boy up. After revving it a couple of times and checking to see that the gas tank was full, she spun the bike around and headed for the highway, kicking up loose gravel behind her.

She hadn’t quite made it to the highway when some insignificant gnat pestered her. “Hey! Can I get a ride?” some plain-descript man asked her along the roadside. She looked at him quizzically. “Just to New Haven,” he pleaded. “C’mon, it’s not far.”

“Where is it?” She demanded to know.

“It’s about half an hour north on I-95, you’ll see signs for it,” he responded. “So does this mean you’re taking me?”

Without a word, she headed for the highway ramp, leaving the man behind. “H- Hey!” he shouted, to no avail. About twenty minutes later, as the smoke from the exhaust pipe of her Duke billowed past a sign that read, “New Haven City Line,” a Latino man in a crimson trenchcoat entered the warehouse she had left twenty minutes earlier.

“E- El Lobo—” one of the men on the floor managed to squeak out, looking up at the man in red.

The Latino man, El Lobo, ignored the man on the floor, and used his left arm to pull out a revolver. He might not have had a right arm, as the right arm of the trenchcoat was left unfilled. “Sister, I don’t understand—“ he said to himself, pointing the revolver at the man who was trying to speak.

“N- No, p- please don’t!” the man begged.

El Lobo continued ignoring him, speaking to himself in a heavy Mexican accent. “—why would you leave a job unfinished? Has your heart grown soft?”

Bang. Bang. Bang. In an instant, all three men were dead from three clean headshots of El Lobo’s revolver. “Arrepentido, mis amigos,” El Lobo murmured under his breath, walking back out the door.

***

She was completely unsure of where she was going—or what, exactly, she was doing. So when she saw Pop’s Restaurant and Bar she pulled in with the red bike and prepared to spend some of the cash she had grabbed earlier. She was glad her arm was hidden—she didn’t want anyone thinking she was a freak. Somehow she needed to get an idea of what to do, and this seemed as good a place as any to start that search.

The commotion was lively as she stepped inside the busy building with a standoffish air of confident solitude. She walked directly to the bar, sat on a stool, and picked up a menu, waiting for the bartender to finish tending to other customers. She stared at the menu intensely, as if committing it to memory; yet she really didn’t read it at all. There was a pretty brunette singing on a stage at the far end of the building, to the melodic tune of a skillful pianist. The song went something like, “When two people fall in love | A star is shining bright above—,” and so on with similar lyrics in a romantic melody.

She wasn’t paying much attention to the woman singing on stage and could barely give the redheaded bartender her focus when the bartender asked her what she wanted, and all she could say was that she was unsure, despite having stared at the menu for so long. A rather inebriated man on her right boldly stated, “Yo’ Kelly, I think this one’s a little slow, ifya catch my drift,” to the bartender.

“Don’t talk to my customers that way,” Kelly sternly warned, “or you can leave. I’m serious.” The man instantly grew quiet and kept to his own business, as Kelly turned back to her new patron. “Please pay no attention to this dunce,” she said, motioning to the drunken man and giving him a cold glare, “he’s a lonely, bitter man with no sense.” With a smile she asked, “What can I get for you?”

The woman feigned ignorance at the drunkard’s insult and gave Kelly her attention. “I’ll have a lemon drop cocktail and whatever sandwich you have. Something good.”

“Do you know what you want?” Kelly asked. When the woman responded with a shake of her head, Kelly asked, “Does a grilled tuna sandwich sound good?”

“Yes,” she nodded.

After she obtained her food and drink, she began to eat in earnest, listening now and then to the conversations taking place around her. “I heard he’s got twin tunnel ram under that blower,” she overheard one man say. They were speaking about cars, a foreign language to her. She was about to lose interest and focus on something else when a certain name caught her ear.

“Yeah, Ash keeps that GTO runnin’ like a dream,” a friend of the first man responded. Ash? That name seemed familiar to her, yet she just couldn’t place it. With her interest piqued, she continued to listen, but couldn’t glean any useful information. Growing bored of the conversation, she reached for her rocks glass with her left hand. The glass broke easily under the crushing weight of the metal hidden beneath her glove and duster sleeve, as the cocktail ran through her fingers and spilled onto the bar countertop, amidst tiny shards of sparkling glass fragments.

She became suddenly aware of the growing amount of stares pointed at her direction as she meagerly attempted to excuse herself. “I’m sorry,” she meekly apologized.

Kelly sensed trouble arriving and quickly attempted to avoid it. “Oh, it’s no trouble, just a glass—”

But it was too late. The man on the woman’s left grabbed her sleeve and roughly lifted it up to reveal the shining, menacing metal beneath. “She’s a fuckin’ cyborg!” he cried out. She was at a loss for what to do.

“Leave her alone,” shouted Kelly, “she hasn’t done anything wrong!”

The man snorted, “Ash Brannigan wouldn’t bother dealing with this trash!”

“You’re wrong!” Kelly shouted back. “Ash wouldn’t jump to conclusions and judge someone like that!”

Something inside the cyborg woman clicked. She grabbed the man by the collar of his shirt with her metal arm and brought him close. “Where can I find Ash Brannigan?” she demanded to know.

“I’m not tellin’ you shit!” the man spat defiantly. She heard the clicking noise of a pump-action shotgun and looked over to Kelly to see a sawed-off shotgun pointed at her chest.

Kelly’s voice nearly cracked at her own bravery. “What do you want with Ash?” When the woman didn’t answer, Kelly thrust the muzzle closer and yelled, “Answer me!”

Confused, the woman answered, “I– don’t know.” She let go of the man when he struggled to squirm away.

“Who are you?” Kelly persisted. Again, the cyborg woman hesitated to answer.

“I– I don’t know—”