They had watched the machines remove the ballistic panels of her arm and leg. The manipulators carefully flensed the worn-out flesh off the alloy and composite bones, replaced the joints, and started laying new myomere down. It was then, watching the slick, biomechanical muscles and veins being produced by the little nozzles and curing lasers, that they had the intrusive thought of snapping a sterile glove on and touching them.
She had glanced at them without moving her head, and they had looked away, pushing the thought out of their mind in case she could read it.
Mori is looking at them out of the side of her eye as she rests her head on the cloudy plexiglass of the bus window. The amber glow from the passing streetlights goes through the little space between the crystal-clear ruby spheres, and the hardware suspended inside them. Then, a sickly green from the cheap florescence of a gas station. A pale cousin to the wireframes of her heads-up display, which had something to do with not causing the feeling of night-blindness in synthetic visual input. Bunny had first seen it in the diagnostic screen while checking her systems. Then, when she had shown them the live feed by snapping something that looked like a deliberately-mutated sensorium tape deck into them, which ran a lead into one of the dorsal interfaces in the tough-looking polygons along her spine.
Been trying to get back into writing. A lot of this is a big "i think i hauve covid" moment.
