His arms are gone. Legs too. They're foreign, rain down blows, blows he can't shield against because just like before, he's
His spine--replaced after the crash--shrieks a complaint, plastic and steel compressing under the excess force of unconstrained artificial muscle
If they'd just give him a minute to think, thirty seconds free from impact and pummels, he could brain his way out of this. Some Sherlockian insight, some brilliant feat of artifice, an act of genius that would allow him to reset his prosthetics and not be so
Ferra is, at this very moment, the most beautiful woman alive. And, keep in mind, I'm saying that in the presence of an eight-foot tall tank woman who has prosthetics I'd spend money to spend a nice evening with.The portal opens. As smooth and perfect as the lines on a graphics calculator.
And then a burning driverless van covered in killer robots barrels through the newly opened gap. Holes appear in the sides as lasers, shotgun blasts, and cyborg fists smash their way through. It misses you by centimetres and rampages on down the corridor towards the inner vault.
Brainstorm is behind you, in serious trouble - his prosthetics are going wild and megatroopers are closing in on him from all sides.
"Nanopulsar!" I grit out. "Reset--prosthetics!"