“Her moodiness...” my mother says in a loud whisper to Aunt Arlene. “It's those teenage hormones.”
I glare at the back of her head. She'd be moody too if she were responsible
...
[+]
Everyone had a metal arm this month.
A renowned musician severed their non-dominant arm in favor of sleek platinum, and suddenly everywhere, people rushed to get one of their own. Even her friends pestered her about switching hers out.
There's a clinic just down the street.
Imagine the music you could play if you never got blisters.
What could be worse than the arm you have now?
She thought everyone was out of their minds. Metal was just a passing trend, one that would eventually die out. Or at least, that's what she told herself. With the new public frenzy, the evolution of artificial limbs accelerated rapidly, with more functions and features unveiled each week. She didn't remember such dedication to developing prosthetics when amputations weren't so coveted.
Still, it was impossible to ignore the steady stream of copper and rose gold limbs that graced shop fronts and online advertisements. Children would stare and point their metal fingers at her before bionic hands ushered them away. Worst of all, her manager began nagging her that her latest album wasn't charting as projected, that if she wanted to stay relevant, she had to be willing to adapt.
One night, while climbing onto the stage, her heel caught on a wire, sending her tumbling down. Her wrist snapped with a clean, sickening crack. Although she performed through the pain, finishing the entire set (encore included), she heard the whispers anyway.
She's past her prime. Their words echoed in her mind as she entered her studio. Handcrafted guitars rotated slowly, suspended in sterile pods in a corner. She flipped on the air ventilator and the artificial sun lamp, mindlessly cracking her knuckles and soaking in the momentary relief before her gaze settled on her left arm, wrapped in dull bandages, heavy and frail. Collapsing into the worn loveseat, a holographic display flickered to life from the armrest, obscuring the boy band posters and records from view. With a single swipe, she signed the contract, and a syringe materialized in a floating tray, filled with a radiant cyanic liquid.
Scouring the internet, she'd come across a company that promised to "enhance the human." Their biochemists had developed an injectable concoction capable of targeting specific cells and creating whatever the client desired, whether that was more voluminous hair or an exoskeleton. After she negotiated with them on what she wanted (staunchly against anything fantastical), they sent it to her for free. Well, free with the contingency that she would advertise for them.
The injection itself was nothing harrowing, yet as the needle poised above her forearm, hesitation crept in. Why did she need to do this? But there was no time to consider the what-ifs when her music, her life's work, was at risk. With a final exhale, she plunged the needle into her arm. A tightening heat pulsed beneath her skin as the substance coursed through her arteries and took effect. It built a better hand. Longer fingers, perfectly proportioned, with calloused yet sensitive fingertips. A hand that would never fatigue or fail her again.
When it was all done, she unwrapped and shook out her arm. She posted the transformation online, captioning it with the message that there were alternative advancements devoid of machinery. Support flooded her notifications praising her for staying true to her principles, that she was one of the few real artists left.
Nowadays, anyone could find a machine to write and perform whatever music they wanted, but people still seemed to prefer that a human made it.
It was just more authentic.