Black market prosthetics and dental service. Robotic arms to perfect the stance. Voice recognition software that translates my voice into words. Yet another dozen more feats of technical acumen to perfect. It’s a hit job, and it’s on.
In the end, the tumor grows, reaching an enormous size in 18 months, surpassing the size of my own head. It must be sliced out of me, it tells me, by the end of January, but the cancer has yet to show any signs of regressing. I can endure whatever the chemo does, though the gray pain. I think it might be the physical loss that keeps me going. Everything else seems pointless, endless. My family and I are given radiation and a month of rep
Phantom Quadrant presents: 
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