Patient's complaint [TTRPG bluebooking]
09/10/2045
Dr. Philip S.T., MD Psychiatry: General Psychiatry, Addiction Psychiatry, Forensic Psychiatry, Neuropsychiatry.
Patient: A. ("Minz"), male, 32 years old. Minz was referred to the psychiatry service yesterday by the surgeon who performed a cyberarm installation. Minz exhibits signs of distress, including social withdrawal, irritability, sleep disorder, anxiety, and hopelessness.
Patient's written presenting complaint: "I wake up. I can't understand where I am and what has happened.
As I finally focus my eyes on the surroundings, I see a dimly lit operating room. Consciousness slowly kicks in, and I carefully check on my body, moving my legs and my arms as much as the straps of the surgical table allow. My left arm feels numb. I understand that I move my fingers, but I can't feel it.
I hear a loud thump, as if something soft yet heavy was thrown into the metal bin.
And then I remember.
I remember that it was my decision to throw away years of hard work and exhausting training. Heck, you don't need to work hard anymore in this age. Any degenerate can install skill chips and metal limbs and obtain a black lace shot to be invincible. You don't have to spend agonizing hours at the gym or in the ring for that. Even if you do, someone who chooses steel and shortcuts will always outperform you.
I was sure that I was enough, with as few enhancements as possible. I was wrong. My crew had to bear the consequences of my arrogance. Roxie paid with her arm, and Star paid with her leg. But it's me who has to lose limbs and bleed for them. Maybe they are right, calling people like me "fodder." I wish I was a proper one, though. I wish I could protect them and focus on the right things in battle.
I hate this thing. I hate it. It looks like my arm; it even has the same tattoo on it, but it feels like a mockery. "The one who laughs last." If not for Andersson, the Reaper would laugh at all of us. And now this metal shit dangling from my shoulder laughs at me and my weakness. It reminds me that this is only the beginning and I will have to install more and more. Well, I hope that at least it will serve its purpose, and now I can be the shield my team deserves.
I curse myself for not being fast enough. For making wrong choices. I could have killed the drone that hurt Roxie before it got to her. I could have stayed by Star's side, ignoring the advantageous position. I can still hear her scream. I can't escape the thought that this might have happened to my brother if I wasn't fast enough back then. I was able to protect him. But I can't protect my crew, the people who believed in me and trusted me. I promised Orion to keep her out of harm's way.
My father was right; I am a pathetic loser.
I am not afraid of blood or the sight of severe injuries. But I can't stand the thought that someone I care about suffers because I wasn't enough. And I wonder, how much is "enough"? How much of my body do I need to replace? How much of me can I keep? Am I less me now? How long will it take for dead cold metal to replace me completely?
Maybe it will be better to die sooner than later after all."
\confidential information\