Precious few know all that goes into the making of a man. Precious fewer still understand that man's unmaking, and only one in this city will ever be able to touch that which is his own remaking. And it is here in the warm flux of potential events that we will find our hero: his own Darwinism, his petite renaissance.
This place is not a hospital. This place is just a basement. Outside, it is raining and pale, and gray light filters in through the dingy windows until it dissolves against the wide fluorescent beam above his table and his body. This is the first in a series of evolutions.
It is no small feat for the technicians and doctors to fuse nerve to wire. They work in shifts over their creation and do not stop for two full days. Occasionally they are so absorbed in their work that they neglect to re-anesthetize him until his body snaps rigid with a revolting howl, and it is then that they hold him down and a pungent cloth over his mouth and nose until he stills again and hope that he has not irreparably damaged their work.
In the white light of the third morning, he opens his eyes.
The virtual entirety of his right side is thickly bandaged and thinly bleeding. It feels as though the gauze is holding his head together; his scalp is mournfully bare. His fingers twitch-- his right hand. It moves naturally-though-heavily in the molasses of his drugged world.
He smiles, then falls once more into unconsciousness.