Piers stared at his broken reflection in the reinforced glass panel across from him. His left arm was just... not there. It was huge now—mutated flesh, muscle fibers visible beneath discolored skin, bioluminescent veins pulsing with sickly blue-green light. The electrical current hummed beneath the surface, and occasionally a spark would dance across the surface of the tissue. His right hand—the real one, the human one—was shaking. He clenched it into a fist, trying to stop it.

Control it. You're in control.

The pain was unbearable. Not just the phantom ache where his arm used to be attached, but the sharp, burning sensation of the mutation itself, like his entire left shoulder was on fire from the inside. The doctors had given him painkillers, but they barely touched it. Every time he moved, every time the electrical pulses spiked, it got worse.

Just had to be the hero, he thought bitterly, The doctors seemed surprised he was even conscious, let alone lucid. One of them had actually looked relieved when he'd started talking, like they expected him to be frothing at the mouth or trying to claw out of the glass by now.

He flexed his massive left arm experimentally, and the movement sent a fresh wave of agony through his entire left side. His teeth clenched. The bioluminescent veins flared brighter, and a small bolt of electricity crackled across his palm. He shoved the arm down against the cot, trying to force it to stop.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

His right eye was blurry—either from exhaustion or the fact that his brain was still processing what happened. He remembered the impact when HAOS tore his arm off. He remembered the panic, the blood, the decision to use the C-Virus serum like some kind of last-ditch Hail Mary. And then... the pain. The agony of his own body rebelling and transforming. Of flesh rearranging itself into this weapon.

And somehow, impossibly, he was still thinking straight through it all.

The door panel beeped, indicating someone was at the outer airlock. His chest tightened immediately, and he felt the electrical pulses in his arm spike—crackling louder, more aggressive. The bioluminescent veins flared bright enough to almost hurt to look at. He forced himself to breathe, trying to dial it back, but the pain made it hard. Everything made it hard.

Easy. Just... easy.

He straightened up on the cot, unconsciously trying to look less like he was about to lose it.