Venom jolts awake, before he relaxes—blinking as his vision clears from his slumber. He moves to scratch at his beard with his left arm, though freezes when he feels nothing—and that familiar heavy weight of metal is gone. He sits up, and stares—shocked. Where the fuck was his arm?

He stands, throwing off the blankets and moves out the door. Not caring how he looks, because he’s focused only on one thing and one thing only. His arm. It didn’t just disappear, and he should’ve woken up when it was stolen. And why would someone take it?

When passing the mess hall, he fortunately hears a soldier speaking of how they sold an arm for a burger. He turns, and heads there instead—grabbing the soldier he heard say that.

That soldier just happened to be you.