“...Hopefully with the time spent in a cryostasis, will it allow for the body to adjust with the cybernetic implants. The fusion of both organic and metallic materials is necessary in order to maintain cohesion. Rejection of the alien body could be a great possibility and for that, we must continue a regular and accurate surveillance of the ‘Host’ for at least 12 months after his reintegration into society.” A hypothesis which is felt to be based only on science fiction; that at least is what all the S. F. authors have believed to occur when the living body has been exchanged with the machine.
“You’re being absurd!” A heavy hand falls to the table leaving behind a shallow resonance. The voice leaves with it a brief, sarcastic laugh, which only enhances the objection, but its deliverance was intended more as an insult or, to emphasize the objectors’ insult. “You fear a hypothesis which is based upon science fiction and not scientific fact.” Doctor James Arthur Douglas, a young man in his early thirties, pauses to look at the crowd. “Yes! I do believe that it will take a considerable amount of rehabilitation and surveillance, but there is no way it will take a full year, as suggested, for rehabilitation. And yes, I do believe that the unit will be prepared for exhibition once the rehabilitation period has finalized. Reintegration will not be a problem.”
Grey clouds consume the sky as lightning and thunder burst forth to descend upon the earth. The malevolence is breed by man’s ambitions to harm others. “There are still some bugs in the system and I want them dealt with. I forbid any further incompetence. Have I made myself clear?” The black leather swivel chair revolves to face the tinted windows that dominate the southern wall overlooking the metropolis. Hail falls upon the vast glut of buildings that have inherited the land.
The body does not respond to environmental changes, nor does it respond to sensory stimuli. The absence of all appendages leaves him sensing an unusual dull.
:...I feel like I’m in a major numb. My head feels ten pounds heavier and my palms are itchy. I can’t overcome this feeling... Dry tears lacerate the flesh with the strain of his face denoting the tense embrace of sadness, but no one is here to notice. He lies without comfort or reassurance that everything will be okay.
“We hope the rehabilitation process has been successful. Considering this isn’t the first time the Host has had to adjust to a cybernetic enhancement.” A reassuring voice bears little optimism as it interjects its lowly opinion to the meek assembly of white coats. They sit in their individual chair of self-importance with the ideology of single handedly conquering the barriers that conceal the myth of everlasting life.
“The replacement of a limb is nothing compared to having three quarters of your body surgically removed and replaced with artificial limbs. Come on, let’s get serious, this guy is in for one hell of a time.” The female voice carries above the long, black council table in a high-pitched wail that could cut through stone. Her words suggests a distinct wisdom that might not be shared by others, but all the same, she feels the need to make her point clear as she continues. “You know what it feels like when one of your limbs falls asleep and it hurts to move? Well imagine this happening to your whole body. Your brain is telling you that there’s nothing there, as you are demanding for a specific function. This is bound to send the entire environment to hell, major rehabilitation will be required and for a long time. I cannot foresee the unit being displayed for exhibitions at any immediate date! This must be more seriously thought through.” She ends with a note of romance in her voice as her ferocity persists at the reassurance of the room’s lack of empathy. “You must consider that it will take time for the body to adjust, but above that, the mind must accept what was once there is now gone and replaced with something entirely new. That will take some major readjustments all on it’s own.” Doctors fear that the ensuing changes to the Host would affect his mental status, ultimately drawing him over the faint barrier of sanity.
Suddenly, a masculine voice interjects its opinion to the last speaker’s seemingly unidirectional wisdom. “Again Doctor Copelan, you insist on boring us with your useless philosophies...” His voice is harsh and undermining.
He is interrupted by a fourth, more stately voice. “Doctors, we are conducting preliminary tests. If you choose to continue with your internal bickering, then I must insist that you may both leave. Understood?” Howard R. Ford looks sternly at the remaining council members with distaste.
They end their meeting with a harsh final note of reality from the Chief Executive Officer.
:...How much longer must I bear this pain of loneliness? How much longer will they keep me here? Trapped inside this box? I must break free... The passing of time in seclusion breeds fear and in fear, comes anger. His right arm responds to the rage. In shock, he recognizes the shattering glass as it rains down upon him. It appears that his blow has damaged the casket door.
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